Embracing the Blur

If you've stumbled upon this little corner of the internet, thank you for being here. I'm just a guy who's spent most of his life chasing light through a lens, and lately, that light has started to fade in ways I never quite imagined. This post isn't meant to be a pity party or a grand manifesto, I’m no expert on resilience, just someone muddling through with a heart full of gratitude and a camera bag that's gotten a bit lighter over the months. But writing has always been a quiet companion to my photography, a way to make sense of the frames I capture (or, these days, the ones I remember). So, with a deep breath and a humble nod to God, here's where my story sits right now.

It started with a simple video. Yesterday, I hit record on my phone for Instagram, a raw, rambling clip from the heart about the sting of going blind and what that means for the photographs I've loved making. I poured out the ache of knowing I can't nail those perfect compositions or exposures anymore, the kind that come from years of squinting at a scene with my one good eye and just knowing. Film has its own personality, doesn't it? Fomapan with its moody shadows and tight latitude, Kentmere offering a bit more forgiveness in the highlights.  Details like that live in my head, etched from decades of trial and error. But my eyes? They've decided to bow out early. Five doctors, the state of Arizona, and the U.S. government all agree: I'm beyond legally blind, teetering on the edge of total darkness. I wake up each morning bracing for the day it all goes black.

About two months back, the warning signs ramped up. Closing my eyes brought flashes of random colors and lights, like a faulty projector spinning out of control. That sliver of vision I had left, five degrees on a good day, turned blurry, turning the world into soft-edged blobs. I laughed it off in an article I wrote, calling everyone a "blob" because, well, humor's been my shield against the heavy stuff. But reality doesn't stay polite for long.

One afternoon, I picked up one of my trusty SLR film cameras, the kind that's felt like an extension of my hand for years. I tried to focus. Couldn't. The viewfinder swam into nonsense. Composition? Forget it. That narrow tunnel of sight wasn't enough to frame a thought.

I found myself on a park bench that day, head in hands, grieving for what felt like hours. Self-pity wrapped around me like fog, thick and unyielding. It was the first time I'd let the full weight of it crash down. I haven't lifted a camera to shoot since, not one single frame. In the haze of those weeks, I started selling off pieces of my collection, each transaction a quiet goodbye to the tools that shaped my world. All that's left now are my beloved folding cameras, with their tactile folds and whispers of history, and two SLRs I just can't part with. They're like old friends I can't bear to lose, even if they sit gathering dust.

Looking back, I've been dancing with this shadow for longer than I care to admit. As a kid, doctors warned I'd lose my sight in adolescence. It didn't happen, praise God for that grace, and maybe that's why I've poured everything into photography. Forty years as a hobbyist, twenty of that as a professional. Every click was a prayer, a moment stolen from time.

Through breakups and breakthroughs, lean years and laughter, that passion kept me steady. It wasn't about fame or perfection; it was joy, pure and simple. Losing it? It's like misplacing a limb. For months, I've wandered aimlessly, future a foggy outline. But I'm not alone in the drift, Jesus has been my anchor, my wife my soft place to land, and our three goofy pups? They're the daily reminder that wagging tails don't need perfect vision.

Yesterday morning, something shifted. I woke with a spark, not a wildfire, just a gentle glow. Determination, I suppose you'd call it. I dug into a folder of unreleased shots from a May trip, landscapes that still make my heart hum even if I can't see them sharply anymore. I posted a few, tentative steps back into sharing. I didn't head out to shoot, but the thought lingered, whispering maybe. The truth is, I hold myself to impossible standards, flawless light, impeccable lines that I wouldn't dream of expecting from anyone else. It's a humble brag wrapped in humility: I've been blessed with skill, but pride can be a sneaky thief. How do I create without chasing ghosts of what was?

This road to blindness? I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. It's lonely, riddled with "what ifs" that echo in the quiet hours. But here's the quiet miracle: it led me to the blind center in Phoenix. Walking through those doors flipped the script. Suddenly, it wasn't the end of my story but a pivot to a new chapter. I've met folks who get it, the raw grief, the stubborn spark. Some love photography as fiercely as I do, swapping tips on adaptive gear like it's the most natural conversation. Together, we've started an advocacy group here in Arizona, a loose band of encouragers lifting each other up. No heroes among us, just people saying, "Hey, you've got this, one step at a time.”

Life's gone tactile now, and there's a strange beauty in that. Braille bumps under my fingers, keyboard clicks like Morse code for my thoughts. Cameras with dials and buttons? They're gold, things I can map in my mind, muscle memory overriding the dark. Tomorrow, I'm pulling out my Minolta Maxxum, that autofocus wonder with its forgiving heart. I'll give it a go, no pressure, just curiosity.

Scanning the negatives afterward will be a puzzle, details lost to me, but that's the thrill, isn't it? An adventure in trust, handing the reveal over to the machine and whatever magic it uncovers. I love this part, if I'm honest, the relearning. Figuring out angles by sound and feel, composing by instinct honed over lifetimes. Lights? Who needs 'em? I navigate just fine in the pitch black, a skill that's equal parts survival and secret superpower. It's all a gift, wrapped in loss, reminding me that sight was never the whole picture.

If you're reading this and facing your own storm—big or small—know this: it's okay to sit on that bench for a while. But don't stay there forever. Reach for the hand extended, whether it's a friend's, a stranger's at a support group, or the steady one from above. I'm still figuring it out, one humble frame at a time. Life? It's good. Messy, blurred at the edges, but profoundly good.

Thanks for letting me share. Drop a note if this resonates.  I’m all ears (and heart). Until next time, keep chasing what lights you up, however dim the path.

With kind regards,

Jefferson Davis,
The Blind Photographer

OneCourt at Chase Field

Last Sunday, my wonderful wife, Deana, and I headed to Chase Field in Phoenix for an exciting Arizona Diamondbacks game against the Boston Red Sox. As a newly blind baseball fan, I’ve always loved the energy of live games, but navigating the sensory overload of a stadium can be daunting. Thankfully, Deana, being the incredible wife that she is, had planned ahead and reserved a One Court device for me to use during the game. This innovative technology, designed specifically for blind and visually impaired fans, has been a game changer.

The Arizona Diamondbacks hold the distinction of being the first MLB team to offer OneCourt devices, a remarkable step toward inclusivity. These devices are tailored to help blind and visually impaired fans follow the game through audio play-by-play announcements and tactile feedback. Chase Field keeps ten of these devices charged and ready for use, available upon request at no extra cost. Knowing this, Deana had called ahead to ensure one was reserved for me, making our trip to the ballpark even more special.

For those unfamiliar, the One Court device is a compact, lap gadget that delivers real-time game updates. It vibrates to indicate action on specific bases and provides audible commentary through earpieces, allowing users to track the game’s flow. It’s not perfect, but it’s a fantastic tool that bridges the gap for visually impaired fans, letting us feel closer to the action.

Walking into Chase Field is always a whirlwind. The buzz of the crowd, the echo of announcements, and the chatter of vendors create a chaotic symphony that can be disorienting for someone who is blind or visually impaired. I’ve been to the stadium before, but the energy still feels overwhelming at times. Fortunately, the staff at Chase Field are exceptional. From the moment we arrived, someone was there to guide us, ensuring we felt comfortable and supported.

Deana handled the paperwork to check out the One Court device.  Once that was sorted, we made our way to our ADA-accessible seats. These seats are a blessing, offering plenty of space so I didn’t have to worry about accidentally bumping anyone with my cane. The stadium staff even stopped by to check in, making sure I understood how to use the device and answering any questions. Their attentiveness set the tone for a fantastic day.

As the game began, the One Court device sprang into action. It provided play-by-play updates, describing each pitch, hit, and fielding play with detail. The tactile feedback was particularly cool, different vibrations corresponded to action at specific bases, helping me visualize where the runners were. It felt like I was right in the middle of the game, calling plays like a sports broadcaster.

There was a slight hiccup, though. My hearing aids made it tricky to hear the audio clearly through the device’s earpieces. The stadium noise didn’t help either! I mentioned this to the staff, and they suggested trying a different set of earpieces next time, which I’ll definitely do. Despite the audio challenge, the device still allowed me to follow the game closely, and I was grateful for the experience it provided.

The Diamondbacks and Red Sox were locked in a tight battle, staying tied through the first six innings. I kept up with the plays through the One Court device, but I found myself turning to Deana to ask for the score. Little did I know, the device has an “Info” button that provides score updates on demand! I felt a bit silly when I learned this afterward, but it’s something I’ll remember for next time.

In the seventh inning, the Red Sox pulled ahead, scoring three runs in a classic late-inning surge they’re known for. Despite a pitching change, the D-Backs couldn’t recover, and Boston clinched the win. It was a tough loss, but the excitement of the game and the vibrant atmosphere at Chase Field made it an unforgettable day. Deana and I cheered, laughed, and soaked in the experience, loss and all.

The One Court device truly enhanced my experience at Chase Field. Being able to follow the game’s action through audio and tactile feedback made me feel more connected to the sport I love. Aside from the audio issue with my hearing aids, I wished the device automatically announced the score periodically. Adding a Braille display for score updates would be a dream, though I understand that could be costly. Still, the device is a huge step forward, and I’m excited to see how future versions might improve.

For any blind or visually impaired baseball fans, I wholeheartedly recommend giving the One Court device a try. It’s free to use, and the Diamondbacks’ staff make the process easy. The device doesn’t just let you follow the game; it empowers you to engage with it in a way that feels immersive and inclusive. I felt like I was part of the action, calling out plays and cheering alongside everyone else.

Our day at Chase Field was about more than just baseball, it was about shared moments, accessibility, and the joy of being part of the crowd. Deana’s thoughtfulness in reserving the One Court device and the stadium staff’s dedication to ensuring we had a great time made the experience truly special. We left the ballpark with big smiles, already looking forward to our next game.

If you’re a blind or visually impaired fan considering a trip to Chase Field, don’t hesitate to request a One Court device. It’s a fantastic tool that brings the game to life in ways I hadn’t imagined.

Have you tried the OneCourt?

Blind Advocacy

As a blind individual, I frequently navigate the challenges of pedestrian safety. On May 13, 2025, I narrowly avoided being struck by a vehicle that ran a stop sign in Payson, Arizona. A police officer witnessed the incident but declined to take action, citing human error or possible distraction. This experience prompted me to investigate Arizona’s laws protecting blind pedestrians and advocate for necessary changes.

My research uncovered Arizona Revised Statute 11-1024, which classifies violations against blind pedestrians as a Class 2 misdemeanor, punishable by up to four months in jail and/or a $750 fine. This penalty, while applicable alongside other charges like reckless driving, is outdated and insufficient for the severity of endangering vulnerable individuals. In small communities, where personal connections may influence enforcement, such a minimal penalty risks undermining justice.

Determined to address this issue, I contacted my representatives in Arizona’s Seventh Legislative District (LD7), including State Legislator, Walt Blackman, and the Governor’s Office. After persistent outreach, Legislator Blackman’s administrative assistant scheduled a call for June 2, 2025. During our discussion, we explored updating the law to reflect the seriousness of offenses against blind pedestrians. Key points included increasing fines, protecting guide dogs, and ensuring restitution for their loss, given the significant time and cost, often two to three years are required to train and match a guide dog with a handler.

Mr. Blackman requested input on the needs of the blind community, and I emphasized the importance of meaningful penalties and protections. In early July, his office provided a draft bill. Though imperfect, it offered a foundation for further refinement. I shared it with colleagues in the blind community for feedback, fostering hope for collective progress.

On August 20, 2025, after weeks of silence, I followed up with Legislator Blackman’s office. He promptly called back, apologizing for the delay and proposed a meeting on September 4, 2025, between 1:00 PM and 2:30 PM at the state capitol. The meeting aimed to include representatives from the National Federation of the Blind (NFB), Southern Arizona Association for the Visually Impaired (SAAVI), Arizona Center for the Blind and Visually Impaired (ACBVI), Arizona Public Service (APS), Arizona Department of Transportation (ADOT), and Vocational Rehabilitation (VR). I estimated around 25 attendees and informed his office to secure an appropriate venue. I hoped for more, of course, but gave them a conservative number.

I reached out to SAAVI’s president to garner support, but received a dismissive response, stating that legislative sessions begin in January 2026 and that SAAVI would only act with NFB’s direction. Further inquiries revealed that SAAVI’s leadership is closely tied to the Arizona NFB chapter, with overlapping interests that may prioritize organizational control over collaborative advocacy. Some sources suggested that these organizations might resist the bill if they could not claim credit for its inception, potentially undermining the effort.

On August 28, 2025, while returning from Phoenix, I received an email from Mr. Blackman’s office canceling the September 4 meeting, citing his travel from September 6 to 13, 2025. The explanation was unclear, as the travel dates did not conflict with the scheduled meeting. This cancellation raised concerns about the commitment to this cause. Possible reasons include insufficient attendance projections or external pressures, though no definitive explanation was provided. While the office offered to reschedule, the abrupt cancellation eroded confidence in the process. Mr. Blackman broke his word. It will be hard for him to regainer that trust.

This experience underscores the challenges of advocating for systemic change. Despite setbacks, I remain committed to updating Arizona’s laws to better protect blind and vulnerable pedestrians. I will engage with media outlets to raise awareness and hold elected officials accountable. You do not break your word to the blind community and get away with it. The blind community, inspired by the grassroots activism that led to the Americans with Disabilities Act, will continue to push for meaningful reform.

The substantial resources held by organizations like the NFB, reportedly $17 million in stocks and bonds, raise questions about their priorities in supporting the blind community. These funds could be better utilized to address pressing needs, such as enhanced legal protections, support for guide dog programs, and FOOD for the blind elderly that can’t afford food.

I will continue collaborating with blind advocates and other stakeholders to refine the draft bill and prepare for the 2026 legislative session. Updates will be shared as developments arise. Thank you for reading and supporting this effort to ensure safety and justice for vulnerable pedestrians in Arizona.

If you would like to help, please call Legislator Walt Blackman’s office and let him know you support this bill and the blind community. His office number is: 602-926-3043.

UPDATE: Legislator Blackman has decided to have the meeting as we had originally planned. Thank you, Walt Blackman.

Everyone is a Blob

I’ve spent many sleepless nights trying to find the right words to describe what it’s like to go completely blind. It’s not like flipping off a light switch!  For most people who are blind, about 90% according to the stats, there’s still something to see. Maybe it’s just light perception, like knowing the sun’s out there doing its thing, or maybe it’s catching a glimpse of colors, like a fuzzy rainbow. But for a few folks I know who’ve been completely blind since birth, sight is just one piece of the sensory puzzle, and they prove you can live a full, vibrant life without it. Me? I’m somewhere near the end, navigating a world of blobs, and let me tell you, it’s a wild ride.

Let’s get one thing straight: life without sight isn’t easy, but it’s absolutely worth living to the fullest. I mean, who needs 20/20 vision when you’ve got stubbornness, a good sense of humor, and a knack for dodging furniture? (I still bump into things, but I’m working on my ninja skills.) The world of blindness is filled with challenges, but it’s also brimming with possibilities. I love chatting with people about the tech that’s out there, like screen readers, smart canes, apps that describe the world like a chatty tour guide. But the real MVP in my life is Braille.

Braille is like the secret handshake of the blind community. It’s tactile, it’s elegant, and it keeps my brain as sharp as a tack. Fun fact: reading braille lights up the same part of your brain as reading with your eyes. So, while I’m running my fingers over those delightful dots, I’m basically doing mental push-ups. Without braille, I’m not sure I’d be as happy as I am today. It’s my bridge to a world of books, notes, and magazines.

I’ve been blind in one eye since I was a day old, thanks to a condition called Septo-Optic Dysplasia, which led to Optic Atrophy. Sounds like a villain from a sci-fi flick, right? Basically, it means my optic nerve cells are slowly checking out, like guests leaving a party early. Back in the 1970s, though, I didn’t let that stop me. I was just another kid, tearing around on bikes and motorcycles, channeling my inner Evel Knievel. Sure, I had more crashes than the average daredevil—my nickname was and still is “Crash”—but I didn’t care. My parents were my biggest cheerleaders, telling me I could do anything. I still believe them.

Fast forward to January 2024, when my doctor dropped a bombshell: “Stop driving.” The next month, another gut-punch: I had about two years of sight left. We hoped it’d stretch longer, but my vision had other plans. Right now, I’m down to five degrees of peripheral vision, and it’s blurry, like looking through a foggy window. Everyone and everything is a blob. My wife, Deana has been my rock through this whole journey, encouraging me to keep going, even when I’m tempted to throw a pity party for one.

Here’s what it’s like to live in Blob City. I can still pick up colors, so I might notice a red hat or a green shirt, but details? Forget it. Reading text is like trying to solve a puzzle in a windstorm.  I have to stare at it forever, and it better be in font size “Billboard.” Walking, though, is my jam. It clears my head and usually puts me in a better mood. This morning, I strolled down to Green Valley Park, looped around the lake, and decided to grab Deana a drink from the gas station on the way back. Easy, right? Wrong.

I sauntered up to the cooler, ready to be the hero of hydration, only to remember I couldn’t read the labels. Picture me, squinting like a detective at a crime scene, trying to guess which bottle was Deana’s favorite. I grabbed one that looked vaguely familiar and hoped for the best. Then, a kind stranger piped up: “Need any help?” I could’ve hugged him. He confirmed I’d picked the right drink, then asked, “How’d you figure that out?” I explained my blob-vision situation, and he was surprised. Like most folks, he saw my white cane and dark glasses and assumed I was living in total darkness. Nope, just blob central.

That white cane and dark glasses? It’s like the unofficial “blind uniform.” People see it and assume I can’t see a thing, which is honestly a safe bet. I don’t mind the assumptions, better safe than sorry, right? Most people are just trying to help, and I’m grateful for it. I always say “thank you,” even if I don’t need the assistance. The other day, someone offered to guide me across the street, and I thought, Buddy, I’ve been crossing streets since disco was king. But I smiled, said thanks, and let them feel like a superhero. It’s a win-win.

The truth is, every blind person’s experience is different. Some of us see blobs, some see light, some see nothing at all. What we all share is the ability to adapt, to find joy in the little things, and to keep moving forward. For me, that means laughing at my own misadventures, like the multiple times I called a Mister a Misses or vice versa. That can get dicy really quick.

Losing my sight hasn’t been easy, but it’s taught me to lean into life’s unpredictability. I’m still the kid who rode motorcycles and dreamed big, just with a few more battle scars and a better sense of humor. With Deana by my side, braille to keep me sharp, and the occasional kind stranger to point me toward the right soda, I’m living a life that’s full, messy, and mine. So here’s to the blobs.  May they always be colorful, and may I never stop finding the humor in this wild, blurry world.

Download Braille BRF FILE HERE!

Walk by faith, not by sight

Over a year ago, I did Orientation and Mobility training through the state. My O&M instructor and I walked for miles over several sessions, listening to traffic, learning routes, and learning how to navigate large intersections whilst being blind/visually impaired and using a cane. I listening to everything he said, followed his instructions, and advanced quickly. After a while, I could come and go with confidence. Keeping some form of independence is incredibly important. It is not always easy and can be very dangerous, but it is what we do. Blind people walk by faith, not by sight. The anxiety level that makes your heart pound the first time you step off the curb and across the road doesn’t go away. It is faith in God that gets me across a busy intersection.

I was using my cane every day, mainly to traverse rough terrain. When we moved, I stopped using it all the time. My vision has gotten a lot worse since we moved out here. I’ve avoided using the cane, as it implies that I’m completely blind. Roughly only 10% of blind people are completely blind. The rest of us see something. I have been blind in my left eye all of my life due to Septo-Optic Dysplasia. Several years ago, I started going blind in my right eye due to the same reason, but mainly due to Optic Atrophy caused by it. My vision has gotten so bad that I only have around 20 degrees of peripheral vision. Try to cover up your left eye and then try to look through a straw with your right eye. Then, try to do a normal task.

I am now fully embracing the use of the cane full time, and it has become an indispensable companion for navigating my daily adventures. I rely on it to get to work and to explore various spots around town. The great thing about living in Payson, Arizona, is that it’s a charming small town, and nearly everything is conveniently close by. My workplace is situated just a mile away from home, making my daily commute quite manageable. Additionally, my favorite coffee shop is only about half a mile from my doorstep, which I cherish for my morning pick-me-ups. I used to enjoy riding my electric bike, but unfortunately, it became increasingly risky for me to do so.

Speaking of that charming little coffee shop, I genuinely shocked everyone the very first time I walked in with my trusty cane in hand. I could faintly hear people chatting away from outside, all buzzing with conversation, but as soon as I stepped inside, an eerie quietness enveloped the space, as if the world had paused just for me. You could hear a pin drop, and I felt smaller by the second. I quickly ordered my usual coffee and then left, leaving behind the hushed stares. I wanted to use this experience as a notable example of the common person's reaction to my presence. I’m not dead, and I’m certainly not dying…at least not today!

If you “See” someone with a blind cane, don’t say, “I’m Sorry”. It’s OK. I’m walking with a smile. Say, “Hello”.

Don’t cry, please. That helps no one. I’m losing my sight. It sucks, but I’m going to kick blindness’ butt! And, Jesus Loves Me…and You!

Don’t ask me how I’m feeling. How are you feeling today? I’m not depressed. It’s all good. I’m just glad to be here.

A blind cane is a tool. Ask me about the cane. They make hundreds of different canes and tips to go on it. I’m a nerd, it’s true. Just like Voice Over on my iPhone, the cane assist me in getting from point A to point B. It is incredibly simple but incredibly helpful. I can feel every crack, crevice, pot hole, and gradient change. I don’t have depth perception, so when the grade changes, I need to know about it! Otherwise, I go for a tumble. Ask me how I know.

Adjusting to life with a cane takes some time. The O&M instructors teach us how to not get hit by a car, but they don’t teach us how to deal with the day to day interactions and crazy drivers. There are so many great people that offer to give me a ride or offer to get me across the street safely that any bad interactions with people are obliterated by kindness.

As I was on my way home today, I was told in a gut (GOD) sort of way to slow down and stop. So, I was able to see a car pulling out at an intersection. I almost walked around the car and on down the sidewalk. Within a few seconds, the car pulled out and a truck, hauling a trailer behind it, had to slam on its brakes to avoid the car. It almost jackknifed and the trailer ran up onto the sidewalk where I would have been walking. I didn’t see the entire incident, obviously, it was all a blur, once I heard the screeching brakes and turned and managed to focus, it was over with. Luckily, no one got hurt, but if I had not listened, I could’ve been killed or seriously injured. Trust your gut.

This blog will continue to be about photography but also the adventure of going blind.

My wonderful wife, Deana’s Creative Studio, is the reason I am able to get up each morning with a smile and look forward to the day ahead. She truly is such a kind, compassionate, and amazing Christian woman, and I feel incredibly blessed to call her my wife. She is not just my partner; she is also my greatest supporter and helper in all things. I remember jokingly mentioning while we were dating that one day she’d have to lead me around by my arm due to my vision changing. It’s unfortunate that my light-hearted joke is now coming to fruition, but thankfully, she doesn’t have to do it very often at all. Love you so much, Deana! :)

Living as the Wife of a Blind Photographer

It was April 22, 2023 when I married my best friend and the love of my life. The man who was blind in his left eye told me that one day he would be completely blind, but I did not mind, for I knew he loved me for me and would do anything to care for me and keep me safe. I even knew that he was losing the hearing in his right ear, and that would progress as well due to the illness called septo-optic dysplasia. I knew that my future as a wife would be different than the future of most wives, even with my own diagnosis of dry macular degeneration. But I didn’t fully understand how soon everything would start to change. After all, who can truly understand their future until they’re living in it?

We immensely enjoyed our honeymoon, taking photographs of beautiful Ireland with b&w film cameras and iPhones. I may have stolen his Pentax K1000 while we were in the Emerald Isle, but I also loved using my Olympus Trip 35 and Canon AE1 Program to photograph the awesomeness that is the home of some of our ancestors. I often photographed my new husband taking photographs because he is in a different world when he is behind a camera. He sees beauty where others do not, and captures it in a way that only the resultant photographs can explain. One of my favorite photographs is of him, stepping away from having just captured Belfast’s city hall building, with a smile only seen when he is in his element. I worry not because he has a smile reserved for me, one that lights up my days and warms my nights. But the smile he reserves for when he feels he got the best possible shot is completely different; unaltered joy with a hint of mischief. It’s like he knows a secret that only he will ever know.

January 23rd of 2024 rolls around and we visit a local eye doctor, one to whom a good friend had referred me. It was probably the most important eye exam of our lives, as it changed so much. I learned more about the macular degeneration from which I suffer and my husband, well, his world changed upside down. His eyesight was worse than I thought — he had been hiding how bad it was getting, but I think he was hiding it from himself as well. He was told to stop driving due to his very limited peripheral vision. And I also don’t think he knows how badly he missed so many of the letters he read on his eye exam. The E’s and N’s and P’s and O’s were so different than how he had perceived them. So we left the exams with prescriptions for new eyeglasses and a hurt in our hearts for my husband’s need to give up driving and what that meant for his career. I was strong that day, only to cry in secret knowing that one day my husband’s use of the camera would be over; he would no longer see the beauty in the world that people often overlook. And I, well, I would need to continue with biannual eye exams to track the progress of my vision. I couldn’t even think of that, however, as I knew I one day would be married to a blind photographer.

Prior to our eye exams, my husband had been talking about pinhole photography and mentioned to me how he would love to use a pinhole camera. He even showed me one he would like, not knowing that I would purchase it for him as an early Valentine’s Day gift. I wanted to ensure he had access to such a camera while he could use it — the purchase was important, yet tearful. Needless to say, he loved the gift and proceeded to use the new capturer of beauty immediately. But the truth remained that his eyesight would continue to fail, and it has.

Due to my increasing struggle with allergies and disdain for humidity, he suggested leaving South Carolina and moving back to my home state of Arizona — to Northern Arizona in particular. Neither of us wanted to endure the summers in Phoenix metro, after all. So we made the trek across the US, several days stuck in a little, red Subaru with three dogs in the back seat. It was like traveling with three toddlers that were only welcome at specific Airbnb’s — if you know, you know. But we had a blast because we were able to take some time and I thoroughly enjoyed seeing these places I knew so well through his lone-functioning eye. The photographs we took are memories I will cherish always. He got to meet some of my cousins in Oklahoma, while we stayed a few extra days there for the fourth of July. It gave me a wonderful break from the drive, as there is only ever one driver in our family now. Then we ventured onward with him visualizing the southwest for the first time, shocked by its awesomeness. His excitement was heartwarming. I got to share some of my favorite places with my love.

Today we are living in Payson, Arizona and we get out to see something new in the state every chance we get. I need to share so many places with him before he can no longer see them. It hurts my heart beyond belief that one day he will not be able to see the majesty of this world. However, his positive attitude and desire to live everyday to its fullest, taking photographs wherever he goes, is inspiring. I cannot imagine living with his diagnosis, but, then again, I am in denial of the suffering that may lay in the future in regards to my eyes. Macular degeneration is no joke. But today I see more clearly than ever, knowing that time on this earth is limited; we never know when we will not be able to see the wonder of God’s creation any longer. He and I will make the best of this situation, taking photographs as much as possible, until we are completely unable to engage in his favorite activity. I will do my best to be the supportive wife while he purchases cameras, fixed them, uses them, and sells some of them only to start the process again. And, hopefully, he will inspire others to see through the lens of a film camera, while I hope to inspire people to take those memories, print them and put them into scrapbooks to be enjoyed later.

by Deana Davis, wife of the blind photographer.