I can't help but notice that much of my time seems to be spent in search mode.
Searching for tupperware lids, searching for the mate of a sock, searching for something to put into my kids' lunch bags.
But I am also searching for answers. I scan website after website looking for information on the latest research about Autism, medication options, inspiring stories, and new treatments.
Lately though, I have been feeling a strong pull towards my bedroom alter which has been gathering dust and various, unrelated objects. Ever in search of more space with which to put all of the crap that we accumulate in our day-to-day existence, books, highlighter pens, paper clips, geocache toys and unopened bills all find their way onto the shelf that holds my sacred objects. These talismans of the mundane are not intended as offerings, rather their presence seems to mock my floundering practice. I am reminded how easily a spacious mind and spirit can become cluttered. This is not to say that sacred trumps ordinary. They cannot be separated for they both constitute important aspects of our human experience. However, I feel the need to carve out a place of purity where I can be reminded of stillness, constancy, and presence of mind to learn the answers that already exist.
I am really searching for truth and the more I look for it, the more it is always out of reach. It's a feverish pace that I set.
My alter reminds me to stop and wait. To clear and connect. To sit rather than search.
And when I do, I hear the screen door of my psyche creak open and a long shadow is cast on the threshold.
Buddha's back and he's brought cleaning supplies...
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Head banging....(heavy metal music not included)
I have heard it a few times now.
I am always in another room when the repetitive, dull thud arrests my attention. My ears prick up with the same intensity as when I'm trying to identify a bird call, only curiosity is replaced by a sick feeling in my gut.
When he becomes very upset, Little Fish has taken to hitting the back of his head against whatever hard surface is closest, usually the floor or the wall. Nothing can describe the powerfully protective and angry emotions that sweep over a mother when she knows that her child is being hurt. It's a very conflicted feeling however, when you know that your child is inflicting pain on himself. Unfortunately, the stronger and more knee-jerk my reaction, the more he screams and continues.
I have no other words for now.
This too shall pass...?
I am always in another room when the repetitive, dull thud arrests my attention. My ears prick up with the same intensity as when I'm trying to identify a bird call, only curiosity is replaced by a sick feeling in my gut.
When he becomes very upset, Little Fish has taken to hitting the back of his head against whatever hard surface is closest, usually the floor or the wall. Nothing can describe the powerfully protective and angry emotions that sweep over a mother when she knows that her child is being hurt. It's a very conflicted feeling however, when you know that your child is inflicting pain on himself. Unfortunately, the stronger and more knee-jerk my reaction, the more he screams and continues.
I have no other words for now.
This too shall pass...?
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
My Friends in 2D
I am a pretty social person but I also have a reticent, shy streak in me. This is what makes me hang back in large groups and assess the dynamic rather than charging forward with my hand thrust out and a smile plastered on my face. I like to know who I am dealing with and how I fit in.
This is why I have always found great comfort in books and the characters contained therein. I either find myself identifying so much with a character that I feel I have become him or her, or I adopt the character into my life as a trusted friend and companion. They feel real, sometimes more real than real people.
For example, in Grade 8, one of our required readings was The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton. For the days and weeks during and after reading this book, I actually felt like I was Ponyboy. I floated around in a daze behaving as I imagined he would in any given situation. I'm not sure what snapped me out of it, but eventually I found myself again. In the mirror, reflected in my friend's and family's eyes, I was slowly brought back to reality.
I have lately been reading a book that I received as a gift for Mother's Day entitled, Gravity Pulls You In . It's a collection of essays and poems written by parents of children on the Autism Spectrum who, through their writing, struggle to make sense of their lives. I felt an immediate kinship with these people of course, as I saw my own life reflected in their stories.
I have longed to find a community of friends through the Autism networks in my city. I have attended the monthly meetings and social events but always walk away feeling more lonely than ever. They are real people with real children who struggle with the same real issues that I do. But perhaps that is why I find it so hard to relate. When I look into their eyes, I not only want to see myself reflected there but I also want to see hope, faith, courage and peace because that is so often what I am lacking. The rub is, they also feel this acute sense of lack.
So, sitting there in a circle of tightly placed chairs in a coffee-stained church basement with all the other parents, I quietly observe each of us scanning the room, trying to make a connection, hoping to find something greater then ourselves in that collective sorrow.
But each of us comes up short. The intensity of the present situation makes it hard to see anything but desperation, striving and a longing to escape. It is too real to be the reality we want to face.
It used to make me sad and a little bit angry.
Lately though, I have accepted that these essays and the stories that they tell, however hard and sad and true, can replace those real connections. I can delve at my own pace. I can put the book down and cry when I read about one mother's struggle to place her teenage son in a group home, or laugh out loud when I hear about the lengths one father goes to to try and maintain intimacy with a daughter who can't bear human touch. I can let my mask of bravery and determination and forced optimism dissolve and allow myself a sense of connection that feels more real and human in 2D than any church basement could provide.
Perhaps I will "become the change I want to see in the world" but for now, this pace and these friends in 2D suit me just fine.
This is why I have always found great comfort in books and the characters contained therein. I either find myself identifying so much with a character that I feel I have become him or her, or I adopt the character into my life as a trusted friend and companion. They feel real, sometimes more real than real people.
For example, in Grade 8, one of our required readings was The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton. For the days and weeks during and after reading this book, I actually felt like I was Ponyboy. I floated around in a daze behaving as I imagined he would in any given situation. I'm not sure what snapped me out of it, but eventually I found myself again. In the mirror, reflected in my friend's and family's eyes, I was slowly brought back to reality.
I have lately been reading a book that I received as a gift for Mother's Day entitled, Gravity Pulls You In . It's a collection of essays and poems written by parents of children on the Autism Spectrum who, through their writing, struggle to make sense of their lives. I felt an immediate kinship with these people of course, as I saw my own life reflected in their stories.
I have longed to find a community of friends through the Autism networks in my city. I have attended the monthly meetings and social events but always walk away feeling more lonely than ever. They are real people with real children who struggle with the same real issues that I do. But perhaps that is why I find it so hard to relate. When I look into their eyes, I not only want to see myself reflected there but I also want to see hope, faith, courage and peace because that is so often what I am lacking. The rub is, they also feel this acute sense of lack.
So, sitting there in a circle of tightly placed chairs in a coffee-stained church basement with all the other parents, I quietly observe each of us scanning the room, trying to make a connection, hoping to find something greater then ourselves in that collective sorrow.
But each of us comes up short. The intensity of the present situation makes it hard to see anything but desperation, striving and a longing to escape. It is too real to be the reality we want to face.
It used to make me sad and a little bit angry.
Lately though, I have accepted that these essays and the stories that they tell, however hard and sad and true, can replace those real connections. I can delve at my own pace. I can put the book down and cry when I read about one mother's struggle to place her teenage son in a group home, or laugh out loud when I hear about the lengths one father goes to to try and maintain intimacy with a daughter who can't bear human touch. I can let my mask of bravery and determination and forced optimism dissolve and allow myself a sense of connection that feels more real and human in 2D than any church basement could provide.
Perhaps I will "become the change I want to see in the world" but for now, this pace and these friends in 2D suit me just fine.
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