An Asperger's Moment

My oldest son has so few symptoms with his Asperger's that I usually assume that no one could see it. I have occasionally thought about taking him in for a second opinion, to see if he really deserves the diagnosis. I never do, because he does have some symptoms, and what's in the label except my understanding of where on the spectrum he falls?

I was so sure that he was practically normal that it never even crossed my mind that there wasn't a person out there, except the most paranoid child developmental psychologist, who would tell by casually watching him that he was autistic.

Last night I took him out to an art supply store, to by him a marker for his drawing lessons. At the check out counter, an older man--about 28?--standing just off to the side, said in an almost too quiet voice, something about, "autistic. . . savant?. . . like me?"

He had my attention. "I'm sorry?"

"I asked if he was autistic."

I stared for a second at the man, and then down at my son (yes, it was V, not Z), and in mild shock said, "Yes. Yes, he is."

He nodded. "I am too."

"He's not an art savant--at least as far as I know--but he likes to draw. He's Asperger's."

He walked over a little. He tried to keep eye contact as he got closer, but actually had to turn his body and face away when he got within talking distance. "Me too. I'm functioning Asperger's. I'm a language savant though. I know 9 languages, just from listening."

I'm usually very nervous around strangers. Especially odd ones. He was certainly odd. The way he moved. The way he talked. The way he looked without looking. Now that I watched him, I saw all the symptoms. How many odd-strangers over the years had I met who were autistic, and I was frightened by their oddness? Well, they weren't so frightening any more. I know how to talk to them. I talk to them just like I do my sons: with respect, and knowing they probably understand me more than I think they do.

"That's awesome! Do you get to work with languages now?"

"No. I don't work right now. They want me to go to college and get a degree to work with languages."

I rolled my eyes, "Isn't that the most idiotic thing? Well, if you go, at least you'll be able to teach them something. I had a Spanish teacher who could only teach us Mexican Spanish."

"Not the King's Spanish?"

"Yup."

"Well, ya' know . . . . . ." and then he ran off something in fast-paced Spanish.

"Actually, I don't know, which just goes to show how good a teacher he was."

We both laughed.

About that time I realized the clerks had been watching us the whole time. I apologized for making him wait, and finished check-out while the guy said good-bye.

"Mommy? Who was that?"

"Just a nice guy."

"Was he talking about me?"

"Yeah, he's Asperger's too. He does languages."

"Oh."

That was all V said. I looked down at him and wondered what he was thinking, or if he was old enough to understand any of the complexity of the labels he has to deal with. He knows he's technically Asperger's. I explain that's why he gets more scared than other kids, why he gets angry at loud noises (just like his mother), but I've also told him that it's not a big deal at all--it's just something they call him. After all, I tell myself, it isn't even noticeable.

Or maybe it's more noticeable than I think. I'm always going to wonder what the tip off was. Was it something V was doing that I don't even realize is odd? Or was it something in how I was acting that marks the parent of an Aspie?

Who knows? But I'm glad I'm the type of person that others (even odd strangers) feel that they can come up and talk to. I see people better for that. Maybe someday I'll go around and really notice the people around me, instead of them needing to make themselves noticed. 

Creatively Different--Ode to an Interesting Tree

We mocked my mom, mercilessly. It was actually a part of the holiday spirit. We'd laugh a little at the home-made egg decorations she'd had since the first year of her marriage. We'd laugh at the thread-bared golden tinsel. We'd play around with the clothes-pin reindeer. It was only fun because she's the type that doesn't care one hoot what anyone thinks of her, and had a quip or two of her own.

When I grew up, I wanted an organized  tree. I wanted professional ornaments, a color scheme, and balanced, one-color lights. I had it all planned. And, I got it too.

Then I read a section form Brene Brown. She talked about how keeping up with the Jones and looking fashionable really meant that you all looked exactly alike, with one just a little bit prettier. But creativity always looked completely different.

I looked up at my Better-Homes and Garden's tree, and thought, Dammit, she's right. That tree looks like ever other tree out there. Well . . . except for my mom's.

'Cause, guess what Mom! You have a really creative tree. You have a really creative home. You have a really creative life. And you must have raised me, because there's an inner rebel that laughed really hard when I realized I had worked so hard to look like everyone else.

Next year, home-made ornaments (though I'm more of a paper-craft and sewing person, than an egg decorator).

Here's to creativity!

Christmas Conversation

V: Mom, who's Murder?
M: Um, I don't understand the question.
V: Who is Murder?
M: Murder is a thing you do, not a person, honey.
V: You don't understand. This one is Gold. One is Frank, and the other is Murder!

Recommending The Artist's Way

A while ago I stated that I didn't have the creativity to manage a long novel. A different type/flash creativity is more my thing . . .

I may have to eat my words. I may not. Who knows?

I found a really weird book, and just had to have it. It's called, The Artist's Way and is all about "unblocking" the inner-artist.

I just started to read it. And I'm not sure what I think of it yet. But I do know that it's a real experience.

I don't think I'll be bounding down the road to a national best-seller, but on the other hand, I have no idea where this is going. Eh. Maybe I'm just in it for the psychology of the thing. It always fascinates me how practical people manage to use the "rules" of psychology without formal training, and sometimes without even knowledge. This is one of the reasons why psychology can sometimes feel like a hobbled science to me. I hope there are curious scholars out there who look at what people are doing, and then try to figure out why it works . . .

So, here I stand. I'm recommending an experience without even knowing how mine is going to turn out. But maybe you could use a little un-blocking yourself? Not just for writers, or visual artists, or actors, or musicians. For anybody. And it would probably do good for everybody.

Check it out!

The Trap of Nihilism and the Alternative--Caring

I didn't mean to be a nihilist. It just kinda snuck up on me. It seemed so rational. You start by wondering if maybe there are things we do that are more meaningful or valuable than others. Then you find yourself wondering if writing really bad fiction novels can be considered a "purpose." Next your begin to really evaluate if art is meaningful enough to devote your life to. You nod as people say, "I need a new job. I want to make a difference. I want to matter."

I knew I was in trouble the day I actually caught myself thinking that maybe the only really valuable thing to do in society was grow food (teachers having previously been eliminated because there didn't seem to be a point to much of what schools were teaching).

Those evaluative mind games came to a brickwall-slamming halt when the alter-ego that lives in my head (and is completely convinced I'm full of crap) said, "Well, what's the point of growing food--there doesn't seem to be much worth living for."

That stopped my train of thought so fast I thought I might  hit my head on a metaphorical dashboard.

The trouble with beginning to categorize things as "no-point" or "meaningless" is that list just grows and grows the more you indulge in the attitude that says only the best, only the most meaningful can have meaning.

But God? He feeds sparrows and makes lilies that are here today and gone tomorrow. Sure, the verses are there to assure us that God cares about us, so he'll take care of us too--but did you ever stop to think . . . God cares about sparrows and flowers!

Now, I find that very assuring.

You can care about the little things. God does. You can care about the things that are here today and gone tomorrow. Sure, if you put on the thumb screws, you could probably get me to admit that there are things we do in this life that is more meaningful than others, but out of the same breath should come the insistence that most things in life have meaning, and should be appreciated for that.

Indecision

I heard brief mention
that there is a place inside us
where we make decisions.

Dammit!

I need that address--
          that phone number.
Or maybe I won't call first,
just bash on the door
and yell through the windows,

Hey!
I know you're in there!
You can't hide forever.
I brought your secretary Fear,
and I'm through with her.
Don't think you can send her out to get rid of me!

The door creaks.
Wind ruffles dead leaves in the yard.
Fear and I look at each other.
"Maybe no one is home," she says.

Truth Doesn't Take Up Room, It Takes Thought

I found a treasure, and I have to share. It's a . . . comic? . . . called Indexed.

Drawn on index cards in the morning while coffee is brewing. Mostly funny little graphs . . . all of which are awesome! You have humor. You have truth. You have insight. You have the human heart-condition.

I love this for many many reasons. One is its subtlety. Another its brevity. Another, it's a perfect representation of how we think better in images and flashes than in long drawn out arguments (and take it from the chick who's read a little philosophy and a lot of theology, thinking in long drawn arguments takes training). But mostly because when I see a small graph that makes me smile at the timidity of a new opportunity, or shows the absurdity of behavior leaving a small un-painful poke in my ribs to remind me that's me, it is an awesome little soul connection.

This is a cheerful version of deep insight. I wish all insight came that way.

Check it out! Check it out!

Patience and Humor

Peace in Serenity by ~cat-craze

One of the things I've learned from being sick a lot, is that it is easier, more beautiful, and more helpful to learn to be patient and have a sense of humor than it is to try and correct others' less than sensitive behavior.

With you, it's a focused job you can always work on, and you enjoy all the benefits.

Trying to teach others is a never ending process that you can only work on bits and pieces, and if you manage to actually change something, it won't be much and you may never see the person again. Besides. If we really wanted to help someone, teaching them to be more patient and to have a sense of humor would be the best thing is the world for them, anyways. After that they might be more open to learning "what they're doing wrong." And patience and humor are best taught by example.

Oh Lord--thank you for my sense of humor and my appreciation of patience. Please carve them into my bones so I don't forget them in the hard times.

Writing Down the Creativity

writer by ~AmythePirate

I was puttering about the interweb, when I ran across the headline for a blog post which asked, "is creativity important for being a writer?" With my jaw on my lap I hovered over a sentence or two where the conclusion was . . . eh, not so much.

WHAT?!?

Ladies and gentlemen, I have a rant I must now share, and it starts with a little bit of autobiography.

I started doing extra writing assignments (for fun), in the first grade. But the fifth grade, teachers told me to turn in my rough draft because re-copying it to make a final would be too much work. I have handed in 28 page stories for a 2 page assignment. All three years of high school I was in creative writing. I only had three years of high school because my Mom offered to pay for me to go to community college during the summer to graduate early and take writing classes.

I have put is way more than the 10,000 hours required for me to be a master writer. I have read several times that to be considered an accomplished literature-geek. Ladies and gentlemen, I like Moby Dick. Yes. I am qualified to tell you what I am about to tell you.

I was never meant to be a writer.

At least, not like what most people think of when they think of a writer. It's a blushing fact we should acknowledge that writing has become very fashionable, and everyone and their dog now tries their hand at it. And why not? Standards and method of regular publishing have fallen so far that writing which makes English teachers cringe is now routinely being put out because their candy-plot lines and simple reads appease the same masses who watch reality TV and are mad that Buffy went off the air.

Did that sound snobbish? Sorry. But I am a snob. We used to have fewer, but higher quality writers; now they are being lost in the glut of inadequate manuscripts, and frankly, it ticks me off.

Because this is such a fashionable thing, mainstream culture has an almost unconscious understanding of what a writer should be. They write books. Pretty thick ones. Fiction is good. Non-fiction is good too if it's soul-appeasing (or ego-stroking) self-help, or if it's something about leadership and business. Oh! And how-to! Having spent so much time reading, we now actually can't think for ourselves and have to be told how to do everything.

Poetry has died. Short-stories survive because of snobs like me who still read literature magazines. If you claim to be a writer you better have at least one novel under your belt.

And I do. It's awful. It is exactly everything I hate about books these days. It's cliche, and shallow, and sappy, and meandering, and all kinds of terrible. Don't get me wrong--most people enjoy reading it (so I have been told a hundred times)--but I've read the Count of Monte Christo, and Eifelhiem. I know what good books are actually supposed to look like. I know mine falls short.

And I know why mine falls short. It's not because 10,000 hours weren't enough to dredge up talent--I'm actually really good when I'm writing poetry (*cough*sometimes*cough*) or short stories. I'm good at those because my brain works in snap-shots. I see or sense beautiful things, and they come to me complete. I put them down and then edit two weeks later. I'm bad at being a "writer" because novels take a type of thinking and creativity that is foreign to me. I can't haul creativity out for the long run.

Which brings us back to that blog-post which had the audacity to say creativity was second fiddle to skill.

You're right. You can be a writer without seeing a plot laid out before you. You can put all the letters and punctuation in the right place (better than me, at least) without being able to infuse characters with dynamics and realism. You can pump out cheesy novels based on your day-dreams, and people may even like them.

But you know what? If you want to be a good writer--if you want to last forever, and be worth your salt and a little bit of ink too--you need a type of vision and creativity that will make your work matter. You need to have something to say, that is unique to you, and not your personal take on the popular theme of the moment, changed just enough to avoid copy-right infringement.

There are many "writers" out there who may or may not have put in their 10,000 hours, and can make a book. Their "skills" will do them justice. But a true writer will have creativity and imagination that shows us something new, and their skills will bring them honor.