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Have you ever studied and learned a foreign language? Have you ever heard the Biblical story of how the languages were originally divided? That sure would have been a day of confusion and frustration! You don't have to believe our "tongues" were divided that way (I do and I'm curious to hear how you think we all just stopped communicating) but the fact remains that people speak a lot of languages.
How many would you guess? 57? 175? 732? How about 6809? Yea, really. There aren't even that many nations, and do you know how many of those there are? Forget it, I'll tell you. There are 195. Go ahead - name 30. Ha! (There's legal squabbling over 3, but let's just say 195.) Seriously. No wonder we can't communicate with one another. And yes, the language # includes dialects, tribal differences, etc., which indeed do separate us.
Have you ever wondered why your spouse or your boss or your parents just don't get what you're trying to say? It almost makes more sense to doubt that anyone would ever understand anyone! And indeed, we can speak the same language, and still not have any idea what even a family member is talking about, right?
So, to my point. My son and I both speak English, but he speaks it from an autistic brain that has an IQ in the stratosphere. Yes, he uses words, phrases, ideas and perceptions that would never occur to me. Only recently (after 22 clueless years) have I realized that I'm the one who has to learn the new language.
And it's working. Yes, I still stand by clueless and dopey a lot of the time, Sam looking at me with disgust as I say, "Huh? I don't understand you." (Well, duh.) But more and more I AM getting it. I'm on alert all the time to interpret the words that I now know are not what they seem to mean. He's not talking to a toddler, and he doesn't fill his sentences with explanations of his meaning. He just speaks, albeit in his unusual way. And it's beginning to make sense to me as it never has.
I still blow it and he still gets mad at me for being a dope, but the communication is growing. And equally important, I remember that this whole thing works both ways. I have to be more careful in what I say to him also, never assuming he gets what is meant, and no longer assuming he is rude, or dismissive or angry when he is not. We just speak two different languages, that's all.
While that's probably true for most parents and sons, for the autistic, it takes on far greater meaning. I will never assume he is not bright enough, or experienced enough to "get it." He is. Though autism can be a disability, Asperger's can be a blessing, in that it can give the person a huge advantage of intelligence and perception that the rest of us can only dream of. Sam's ability to see things clearly and understand things I don't get has always amazed me. It also amazes me that he can be so clueless.
It's all part of the package, and it's why we have to communicate so differently. He lives in the world of autism, and sees the rest of us as maybe a bit odd or hard to understand. I live in the world of ?? normal? yet see Sam as maybe normal in his own way. Thank God I've learned that I'm not the standard for humanity, that Sam doesn't have to learn to think like I do. How much richer his life will be as he continues to see through the eyes God gave him, to think with the brain God gave him, to be the man that God made him.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Old Lady Up the Street
Do you remember the old lady up the street? She was either your Mom's age, or your aunt's. Wait, she might have been closer to your grandmother. You know, another generation, one who lived through wars and history you've read about in books. Even now, though you're grown yourself, she's someone of another time, another era. Past her prime, so to speak.
She had white hair, almost never wore shorts, worked in her lovely little garden. Probably had doilies on her coffee table. And Canada Pink Wintergreen Mints. You'd see her walking around or puttering in her yard, but the thought of inviting her over, or visiting her for anything other than fund raising (she was always ready to support the schools or your charity) or to ask, "Have you seen our dog?" never occurred to you. Nothing against her; you just wouldn't have anything to talk about.
You're busy working, raising your kids, doing tons of laundry, making meals, volunteering at school or church, reading bedtime stories, cleaning the house, going to meetings, playing sports with the guys, living life in America. The old lady up the street is so yesterday, not even on your radar. You do wave occasionally, but when she passes on, you'll probably just send a card, or maybe attend the funeral. She was nice, as far as you knew, but the loss won't be personal. She wasn't really in your life. You never really knew her.
Did you know she liked to laugh hard most every day? Her husband often shook his head and smiled in amazement at her silly ways and goofy antics, so much like her own Mom. She loved sarcasm and irony, and those who used it well. Though not a gutter mouth in any way, her sometimes risque words could set people aback, coming from her mouth. She also could swear a blue streak when provoked, though not often, but she usually managed to control it. Yet from that same heart and mouth came wonderful prayers and praise, fully believed.
She knew she talked too much, so sometimes she'd just write down her thoughts to keep them private, but not forgotten. She'd express her rage, her sorrows, her hopes, her regrets, but no one read them. But still, she laughed at it all.
And she grew old. And she grew braver. And she grew stronger. She decided that it was time to stop keeping it all inside, so she wrote a book. Maybe someone would read it.
Since her hair began to turn white at age 19, she never dyed it. Men clearly thought it was sexy on a young woman, so it stayed till she grew into it. A good judge of female anatomy, she decided her own legs were a C-, so she stuck to longer pants, only revealing the good parts. And at 60, she knew she still had amazingly good parts. Men were still trying to "pick her up" in her mid fifties. She knew how to grow things, gardening like the pro her father had taught her to be. And her own coffee table? She rarely even dusted it.
For now, she watches the kids in the neighborhood grow up, sometimes praying for what she suspects they'll need in life. She waves at and speaks to the neighbors when she sees them. She truly likes them, and has no regrets that she's not in their lives. They're so young; they have life to live. They'll be fine without her.
But she recalls the old ladies from her past, all those old "boring" women whom she ignored in her own youth. "They're old!" "They're boring!" "What could they teach me that matters?" What a sad loss. So much she could have learned.
She still likes those pink Canada mints, but hasn't had one in years. Maybe someone will set out a bowl at her funeral.
She had white hair, almost never wore shorts, worked in her lovely little garden. Probably had doilies on her coffee table. And Canada Pink Wintergreen Mints. You'd see her walking around or puttering in her yard, but the thought of inviting her over, or visiting her for anything other than fund raising (she was always ready to support the schools or your charity) or to ask, "Have you seen our dog?" never occurred to you. Nothing against her; you just wouldn't have anything to talk about.
You're busy working, raising your kids, doing tons of laundry, making meals, volunteering at school or church, reading bedtime stories, cleaning the house, going to meetings, playing sports with the guys, living life in America. The old lady up the street is so yesterday, not even on your radar. You do wave occasionally, but when she passes on, you'll probably just send a card, or maybe attend the funeral. She was nice, as far as you knew, but the loss won't be personal. She wasn't really in your life. You never really knew her.
Did you know she liked to laugh hard most every day? Her husband often shook his head and smiled in amazement at her silly ways and goofy antics, so much like her own Mom. She loved sarcasm and irony, and those who used it well. Though not a gutter mouth in any way, her sometimes risque words could set people aback, coming from her mouth. She also could swear a blue streak when provoked, though not often, but she usually managed to control it. Yet from that same heart and mouth came wonderful prayers and praise, fully believed.
She knew she talked too much, so sometimes she'd just write down her thoughts to keep them private, but not forgotten. She'd express her rage, her sorrows, her hopes, her regrets, but no one read them. But still, she laughed at it all.
And she grew old. And she grew braver. And she grew stronger. She decided that it was time to stop keeping it all inside, so she wrote a book. Maybe someone would read it.
Since her hair began to turn white at age 19, she never dyed it. Men clearly thought it was sexy on a young woman, so it stayed till she grew into it. A good judge of female anatomy, she decided her own legs were a C-, so she stuck to longer pants, only revealing the good parts. And at 60, she knew she still had amazingly good parts. Men were still trying to "pick her up" in her mid fifties. She knew how to grow things, gardening like the pro her father had taught her to be. And her own coffee table? She rarely even dusted it.
For now, she watches the kids in the neighborhood grow up, sometimes praying for what she suspects they'll need in life. She waves at and speaks to the neighbors when she sees them. She truly likes them, and has no regrets that she's not in their lives. They're so young; they have life to live. They'll be fine without her.
But she recalls the old ladies from her past, all those old "boring" women whom she ignored in her own youth. "They're old!" "They're boring!" "What could they teach me that matters?" What a sad loss. So much she could have learned.
She still likes those pink Canada mints, but hasn't had one in years. Maybe someone will set out a bowl at her funeral.
Friday, September 10, 2010
My Mickey Mantle
My almost fifteen year old potting bench is now sitting in my one day old greenhouse. Can you see me grinning from ear to ear? I TOLD you I was excited. Actually, three more window panels go in today, but it's ready to use.
Five small pots of tiny Red Lace Leaf Japanese Maple trees go in today. (I have to write that down to even remember the name.) No ordinary Maple trees here! Anyway, my specimen tree out front, from the yard of a now deceased neighbor from Steve's childhood, is the glory of my front yard. At close to 7' tall and quite lush, I must prune and shape it every Spring. It also rarely produces seeds, so this is a wonder to be made use of. I want my gardener friends to have one of these glorious trees also, and now that's possible. Oh, Dad, you would be so proud and happy to visit here right now to help me set this up. I sure could use your wisdom, but I'll be fine.
I feel like a five year old. I keep going to the window to look out and see that my playhouse, I mean, my greenhouse is still really there. Do you understand this? I'm like a man whose childhood dream was to get a baseball signed by Mickey Mantle, then sees it happen at age 60. Life might be happy and satisfying, but the surprise joys of youth are certainly not expected, or even hoped for at this age. This is an unexpected crocus in the winter of my life. Not the cold, dreary, fading winter. The crisp, bright, and glorious winter!
Okay, fine. I'll calm down. I'll have a glorious year with my greenhouse, maybe two or three. It's good to have little things to plan and dream of doing in it. My days can be richer with this outward focus. Maybe my children with their usual "I-don't-want-to-be-outside-there-are-BUGS-out-there" attitude will find some pleasure in it too. If not, they can watch me be a kid again.
Thank you Steve. It was not easy to construct, and yes, at 62, it was quite a tedious chore for you, but you did it for me. And it was your own idea. That means more than anything.
Five small pots of tiny Red Lace Leaf Japanese Maple trees go in today. (I have to write that down to even remember the name.) No ordinary Maple trees here! Anyway, my specimen tree out front, from the yard of a now deceased neighbor from Steve's childhood, is the glory of my front yard. At close to 7' tall and quite lush, I must prune and shape it every Spring. It also rarely produces seeds, so this is a wonder to be made use of. I want my gardener friends to have one of these glorious trees also, and now that's possible. Oh, Dad, you would be so proud and happy to visit here right now to help me set this up. I sure could use your wisdom, but I'll be fine.
I feel like a five year old. I keep going to the window to look out and see that my playhouse, I mean, my greenhouse is still really there. Do you understand this? I'm like a man whose childhood dream was to get a baseball signed by Mickey Mantle, then sees it happen at age 60. Life might be happy and satisfying, but the surprise joys of youth are certainly not expected, or even hoped for at this age. This is an unexpected crocus in the winter of my life. Not the cold, dreary, fading winter. The crisp, bright, and glorious winter!
Okay, fine. I'll calm down. I'll have a glorious year with my greenhouse, maybe two or three. It's good to have little things to plan and dream of doing in it. My days can be richer with this outward focus. Maybe my children with their usual "I-don't-want-to-be-outside-there-are-BUGS-out-there" attitude will find some pleasure in it too. If not, they can watch me be a kid again.
Thank you Steve. It was not easy to construct, and yes, at 62, it was quite a tedious chore for you, but you did it for me. And it was your own idea. That means more than anything.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Huey
OKAY! I did it! I made four perfect curtains. Well, they look somewhat similar from across the room, and are hanging up in our bedroom. (They aren't supposed to all be the same length, are they?) There's one to go which will be a balloon shade, I hope. I even got material to make some place mats. Sewing in a straight line is my forte. No curves, no wavy lines, no errors. Sounds like baseball.
After running back and forth every thirty minutes all day from one side yard to the other side yard, taking measurement of how much sun is in each, I have decided where to put my greenhouse: in one of the side yards. Living on a wonderfully shaded and cool lot is great, until planning where to put my new greenhouse. It finally occurred to me that the sun on the ground is NOT the same as the sun would be up on a table, where the plants will be. I have to figure it out by tomorrow, since Steve is laying the base then. I'll sleep on it.
We walked down to the river today. We used to do it often, but of late, have done it rarely. I'm stronger now, so we hope to do it more. It's been cool and beautiful so it was a lovely treat this time, and the walk felt great.
We pass a house near the end of our walk where a man has lived for years. Huey would have been a homeless bum, but his brother chose to care for him into old age. We first saw Huey years ago, walking and carrying his trash bags. He was odd, in that he had ears as big as his hands, spoke occasional real words but usually just gibberish, never bathed unless forced to, and collected empty soda and beer cans to sell to the dump. He sat in a lawn chair most days, unless he was out scrounging for cans. He was what we now call "mentally challenged," or a "bum" who had a home.
Huey's brother cared for him into old age. Then his brother died, then his sister-in-law, also elderly, cared for him. We'd walk by the house and Huey loved to ask Steve about the Redskins, or the local blue grass festival. He was very hard to understand, but we tried.
Today we walked by and there was a simple note on a lawn chair, a black ribbon tied to the corner. Huey died. I cannot tell you how sad this made us. We just stood there for a long time. We didn't see the note in time to attend the funeral. That almost made me cry.
I know how to sew a little, and I know how to garden. Huey didn't know much, except walking and smiling. I wonder what Huey knew about God. I'm sure God knew Huey.
After running back and forth every thirty minutes all day from one side yard to the other side yard, taking measurement of how much sun is in each, I have decided where to put my greenhouse: in one of the side yards. Living on a wonderfully shaded and cool lot is great, until planning where to put my new greenhouse. It finally occurred to me that the sun on the ground is NOT the same as the sun would be up on a table, where the plants will be. I have to figure it out by tomorrow, since Steve is laying the base then. I'll sleep on it.
We walked down to the river today. We used to do it often, but of late, have done it rarely. I'm stronger now, so we hope to do it more. It's been cool and beautiful so it was a lovely treat this time, and the walk felt great.
We pass a house near the end of our walk where a man has lived for years. Huey would have been a homeless bum, but his brother chose to care for him into old age. We first saw Huey years ago, walking and carrying his trash bags. He was odd, in that he had ears as big as his hands, spoke occasional real words but usually just gibberish, never bathed unless forced to, and collected empty soda and beer cans to sell to the dump. He sat in a lawn chair most days, unless he was out scrounging for cans. He was what we now call "mentally challenged," or a "bum" who had a home.
Huey's brother cared for him into old age. Then his brother died, then his sister-in-law, also elderly, cared for him. We'd walk by the house and Huey loved to ask Steve about the Redskins, or the local blue grass festival. He was very hard to understand, but we tried.
Today we walked by and there was a simple note on a lawn chair, a black ribbon tied to the corner. Huey died. I cannot tell you how sad this made us. We just stood there for a long time. We didn't see the note in time to attend the funeral. That almost made me cry.
I know how to sew a little, and I know how to garden. Huey didn't know much, except walking and smiling. I wonder what Huey knew about God. I'm sure God knew Huey.
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