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November 06, 2009
November 04, 2009
They Really Do Come with Instructions
*Photo: Rebekah Pope, From Heartache to Hope series
We're told a lie when our babies are born. It's a lie the doctors tell us. Our grandmothers and mothers tell us. Our neighbors and strangers tell us. They tell us that our "babies don't come with instructions."
I beg to differ.
I think they do.
The instructions are not in a manual. No baby book. They are internal. It's something within us all, male and female. And it's called, simply, intuition.
The problem is that we often can't hear this simple wisdom from within. We can't hear it because we've been taught by our parents, by our culture, by ourselves. Not. To. Listen.
I decided to listen. I thank La Leche League and Attachment Parenting advocates that encouraged me to do so. And I listened again when my toddler was diagnosed with autism. I had to drown out the noise of the cure du jour. Those that accused me of bad parenting because I chose not to strap my child in a chair at a miniature table in the kitchen and drill her in Skinneristic routines. It was hard. But I'd already learned the value of listening. I was rewarded with a knowing that I was doing what was right for my family. My child.
My child came with instructions. I only had to listen. To her. To my heart. To follow it's message has not always been easy. But by getting still. By listening again and again, I've come home. To my center. And to her heart.
Absolutely. No. Regrets.
*I find it amusing and a bit bewildering when I'm often asked if our book, From Heartache to Hope: Middle Tennessee Families Living with Autism--due from the printer in less than one week--has pictures of Grace and myself. The answer is yes and no. A similar version of this photo, above, but with our eyes open, accompanies the inside and cover bio blubs. Otherwise, I am simply the author (and originator and organizer) of the book project. I am the journalist/storyteller for 18 special families. And their pictures, not ours, capture the reader's eye page after page, their stories, not mine tell of the heartache. The hope. And though it is their stories and not mine, it's our story. Together, these 18 families shared pieces of the autism puzzle. It is their pictures and their words that tell the universal autism story.
November 02, 2009
Still
Boone, N.C., area, summer 2009, DeeLeisa-ous Travels.
The years passed. Nearly three decades of them. Pictures were exchanged back when we still exchanged letters. Her only child is grown now. Mine is now a teen. Last I saw her she was at the Southern Festival of Books sitting and listening to a wild woman poet rant on. She looked up at me as I smiled down at her. She, at first, not recognizing me.
My old college chum, Marianne Worthington's been a college professor for a couple decades now. More recently, she's written a book of poems and now edits a literary journal. She emails me each year and asks me to submit to a publication she edits. I never do. But I am sharing here the richness of what she and her co-editors wrote about their new literary journal's title: Still.
"And about our name: 1. we believe that to be a
writer is to learn how to be still,
2. The moonshine still
is one of the stereotypical images of Appalachia, 3. as a culture, Appalachian
has been told for decades that it is disappearing, but we are still here, proud and strong as
ever, and 4. James Still,
author of River of Earth, The Wolfpen Poems, and many other great works, is the
grandfather of modern Appalachian literature and has inspired us all."
October 30, 2009
From the Presses: No Tricks And All Treats!
The creative team of From Heartache to Hope: Middle Tennessee Families Living with Autism didn't get dressed up to go to the printer this week of Halloween, 2009. Yet, hurriedly when we got "the call"-- "come now, quick!" we descended from our respective computer desks, west and north, slogging through messy, gray rain and into downtown. A little anxious we were. But like good chocolate clutched in eager hands, our fears melted quickly when we saw that our talented designer Mary Sweeney and her printing consultant, Scott Gerber, and the printers at Pollock Printing had worked just the right magic.
Relieved, a bit teary-eyed and ready to jump for joy at the site of our stash, from left, that's me, Curly; Mary's son, little Super Hero Patrick; standing behind him be-hatted, Mary; draped in her knit cape, Rebekah Pope, our talented photographer and Tim Fields, as himself, always our gracious publisher.
Our goods approved, we nodded to our printer and the presses--they hummed, they buzzed and they ran. No scares a'tal for our happy creative clan:
WOO-HOO and No BOO! Stayed tuned! We're running fast. And hard. Pant. Pant. Can barely keep up. Don't make us knock on your door, come share in our treat at our Book Launch, Sunday, Nov. 15, 3-5, L. Greer Gallery, Edgehill Village. More events to come and details too. Pull back the drapes, turn on the porch light and keep a watch.
Happy Halloween, Ya'll! And, remember, for Christmas, ho-ho-ho, with our coffee table-style book chock full of stunning black-and-white photography and the moving stories of 18 area families living with autism--with From Heartache to Hope--we've got the goods for all those on your lists so very long!
(Our website is under construction as you read!) Pant. Pant.
October 28, 2009
Sounding Off. Again.
Thanks to Google Alert, I was reminded that I was quoted for an article in Saturday's Tennessean about the state's inadequate counting system for autism incidence. By the time I landed back at my desk and replied to the just discovered email 24 hours after the Tennessean reporter sent it to me, she'd wrapped the story. However, she called me anyway and then, evidently because I didn't let that deter me from colorfully asserting my opinion about the "hideous" state of being next to last in the U.S. in terms of disAbility service offerings--only above Arkansas--she decided to quote and plug me into the story. Thank goodness my daughter's disAbility gave me the largest flag I've ever had and the life-time job of waving it. The issues serves to help me channel my talents and be more focused in my energies.
Here, the story.
October 26, 2009
The Church of The Great Outdoors & Wrapping Fall Break
"The Church of the Big Breakfast." When I was married, Grace's father and I attended a church where that's what a spunky young woman in our Sunday School class referred to as her family of origin's denominational lineage as--"The Church of the Great Big Breakfast."
Yesterday morning, Grace and I attended "The Church of the Great Outdoors." And, I can't think of a better way, for me, to get a spiritual lift, a connection with the Great Creator, a fine tuning of my physical-emotional-spiritual relationship with nature, than our time spent in "The Church of the Great Outdoors."
Our day of worship started with a visit to "The Church of the Great Big Breakfast." It was The Fiance's idea to say Grace over a biscuit-, jam- and ham-ladened table here:
Oh, the man who broke my seven-year record of maintaining my 30-pound Weight Watcher's loss and the subsequent 10-15 pounds I've sported thanks to following his taste buds around the country, the world and into his gourmet kitchen.
I knew I was in trouble on our fall break launch when The Fiance's thrill-seeking taste buds led us to Full Moon Bar-B-Que in Birmingham and then proceeded to sample sumptuous fair in Florida's sunny Gulf Coast:
The Fiance. First bite. The Divine Oyster Po'boy at Stinky's Fish Camp
As our lengthy fall break wrapped up yesterday, I was struck by the contrast of going from this:
to this:
...on the last day of fall break. Our visit to the Church of the Great Outdoors, which also included a hike in one of Nashville's Great Big urban parks and, at the end of the day, a walk amid skyscrapers downtown for a birthday dinner on Second Avenue by the Nashville's Riverfront , to celebrate one of our newly independent young adult friends living with autism.
For Fall Break. For Church of the Great Outdoors. For Friends. For Family. For the Precious Gift of Life...Thank you. I am Grateful. A-men.
October 23, 2009
DeeLeisa-ous Travels: Grayton Beach
All photos copyrighted: Leisa A. Hammett
Pink and gold sunsets on ice-blue, rippled waters beyond white, sugary stretches of sand.
Morning walks to Starbucks followed by sumptuous, hot oatmeal laced with brown sugar; quiche-of-the-day and everything-but-the-kitchen-sink cookies at Hibiscus House.
B&B owner Cheri's daily message board.
The saw grass-bordered and lily-padded blue water bays leading to sandy dunes.
Bud and Alley's $$, the bar at The Southern Cafe, the airstream cupcake lady and, as always, an ode to Modica Market...ala Seaside.
Per-spi-cas-ity's outdoor bazaar--no trip to Seaside complete without a wonder-and-awe browse thru. Sundog Books: wooden tables bearing stacks of crisp pages begging to be devoured by hungry readers. The ambiance and vibe of Seaside. (Even though they did build succumb to greed and build on the waterfront and copycat Watercolors closing in all claustrophobic-like.)
Bike rides down the board walk. (Follow the rules of the road. PLEASE!)
Grayton Beach. A part of Florida still Southern.
Hibiscus House--a niche in "Old Florida." Every corner and cubby a curious find. It works, Cheri. It works.
Stinky's Fish Camp. The "Great Big Salad" with corn, potatoes, green beans and red peppers." Oyster Po'boys with lip-and-finger-licking roumalade. Santa Rosa Beach.
Grayton: we *heart* you. We'll be back.
And, btw: thems be my boots. On my feets. The same ones that went to Costa Rica post rainy season and shoulda gone to Trinidad. They were perfect for beach walking in the chilly October weather, which ranges from lows of mid-40s to highs of barely 60s.
This is an abbreviated DeeLeisa-ous Travels from our mini-Fall Break to Grayton Beach, Fla.
Our travel blog is yet unofficially launched. We have still blogged our
travels, but haven't posted but a few online. This trip the laptop was
in Nashville while we were in Florida. An operation performed, ripped
it's innards and placed them into a new computer home. I'm supposed to
rescue it and take it home later today. Then, I hope. I hope. I hope to
launch DeeLeisa-ous Travels by year's end. Wish me luck.
October 21, 2009
From There to Here
*Fall break, 2009, The Beach with her father.
The Mother's Day Out director predicted that when I left my two-year-old on the first day I'd run to my car with tears streaming. Ummm, more like I ran out into the parking lot, jumped in the air and clicked my heels. Okay. Well, that sentiment was certainly there. I've always reveled in Mommy Independence but I did have a moment of tears welling as I peeked through the open window and saw and heard my tiny toddler happily playing in the miniature kitchen. But, soon thereafter, all hell broke loose. By noon on my first day of twice-a-week six-hour-block Independence, I got a call from the director. Finally. Someone acknowledged that things were not right.
Lodged deep within my intuitive spirit, I knew something was different about Grace at six weeks. She was just too independent and happily self-entertained for an infant. At eight months, I questioned if she might have autism. But, this was 1995. All I and most people knew about autism was head banging, rocking in corners, and Rainman. That wasn't Grace. But the behaviors of isolation, repetition, oddity in movement, sensory seeking began to emerge. By 18 months the social disconnect was so strong I knew for certain something was wrong. But typical of the times, no one listened to parents like myself. Another year passed until the Mother's Day Out director phoned me at noon of that first day. My six hours of Independence ended abruptly. She asked me to come to her office then. Grace was not going to make it an entire day, she said. By the time I had gotten in my car and driven from the parking lot earlier that morning, Grace had turned around and noticed I was gone. A separation anxiety tantrum like none other ensued and persisted. And continued. Followed by characteristics of autistic oddity that the director could not name but knew were off. That day I was referred to Tennessee's Early Intervention Services and began to receive play therapy and then waited. For six l-o-n-g months as the clock for precious early intervention tick tocked. And then, at age 32 months, Vanderbilt Center for Child Development gave us the diagnosis of autism.
Flash forward two years post half-day preschool pasted to a hodge-podge, mish-mashed number of afternoon interventions, and we began Kindergarten. As I drove from the elementary school the first morning a panic overcame me. What was I doing? I'd entrusted my child's safety in the care of strangers. What if a gunman came off the nearby interstate and into the playground? Luckily, I dismissed the thought, not being one much prone to Fear.
We left the nurturing environs two Kindergarten years (one repeat) plus four grades later. And then the hurdle of Middle School came and went. We made that transition with such well executed finesse that High School transition did not illicit any nail biting. There are inconvenient details and typical systemic hassles, but I'm now setting my sights on the horizon of adulthood employment and Grace's own Independence.
But today, I drove the cool car, top down, parked, met her assistant. Grace walked far ahead of us by herself toward her the high school we'd visited weekly all late winter and spring. Parents were forbidden on for this special Freshman Orientation. So, I turned, went back down the steps and swallowed a lump of visceral emotion that was gurgling up from from my core.
On the phone last night, thinking of the week ahead, when school would actually begin, I sighed to The Fiance: "I Hope...They are kind. To her."
And then, as I cradled the phone between my shoulder and ear, I continued folding the perpetual Mount Everest of laundry that resides in my great room corner chair. And I chose to believe that they would.
Searching for unpublished posts, I unearthed this, written about two months back. And now I can say: they have been kind. Far exceeding anything I could have dreamed. And. I am Grateful. Very much so.
October 19, 2009
Journal Snippets
Photo: lyssabee_baby
I'm a Believer. I'm back on the wagon. After a waaayyy too long of a hiatus while trying to figure out how to do this high school thing: get up at 5:30 and out the door at 6:30. An hour round trip commute and then repeat at 1:30. Woo! My practices went out the window. I shoved them back in this week. Damnit! Not to mention that it's been book-book-ALL-ABOUT-THE- BOOK ALL MONTH LONG!
...I'm back to Journaling, Yoga, Affirmations/Visualizations, Gratitude List and maybe a quick hand weights routine thrown in. The walking has to be fit in somewhere and it's being fit in. Reduced, but never stopped. Twice I canceled the 30 minutes with the gym trainer. Going to the gym was going to replace my practices and I decided keeping balance was more important than a tauter bod--and all the other benefits of weight training. I had to weigh (no pun intended) benefits against benefits. (Thank you, Anna.)
In the meanstime (sic) I've been reading one of my favorite blogs and one of her favorite blogs, which is also becoming mine. They're also writing about journaling and giving me, though I've done this since I was 17, some great tips.
So, this morning, I saw how the last two of my three pages became a stream of conscious list that dissolved into one word per line that I thought I'd share:
"I do not have to live with these feelings -- they are lies I am telling myself!
THAT just helped me disconnect just then...
Sabotage
Saboteur
Salad" (I listed my vision for eating well today)
"PB & cranberries
pain-Dee-talk
cereal
kefir
Ruth-concerned
to-do
yoga
Believe
What's next.
Know.
Confidence
Hope.
love
Compassion.
Self nuture
love
Patience." (I'm talking about myself here...again)
Time.
Beauty.
What this day will look like."
