living on both ends - an exploration of best and worst

myths and truths

WORST- A time of work, a time of rest. My life has become more active as I work to prepare Sojourn for market. It is hard to escape the comparative voice in my head and heart of what the old Anj could accomplish (high-energy, quick moving) and what the new Anj gets done. For me, part of integrity is living in the reality of what is, instead of the myth. I still have the capacity to be quite productive, it simply looks a lot different than it used to.

In the long term, I may find that the new way is much more productive than the old. It may be the old truth told time and time again in the story of the tortoise vs the hare.

softness and desirability

BEST- Two walks. The pups and I were out for two walks yesterday. One in the morning, in my effort to ease the stiffness in my ankles and dull ache in my knees, and one in the evening, as dusk fell and the air grew soft. The dogs were attentive to the shadows and the difference in the route because of the difference in light.

That envelope of darkness, of rest, has always seemed to me to be soft. A desirable time. I often forget to be aware and take delight in the blessing of another day ending, the cycle start of the following sunrise and new beginnings.

Full circle

I call my middle son, the high school senior and soon to be 18 year old, the bear. I'm not sure why, although he did have a stuffed baby bear when he was little. But his truest love when he was a toddler was a video. And one day as his older brother rocked his big bear named Tooker, the middle brother did not fetch his baby bear but this video and sat and rocked it. It is a small illustration – the young lad, rocking his video – of the peripheral aspects of what it might mean to raise a son with Asperger's Syndrome. High functioning, sharp as a tack and obtuse to anything relational. I could tell of the struggles to implant memories within his brain, to teach him to reference others, to move into the awareness of what it means in our world to process differently, to accept non-neuro typicalness and to try to learn a second language of how most others think and relate. The tears, the melt downs, the loneliness, the aches. The gradual coming to acceptance.

Four months ago at 11:30 one night, my phone buzzed, letting me know I had a new text. I found my glasses, picked up the phone, and read – I just want you to know I love you.

What's up bear? I texted back.

Well a friend is kinda open about having Asperger's and I got curious and looked it up online. I used to have like every symptom. All that shit you did with me when I was a kid was to help, and it did. Im just realizing now how lucky i am.

You've come a long way. You've learned how to be you in a foreign world.

I think so too. I mean its not perfect but I'm still working on it. But I dunno all the things I remember about myself that were little quirks were symptoms. And thanks mom just thanks.

You're welcome. I love you.

Thanks more. I think im on my own path now and I can handle it, but I owe you so much.

I can't remember what I replied to this text, although you can surely understand why I have his texts locked on my phone and hidden in my heart.

I dunno I could never just accept what it really meant. I just wanted to let you know I realize the truth now, and im grateful.

The beauty about texting is you can have a conversation with another, listen fully, and be totally in tears the whole time. Without the need to lessen the force of one's passion or worry about negatively impacting your son who struggles with Asperger's Syndrome. I'm sure he knew I was in tears, I doubt he understands how telling it was that he picked a medium to communicate with me that fits who he is, and how he relates best.

This year has been a slow good-bye. Good-bye to where we have lived the last eight years, and good-bye to the little boy who could not look at my furious face and understand I was angry, who could not bear my loving touch when he was over stimulated, who set as his goal for his high school years to conquer the world of social interactions and who accomplished that goal with such panache that he was asked to four high school proms. Yes, he still monologues to me in our kitchen, but now he knows and acknowledges with a wry smile his monologues, his obtuseness. His hugs are still a bit stiff, and I sense the realness as he offers them.

It is a rare precious gift that I have been given with his honesty and his truth. I am so pleased with the man he is becoming.