The Journey Back

I'm working with half of one eye. Not a full eye, just half. My vision flows through a single, narrow tunnel. I see only what's at the center of that and nothing to either side. My eyesight is also permanently dark, like being trapped in a bad nightclub.

I recently learned how to compensate for peripheral impairment by continuously rotating my head side-to-side. That's how I become aware of surroundings I'm unable to see directly.

To maintain my physical and emotional health I go on long walks, usually along the busiest road on Long Island (Route 110). (I live adjacent to it.) During walks I'm regularly threatened by 3,000 lb. creatures with tiny brains. These fat insects don't obey traffic signals and fly through intersections without slowing down. To stay safe I deploy sophisticated strategies devised to combat brainless bugs.

I travel as a pedestrian the same way I used to ride motorcycles -- with guts and grit. Anything less is hazardous. You need to display courage to convince reckless bugs to back off. They sense confidence the same way they sense fear: if they see you hesitate for an instant they charge right into your path. They're emboldened by their large size.

Robin thinks I'm crazy to play in traffic with half an eye. I respond that this is a pre-existing condition. I've been doing it (safely) my whole life and fiercely crave independence. 

At this moment I'm sipping expresso in a Starbucks a mile away from my house. I walked here and will walk home. I'm steeped in euphoria no less than if I'd summited a mountain. Three months ago I laid in a nadir of despair, totally blind and unable to imagine the future. Since then I climbed out of that existential pit, examined my diminished circumstances, crafted practical solutions and pursued all opportunities with vigor. The psychological distance between that despair and my present elation is immense. As bugs pass by me on the road they don't notice my real journey but it happened. Seen or unseen.