Author: smackenz

Sensory adaptation

smackenz/ / Crossmodal brain plasticity, Crossmodal correspondences, Haptic touch, Movement, Multisensory, Posts, Proprioception, Vestibular

When sighted people ask about being blind, they often wonder:

Is it like seeing black all the time?

My favourite conversation about this took place on the metro in Oslo. I was doing research on blindness. And the person who asked seemed to be sleeping rough. I answered, ‘No, because there is nothing there to see black with’. She lifted her index finger into the air and cut straight to the chase: ‘So, like seeing with my index finger. Or my big toe.’

Is it better to have had vision or to be born blind?

But people seem to know, intuitively, that there is no single answer to this. My response is usually: ‘It depends.’ Then people, often spontaneously, talk about recognising friends by their faces; yet they soon realise that voices are just as important – as are the skills needed to identify them. Some also talk about the smell of colours, mostly ocean blue and grass green. (See our blog for the scientific approach, the crossmodal correspondences between the senses, Crossmodal brain plasticity and empowering of sensory abilities, and Multisensory processing.)

How long does it take to adapt to being blind?

Again, my answer usually is: ‘It depends’ – on when and how vision was lost, the use of other senses before and after, and overall health. The brain must adapt to recognise sensory information without vision. And new habits take on average 66 days to become automatic. (See our blog for Decay and maintenance of sensory memories, Visual memories and sensory experiences, Reading braille in colour, and My vision, my identity.) I wonder, therefore, if it would be better to ask not how long it takes to adapt, but rather: how to adapt?

In an attempt to explore this question – how do people adapt to new sensory information? – I started brushing my teeth with my left hand instead of my right. Doing this meant adapting to new sensory information, especially from proprioception, touch, and the vestibular sense (see our blog for Growing into one’s own body). Drawing on previous research on people who have lost vision, including some of my own work, I expected to:

– Do well on my first attempt, then struggle to adapt to sensory information from my left hand

– Have slip-ups – old habits die hard – that would set me back in my progress

– Try different routines before fully adapting to sensory information from my left hand

My first attempt went well, but then came the second and the third – and they felt strange. Holding the brush was awkward, and I did not really know how to move it properly. It felt as if the brush was sliding around with no clear purpose. And I was certainly not convinced my teeth were clean afterwards, but I resisted the temptation to go back to using my right hand.

Then, attempt five – and my first slip-up. I suddenly realised that my movements with the brush were different, and next came the feel of it against my gums. Judging from the position of the brush this was my usual right-hand brushing routine, I had at least caught my slip-up early.

For the next attempt, I reminded myself – even said it out loud – to use my left hand. I was expecting this brushing to be more difficult, but I did not notice any real setback. And I wondered if this was because I had not yet formed a routine for brushing with my left hand.

young child smiling and brushing teeth
AI-generated illustration for SmartSense

To stay on track, I decided to pay close attention to what I was doing from the moment I applied toothpaste to the brush. I noticed the difference in how I used my two hands. With my right hand, I used a full-hand grip to hold the brush. My wrist was often stiff, and the pressure on my gums was quite hard. With my left hand, I flexed the brush in my grip: I held it almost as if I were holding a pen, sometimes adding my middle finger; I gripped it between my index finger and thumb, again sometimes bringing in the middle finger, and my wrist bent, stretched, and turned. The pressure on my gums was much lighter than with my right hand.

Over the next three to four weeks, I began to establish a routine for how I brushed – moving from the left upper teeth, across to the right, then down to the right lower teeth, and over to the left, before returning to the middle for an extra clean. My grip on the brush became firmer, and the pressure on my gums more constant. It no longer felt as if the brush was sliding around with no clear purpose. And I was almost convinced my teeth were clean afterwards. I had had three slip-ups, but I caught them early and carried on brushing with my left hand. It was time to try a deliberate right-hand brushing again.

Week seven, day one: return to right-hand brushing. At this point, I had a consistent routine for my left-hand brushing: the movement and feel of the brush were the same every time. Returning to my right hand was a bit of a shock. My right hand now felt inferior to my left: the handling of the brush was less flexible, the pressure on my gums was harder, and my teeth did not feel any cleaner than with my left-hand brushing. Next time, I brushed with my left hand again, without noticing any setbacks in my progress. In fact, left-hand brushing now felt more natural to me.

I have continued with my left-hand brushing, and if you asked me which hand I used this morning, I would not be able to tell you. But it was most likely my left.

My required adaptation was both minimal and reversible – only two to three minutes in the morning and evening, and it could be stopped at any time – and so should by no means be taken as representative of how people adapt when every aspect of their life has to change. For example, after total sight loss. There is also a little twist to my experience. I am “a leftie” who was trained to use my right hand. So, I wonder if my adaptation to new sensory information was facilitated by some pre-existing left-hand architecture in my brain. Still, I hope my experience offers a glimpse into how people adapt to new sensory information.

See our blog for Activities; especially 94-96.

Blog post author: Dr Torø Graven

My vision, my identity

smackenz/ / Art, Emotion, Haptic touch, Hearing, Multisensory, Philosophical Approach, Posts, Vision

The case of S.B. and later research have helped answer Molyneux’s question, posed to Locke, about whether a man born blind and now made to see can recognise a cube and a sphere by vision alone. Molyneux’s question was a pure thought experiment, aimed at exploring the structure of sensory knowledge. And over the years, it has been turned around and nuanced by both philosophers and scientists. (See our blog for the philosophical approach and the scientific approach.)

“We differ, blind and seeing, one from another, not in our senses, but in the use we make of them, in the imagination and courage with which we seek wisdom beyond the senses.” (Attributed to Helen Keller.)

But are people in general able to take up William Molyneux’s challenge and imagine life from a different sensory perspective? And if so, do they reach the same conclusion as Helen Keller – that true understanding goes beyond what the “blind and seeing” can or cannot do?

This time, I have invited Sidsel Størmer to share her lived experiences of how everyday beliefs have shaped her sense of self and confidence in relying on other senses rather than vision. And her journey towards reshaping her identity – both for herself and in the eyes of others. Sidsel holds a degree in Philosophy from the University of Cambridge, has worked as an analyst at The Government Pension Fund Global (also known as The Norwegian Oil Fund), and is currently pursuing a degree in Law at the University of Oslo. Her eyesight has been limited for as long as she remembers: No vision in her right eye and tunnel vision in her left, with less than 20% of the normal visual field.

I wasn’t blind

Growing up I was never blind. Yes, I had a white cane, and yes, early on I had braille lessons, but I was never blind. One of the first phrases I learnt – after my name – was to tell people that I did not see very well. I could see the sun, I could see pictures in art galleries, I could see my outfit in the morning when I got dressed. I could see enough to read in print – sometimes – and very slowly. To my parents and teachers, this made me “not blind”.

I soon learnt to embody this vision of myself. To me, being not blind was very important, because the people I saw around me and the people I admired were not blind. The people I had met who were blind seemed – to me – strange, scary and fundamentally different from me. As I grew up, I learnt that “the blind” were unable to work, dressed badly, and did not care about architecture, art, design or fashion – things which all mattered deeply to me. But: that was okay – I wasn’t blind.

This attitude carried me into adulthood. While I needed many adjustments during my undergraduate degree, I still took notes by hand, even while needing everything to be recorded for me. I colour coded my notes, as I had always done, in order to get as much as possible out of the pinprick of vision I had. I went clubbing, not knowing who I was going with or where we were. “Blind people don’t go clubbing” I thought, terrified, as I tried to find out where I was.

As I entered the workforce, my blindness caught up with me. I had landed a job in Oslo, where I had grown up, and was going to be living independently for the first time. I continued as I had always done, getting the most out of my vision and pretending like I could see more than I actually could.

Slowly, I came to realise how unsustainable this approach was. My psychologist diagnosed me with burnout two years into working full time. In the year and a half that followed, I slowly began to realise how little I could see and that I had to do something about how I navigated the world. I learnt to use a screenreader, and took time off from work to improve my slow braille and re-learn mobility and orientation skills. I started learning to echolocate, to use my fingers and ears to read instead of my eyes. This journey continues.

Now I choose both – I am blind, and I am sighted

I still love art, fashion and design. I am still deeply invested in the visual aspects of my life. But: I have also come to realise that my other senses sometimes work better than my eyes.

Yet, I have come to realise that I have the privilege of choice. I can choose which senses I want to use on different occasions. When using my recently acquired national gallery membership in London, my guide dog leads me through the halls, but I look at the paintings. I sit in the a nearby cafe reading The Times in print, before reading the braille sign on the bathroom door, I still like to know where I am and to be able to decide “ladies, not men”.

These actions are not contradictory to me. They embody the choice to use different senses for different things.

The thought of blindness is probably scarier to the sighted than it is to the blind. For me, this fear led me to live in a strange in-between state I was neither sighted nor compensating as well as my peers who are “fully blind”. While enjoying the privilege of using all my senses to the full, I wish I had learnt to do so sooner. To be proud of my blindness and my sight. To love art while reading with my fingers and orienting with my ears.

If you know a child who is blind and have some vision, teach them to be proud of their blindness and their sight. Teach them to read with their fingers, orient with the ears and see things that matter to them with their eyes. They will thank you.

See our blog for Activities; especially 91-93.

Some suggestions for further listening, reading, and watching: