My mother is a time traveler

 My mother is a time traveler

a trans-dimensional being

she exists in space-time in permeable fashion

here, with us, now

and simultaneously with friends long dead

eerily, radiantly aware of her impermanence 

and confusion

frightened, sad, saucy, funny, and always, always 

deeply connected to the mundane

the small things

not so small at all.

 

My sister is a lighthouse

Solid as the rock that anchors her 

to the land and sea

She withstands pounding and crashing

with grace 

with grit

Resolute and watchful

Exhausted more by the uncertain calm 

attentive to the sounds of winds, waves, and birds

the small things of life

not so small at all. 

 

My mother is a time traveler

today, she takes her longest and most mysterious journey

away from us, in some ways

radiantly aware of her own impermanence

she exists in space-time in permeable fashion

here, with us, now

and simultaneously with friends long dead

The stars are alive with joy at her delight 

in the small things of life

not so small at all. 

This Skin

This skin I'm in

is

sober

thirty years today

this skin I'm in 

is 

tissue

paper thin and fey

this skin I'm in

is 

leather

flexible as clay

this skin I'm in 

is 

wrinkled

gravity has its say

This skin I'm in 

is 

old

teaching me my name

this skin I'm in 

is 

young

dancing like a flame

this skin I'm in 

is 

stupid

holding on to shame

this skin I'm in

is 

endless

the player and the game

This skin I'm in 

is 

tougher 

than pain or loss or hell

this skin I'm in 

is 

softer

a whisper and a bell

this skin I'm in 

is 

parchment

the stories it can tell

this skin I'm in 

is 

moonstruck

I'm living where I dwell

I'm loving HOW I dwell

in this skin

I'm in

VERTIGO

VERTIGO

The howling began with sounds and syllables, at first

only a buzz

responding at an elemental level to a terrifying felt sense

then, the words and phrases, wailing

axes off kilter

scrabbling and frantic tumbling 

swirling sickening confusion

tilt a whirling 

wild 

a perfect storm

a tear in the fabric

a poet is dead

his sweet wordplay lingers and murmurs

stays with me (us)

I (we) breathe gratitude

 I (we) breathe relief for his reprieve

and  I (we) grieve

this magnificent loss

no one else is 

Carl Leggo

wondering about his grand-daughter's three syllable name.... 

Madeline

the howling began with sounds and syllables

wondering, I am wondering

(my) vertigo at a fever pitch 

sliding off the table of the world 

still here, 

rocked by the randomness of who dies

in the arms of this wild devouring bramble beast

and who lives

REMISSION 

The dragon is sleeping
 somehow
someday

she will awaken. 

Then, we will journey together

again. 

REMISS I on... a cloud

 of joy

and hope

there are words 

to write the carnal bedrock 

of living with....

NO

of dwelling with

this dragon 

RE-MISSION

as I steal and lean on another's 

lovely words

proud to be a thief 

who knows she needs 

help.

Finally.

First, you make the beast beautiful. 

There is a we here

There is a we here
that is not....
a 'we' that is

its embrace recognizes and welcomes
itself;

the insiders form a circle, and mouthpieces
proclaim platitudes of generic appreciation.

The circle is not for me--
neither do I crave it.
This is my sin.

There is a we here that is not....
a 'we' that is
Or maybe, there is a we here
that is
(an) US.

Thus I become
(a) them.

Triage makes you tired.....

Triage makes you tired if it's all you ever do
Pissed off, shaky, wired with no time for feeling blue
Caught up in the clamour, chasing down the clue
Triage makes you tired if it's all you ever do

Triage is seductive when it takes you by the hand
Surrounds you with its glamour, never boring, never bland
Relentlessly rewarding, something precious, something grand
Triage is seductive when it takes you by the hand

Triage is a minefield where no flowers ever grew
Discard a thousand cries for help and focus on a few
And claim that it's priorities that always make it through
Triage is a minefield where no flowers ever grew

Triage is a danger masquerading as demand
Silence is a stranger in this noisy, cluttered land
And reflection is your enemy until you take a stand
Triage is a danger masquerading as demand

Triage is a habit that can hold you by the throat
When you make a move to grab it, it will taunt you, it will gloat
And the context of its character is fortress with a moat
And the emptiest of vessels are the only things that float
And it takes a lot of push to move a heavy, hungry boat
Triage is a habit that can hold you by the throat

Triage makes you tired if it's all you ever do
You forget to be inspired by its colours or its hue
And you see the complex moving parts, but miss the larger view
And its face becomes a death mask from the poison in the brew
And you recognize the toxin in the words you thought you knew
And you realize this skill of yours is more than guts and glue
That it's not triage that's deadly, it's the hammer and the screw 
In that netherworld of double talk, bureaucracy and poo
Triage makes you tired if it's all you ever do

O (p) press I on

You are sitting at a desk-maybe your desk

Or a table-maybe your table.

Place your hands flat on top

Push hard on the surface

Count to ten

Do it again

Push hard with one hand and do another relatively easy or mundane task with the other hand

Count to ten

Do it again

Are you alone?

Place one hand and then the other on the surface, alternating

As if you are walking on your hands

As if your hands are walking

Make no noise

Do it ten times

Do it again

Are you alone?

Do the hand walking with more force, more noise, BUT DON’T RUSH

 Don’t compromise force for speed

Keep the pressure on…..

Are you alone?

Find a wall. Do it there. Two hands. Then one at a time.

Find another person

Do this side by side

Two hands

Then one at a time.

Now…. About this other person…..

Sit or stand face to face

Place hands against each other’s hands, palm to palm

Push into each other

Two hands, same time

Count to ten

Walking hands, alternating, against each other’s palms

Make no noise

Do it ten times

Practice pushing and yielding against each other

Only the hands

Make no noise

Do it ten times

Find another set of partners

Now you are four

Find a space in the centre of a room

Or go outside, find any open space

Imagine a giant box with a lid on a hinge….

It hangs open

It is your task to push it closed

Approach it as a group

Plan your timing

Gather round….

Open your hands

Push together

Push as if you were actually doing this work

Get under it, push, push

Push it up, now over

Now push it shut

One last push to be sure

Find a place / time to reflect on this

On pushing, pressing

Alone, with another, with a group

Was it exhausting? Exhilarating?

Is it something that becomes habit the more you do it?

Invisible in its familiarity?

It is something that makes its presence felt

Thrumming beneath the surface

Or off to the side?

Does the rhythm get into your blood?

Can you walk away because it left no impression?

(how)(what) Do you forget?

(how)(what) Do you remember?

That’s the question.

No Mud, No Lotus

one month
and one week
and more
and two more days
did I say days??
I meant DAZE
Dazed, is more like it.
AMAZEd at how busyshit tasks crowd
my landscape
fill my time
jangle and clang

How necessary they seem until I hold them in my
GAZE
that's right. Full bore full burn gaze.
Breathe
Breathe
I phase in and out
I wonder about
the ways the crazy haze
shimmers
beckons

For now, I will lean into this moment
endless stillness possible
SPACE
Put in the big rocks first.

Soltice, 2016

Mahogany red hair
blond roots
rasping cough
I glanced her way to see if she was okay
Inclined I was to care
big boots
ticked off
She warned me
then she kicked me, hard.

I had the sense that there was more going on

Her eyes, her face, her voice
the way she needed space and control
the way she needed others' fear
She sat alone in the big back seat
all the way to Niagara Falls.
I suppose it's what she wanted
or what a life's satchel of habits
make possible.

My bruises remind me of the choices I make
to see and feel and hope
on this longest night, I yield to my gratitude.
I have no regrets.

Half Full

This is the body I live now
almost a year after
Solstice and beyond
I am still
Here
yearning and Yielding
This is;
what happens next?

Finally, more energy
Less distress
better sleep...sometimes
Some sensations will never go away
and some will never return
This is what happens....
Next?

Writing
blood and bone
Twilight
moon
dark
and dawn
Laughter, Rain
work of the heart
This is what happens next.

Solstice and beyond

Two months and more
well, for sure
I did not feel that time move
I did not feel the twilight
or the dawns
I moved like a dragonfly
hovering, busy in many directions, adept at negotiating
the all day darknesses

mostly doing no harm
braced
praying
hoping
some days, swaying

body sore and bone tired
ready for soft rain
soft snow
soft fog
any fog
as long as it is still, the way only fog can be still

I will wander into it and find a clean river and there
I will sit, become nothing
become part of everything
become still


after that
some kind of return
will be possible.

Quiet Desperation

Dexterity remains under-rated
taken for granted
buttoning my shirt is no big deal
do it with my eyes
closed
Once upon a time
maybe so
but, Now...No.

key in the lock
    purse
car
    door
    floor, floor, floor
watch them soar
hear me roar
when I can't
face the dropsies
any more

Some days, the post-chemo world is
absurd
ridiculous in its good-natured
sense of humour
 adapting
always
adapting
moments
soaked with hope

Some days, the post-chemo world is
absurd
ridiculous in its taunting
I am this close to a laugh when I notice
I am
sobbing
containing
always
containing
darkness
soaked with tears

Yielding remains under-rated
Once upon a time, maybe so
But, Now...No.

Logic

and on it goes, tales from Autism camp...

Victoria is my most senior camper. She has been attending for 20 years. I first met her when she was a few months shy of her 11th birthday. She has given me smiles, tears, a concussion, her trust and her friendship.
And, of course, her logic.

One theorist I study, Joseph Straus, proposes an alternative 'reading' of the 'symptoms' of autism. Rather than whatever edition of the DSM manual's rehash of 'make the call' one consults, there is usually a version of obsessive fixations, purposeless repetition, and deviant sociality (oftentimes known as 'the triad of impairments') as the markers of the disorder. Straus proposes fixity of focus, local coherence and private meanings as being more resonant with the lives of Auties and Aspies who are increasingly finding their own ways to tell the rest of us about their lives and experiences. Further, these characteristics are not deficits, but rather, ways of being in the world that are idiosyncratic, meaningful, functional and helpful. Other theorists of cultural semiotics, notably  Harwood Fisher, suggest that personal and embodied logics precede meaning... necessarily. I mention these two theorists' examples not to launch into a black hole of theory, but rather to contextualize a point that I want to make: that Victoria LIVES what many theories and theorists work hard to express.

Back to Victoria's logic.
We are on a mini-train at a Niagara Safari  venue. The train chugs and rolls and wobbles with stops along the way of the large and sprawling park. Whenever ASD camp goes to this venue, Victoria and I take a train ride around the whole property. She is taller than I by about a foot, and outweighs me by about 90 pounds. Throughout the ride, she makes imperious proclamations. Here is an example of her logic.
We stop to drop off and pick up passengers. She is ready to go. She shouts "Green light GO!" The driver obliges. On the ride to our next stop Victoria lays out her logic. Green lights go with red lights on the Christmas tree. At our next stop, we drop off passengers and pick up passengers. Victoria is ready to go. She shouts "Christmas!". Nothing happens. She looks at me, puzzled. How could the driver not have understood that connection? Green lights go with red lights on the Christmas tree. ERGO, Christmas means... GO. Duh. Eventually, the driver starts up the engine and we do, indeed, GO. I suspect, however, that this happened in spite of, rather than because of, Victoria's enthusiastic encouragement of the driver.
Victoria's reasoning/connecting of ideas is known as metonymic logic. Victoria builds this in her mental landscape as a set of private and coherent structures that lead her to a conclusion which, when examined with an open mind, does indeed have a logical structure which precedes meaning (what does Christmas 'mean'? it means GO).

Welcome to ASD camp. Again and anew.
Never dull; remarkable in so many ways.
My scholarship, my pedagogy and my open mind remain in awe (and in debt).

Only Son

today you were born
and I was reborn.

you were the astronaut
navigating the next moon
and the next stars

and I was
and have always been
pulled, even as the tides are pulled,
into that terrible wonderful time of wondering, wandering, hoping 

no regrets
only son
only love

Wild Dogs, Hell Cats, Savage Beasts, Bloodthirsty Cannibals

This is my 20th summer of my Autism Movement camp. I began with a desire to offer movement opportunities for kids and teens with ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder) who would typically NOT have an opportunity to attend a summer camp of any kind, much less a movement based camp. In many ways my camp back then was 'the last house on the block'.... that is, it was the last choice for the desperate parents who had been looking for programs for their kids but who were getting refusals or costs that were untenable. 20 years later, that is, my here and now,  my camp still seems to be serving the same function, although I am happy to say that there ARE other organizatoins out there that are taking up the responsibility of offering camp experiences to ALL kids and teens, not only the neuro-typical and high functioning ones. I began with 23 kids; now, typically I accept between 35-65 kids per week ( it is a two week camp) depending on how many students and volunteers I can attract and train.
The title of my post is the list of the names of the four groups at camp. That first summer, my campers decided that they wanted to name their groups, and so they did so with much gusto and not a little irony (for example, the group of kids who had those who tended to bite out of anxiety decided on the Bloodthirsty Cannibals. Ha ha. Funny; unless you are the one getting bitten!!). The names have stuck, and this summer's campers have embraced them in their own sweet ways. :)

I have not posted since June. Amazing... July and August have flown!! I have been teaching, prepping this summer's students and volunteers, and planning the camp. Wow. I have more supports than I had 20 years ago. And I am lucky to have them around me. I thought I would give you today's highlights... then as this week unfolds, give a few other tidbits from last week as well.
and, so, today's highlights....
The five pound poop.... one fella came in looking distressed; allergies, odd gait, moaning a little bit. This young man does not use speech for communication, but he has other effective strategies. After some distressed wandering, he made his way to our sensory room, let out a massive grunt and produced a truly epic shit (odor and volume, if you need the criteria). He is also diapered, so my students were elbow deep in poop as they assisted him in cleaning up and getting changed.
The intrepid hiding man... another fella likes to find small sheltered places to hide... usually he is not actually hiding... we know were he is. Today, he found an excellent hiding place and evaded us for about 10 minutes as we were attempting to load campers on the bus. You know that feeling when you think you have lost your child?? Yeah, that one. Awful. But, we hunted and found him huddled and snickering behind a huge pile of mats. He skipped onto the bus with three or four of us chasing behind.
Another little guy will be attending on Wednesday only (a few glitches with student and volunteers saying they will attend and then not showing up.... sigh) but he called me and my colleague a total of 20 times on our cells.... to confirm his attendance on Wednesday. Likes to dot the i's and cross the t's, this one. We cannot answer, of course... or we will be getting ten times that many calls... OCD is a common co-occurrence with ASD.
Then there was the spectacular nudity scramble in the family change room after swim where another young fella was not happy about something and needed to slam himself into the floor and the walls to get out his rage... and punch a few students in the process. We got his mom in there as fast as we could get her there and then things calmed down....
I could go on... but as you can see, it is thrilling, demanding, absurd, heartbreaking and utterly delightful. Every emotion you can imagine.... every intense moment partnered with a supremely tender one.
More to come.
So much to say about the students and colleagues on this journey with me. They care in ways that go beyond words and deeds... it is the work of the heart. It is my deep privilege to work with them.

Onwards....

Stella

She might as well be real
I hold her in one hand and cradle her with the other
ridiculous, really
a creature who can fly needing cradling
as if that would keep her safe, or grounded
even more ridiculous
she cannot fly
and falling will not hurt her
Stella, the fuzzy- headed stuffed toy Blue Jay.

You gave her to me
"We want you to have Stella," you said
Stella, the Blue Jay Guardian of your retreat
the Muse of your creative process
the fluffy heart beat you carried around for three days
You want me to have her.

I screamed with joy. You saw me. Surrounded me.
I took that heartbeat, honored.
I know what she carries.
This is your bravery and your hope; this is our intimacy.
This is what happens next.

Teaching and Learning Haiku

Twilight pond shimmers

A swan glides between two moons

It is. Reflection

7 Years

this was the day you reached out to me
an act of hope
opens a door
we walked through

this was the day I remembered all the reasons
all the seasons
with and without you

this was the day I re-read all the letters
I knew that I would give them to you
and when you read them
you would know my heart

this was the day I knew my own heart
and trusted the hope you offered
the love we shared
without knowing who or where we were

this was the day
we began
again
and anew

this was the day I became
again
and anew

this story we keep writing
we keep
writing

Dry Date / Snow Day

February 1 is my dry date. It is the day I admitted that I was powerless over alcohol and over the counter/prescription drugs and decided to do something about it besides be aware and pissed off.
No regrets at all. 25 years later, I am clean and sober and I know what that means.
So, since it is now after midnight, and officially February 3, that was slightly more than yesterday. My Dry Date, I mean. Nice day, slept in, did laundry, called family, had coffee with a good friend, watched the Superbowl with a great partner...... the storm began in the evening and dropped about 40 centimeters on us over night and into today. (That's about 20 odd inches, give or take.)
Wind gusts and lake effect. Lovely. But.... it was a snow day!!
Yes, today, February 2, was a Snow day. I have not had one of those in years. I liked it. I shoveled for about 7 hours all told, with some breaks for warming up and resting. Blew my nose about 500 times. Worked all day in a pair of shapeless sweat pants so baggy it looks like I am wearing a diaper and a sweatshirt that did not match the pants. Part way through, neighbour (subject of an earlier post on the Canadian flag.... yeah, that one!!) offers to break out the snow blower from his garage that has not been used to blow anything for two years.... and I forget all about the flag and the insults and the bullshit and say, yes, indeed. Much appreciated. He and his female partner, (also mentioned in that earlier post on the Canadian flag.... yeah, HER!!!) are chatty, friendly, happy to help. Freaking amazing. February snow, I guess. They even took the flag down .... it was ice crunchy and at risk anyway, and why desecrate a flag that way.... but, wow.
The driveways and road way are clear. It looks clean and white and organized. Quiet. My shovels lean against my front porch. I bought totally unhealthy chicken fingers and potato wedges for supper and ate them with partner. Sent a birthday present to my mom. Finished up a thankless task this evening. And mostly felt some pride in the completion. My hands and forearms and shoulders and legs are sore. Time to stop using them.
Snow day. Yay. This has been a damn fine 24 hours.
So grateful I am in a frame of mind to appreciate it.

here is a glimmer of hope......

"when people want to to learn, they will do anything"

eric mazur@eric_mazur