Leisa A. Hammett

The Care and Feeding of a Parent

Photo: EssjayNZ is back in NZ

Per boyfriend legend, Glenn was a nutty one. Meeting up with him 10 years post breakup was chance. I was then married, he, still single. Our destination: Ohio, where neither of us lived. I was on a story assignment, he, on a business trip. And, he was still nutty. I never forgot from that brief meeting how he described his "aging" father. Glenn and I were just barely 30. His father, 60. Mine was nearly 70. Sixty, I knew, was spring chick material. I remembered Glenn's father handsome and robust. Like father, like son. But, Glenn insisted how infantile-like his father was and shared the things he had to help his father with -- like assisting a little child.

Nutty Glenn came to mind during the recent Father's Day weekend. Not because I was back in one of the locations of our brief college courtship.  Instead, I recalled Glenn because of how he described his father during our last meeting.  However inaccurate I judged Glenn's assessment of his father -- it had become my view of my father. And how ironic and surreal it all felt.

Father's Day weekend, my father's Parkinson's shuffle made his commute from our dinner table to sofa painstakingly long, with at least two siblings on either side of him, insuring his safety so he would not fall -- like a toddler learning to walk. However, unlike a toddler, there would be no running to follow. This was life being lived in reverse. Later, my sister and I took him "home," to his assisted living facility. I turned my head and stared at the wall as my sister helped him toilet and dressed him in his pajamas. This was not a toddler learning essential independent self-help skills. This was a grown man, losing his essential skills.

And, like a child, we pulled the covers up to his chin. A child that sprouted beard stubble. We kissed him goodnight, not knowing what he'd be like in mind and body the next time we would see him. Reverse was a direction we'd come to expect in him since my mother's death a mere six months ago.  Before we finished saying our last goodnight and I love you's, his eyes had already closed. Briefly, they fluttered opened long enough for his weak, tremble-ly voice to pathetically echo our goodbyes.

My head is trying to wrap itself around this cycle of life....A cycle that begins in infancy and, in this and many other cases, returns to an infantile state. And, of course, there's the irony that this is the same parent who once performed all of these tasks with my own self and my siblings. The roles. Have reversed.

Four-Word Love Stories

 

Me and Beloved, 2007, WildSpring, Port Orford, Ore.

The book, Six-Word Memoirs on Love & Heartbreak asked people to sum up their romantic lives in a mere six words. (This is another inspiring find from my social media site client, which I help moderate.) Only, I read it as four words (Doh!) and quickly composed these: 

Learning to REALLY Love.

Listening + Compassion = Love (That would be five if I used words instead of symbols. Getting closer!)

*"Work" done 4 U (*Work, as in I've done my "work" so that I can be my best for you. Work as in personal growth.)

Oh, and about heartbreaks....This one's the correct six-word quota! Ding!Ding!Ding!:

If I Choose, heartbreaks can Strengthen.

You? What are your four, or five OR six word love stories?

A Buddhist Forecast

Photo: Wrote

It. Is. H-O-T...hot. Here. Whew!Drrrip! Wipe.

About 15 years ago, I used to have a neighbor I'd meet out on walks. If it was hot she'd complain. If it was cold she'd complain. Thanks to my neighbor, I've decided to be Buddhist at least when it comes to weather. A Buddhist would say feel it. If it's hot, just feel it. Observe it. And that's what I try to do. 

Ever stop and think about the many ways we feel summer heat? Steamy humidity that wafts in visible clouds before it engulfs. Heat trapped in an airtight car that seems to momentarily suck the air from one's lungs. The penetrating suns rays that within minutes of stepping beneath it feels as if it's searing our skin.

I figure there's enough negativity in this life. I Choose not to add to it by complaining about something I cannot change. So, when it comes to the forecast, I have a Buddhist kinda attitude about the weather. It makes accepting the conditions a lot easier. I no longer "suffer" from the persecution of my thoughts over how bad it feels. I just feel it. It works. For me.

Piss on Pity

Thenthdegree.com

It used to hang in one of the women's restrooms of the Tennessee Disability Coalition. It was a poster with photographs capturing protest demonstrators who use wheelchairs. Stamped on the corner was the classic circle with a slash atop the words: "Piss on Pity."

I remembered these words as I tried to sort through my feelings after a dinner party at my fiance's last weekend.  A well-meaning friend of his told me several times he had no idea the difficulties I experienced in my daily life with my daughter who has autism, so just for the record, he assured he  "didn't judge me."  Context: this friend is a physician and my fiance has talked to him often about some of my alternative health-care choices for my daughter. The third time our guest said this, I told him that I did not look at my life as trouble-filled nor through the lens of a deficit model and when he said those words, it gave me the impression that he thought I did....I don't think he heard me.

I bless his attempts to be affirming and supportive. But here's one thing that people who don't live in the world of disAbility miss. Most of us, the emotionally viable amongst us, don't want pity. We don't want you to feel sorry for us.  Presumably "joining" me in my trials and tribulations is not supportive. You can listen. You can ask what you can do to help.  But please do not assume I am crying in my beer. That I feel sorry for myself. And, please do not offer me your pity. Pity will not help empower me.

Instead, try compassion. Understanding. Tolerance. And celebrate with me the Goodness I feel and see in my Journey. That will do.

Piss. On. Pity!

Nomad Photography

 

Photo: "Gloria," Stacey Irvin

In the Spring of 2008, Nashville photographer Stacey Irvin traveled to the indigenous village of San Bernardo, Ecuador. There, she became up close and personal, both as a sister human being and a photographer, with the members of this close-knit hard-working community of subsistence farmers. 

Life is difficult there. And, home, livestock and crops literally cling to the steep green slopes of the surrounding mountains.  Despite the many hardships endured by villagers, Irvin was inspired by their  joyful spirit. It is a spirit fed by deep devotion of family, community, faith and an intimate connection to the land. An exhibit, "Indigenous Connections: Life in San Bernardo, Ecuador," shows all this month, with a reception, Tuesday, July 14,  5-8 p.m., at the Leu Center for the Visual Arts at Belmont University here in Nashville.

Recently, I featured the work of artist and art activist Andee Rudloff. Stacey and Andee are partners in a freelance graphic and web design company, ChicNomad. I knew Stacey shared a passion for art and the same wacky humor as Andee, in addition to an exceptional talent for inspiring photography.  But, not until recently did I realize the extent of Stacey's impressive portfolio, www.Photonomad.com. It's one that includes human interest subjects in Kenya, Montana, China and other parts of Asia.

So, I'm moved to share this art with you readers today. Take a peek here or see some of the show's images. Be inspired. Moved. Touched. And, according to Stacey's website, she's available for hire to capture human interests worldwide via her gifted lens. Bravo. For me, a talent more deeply discovered.

Alterna-Mom

 

Photo: garryknight

"Alterna-Mom....One of my freelance clients is our local paper's social media site. I'm a paid moderator there. On the site the other day, I noticed that one of the groups, called "Alterna-Mom," had a thread posing the question: "Why are you an Alterna-mom?" Here's my response:

I didn't marry until I was 27. (And that, for me, was too young.) I didn't have a child until I was 34. I have an only. I aimed for natural childbirth. (Two weeks overdue, breech, never went into labor, had a C-section instead.) I wanted a midwife. Believe it or not the hospitals didn't allow it here in 1994, except for the public version serving mostly indigent women. Docs couldn't make any cash there. Let the midwives do their thing there. Grrrr.) I breastfed for 29 months. I was a member of La Leche League. I was an attachment parenting groupie. I don't echo the wish that babies come with instructions. I believe they do: it's called your gut. Mothering/parenting instinct.

I have a child with a disAbilty. I didn't do autism parenting the way my peers did. I enrolled my daughter in "weird things" like art, movement, dance and music therapy. (In addition to the fundamental types of intervention.) Again, I trusted my gut.

I'm a Democrat. I've protested. I've marched. I've done yoga for 20 years. I meditate, journal, say affirmations, do a gratitude list, all daily. I am a universalist -- I honor all spiritual traditions. I'm a writer. I'm an artist. I have curly hair. (Ha!)

I've always been different. I think outside the box so much that I cannot think inside the box enough to score my correct intelligence on those damn scholastic tests. Oh, and I cuss. Sometimes. I embrace difference. I take up for the underdog. Always have. And, I've always waved some kind of flag. My daughter's autism gave me the biggest I've ever waved.

How's that? Alternative enough?

A Very Special Family

"Special" cousins Christopher Garrison and Grace Goad at the 2006 Walker Family Reunion

With humble apologies to all the adults with disAbilities who detest the term "special needs," we parents and others often refer to our children with disAbilities as "special." Yes, I get why it's not acceptable to some to say that. Indulge me here? Because of two special children, I think our family is also special.

The recent Father's Day Weekend found us in South Carolina, joining our multitude of cousins -- four living generations of "Papa" Walker. Wayne is my oldest cousin and the first-born grandchild of Papa.  As the daughter of the next to youngest sibling, I was the youngest grandchild. Both Wayne and I have children who are special needs.  Chris, 19, has Down syndrome and Grace, my daughter, is 15 and has autism. But, this post is not so much about Chris and Grace as it is about their special cousins.

As we maneuvered our way around the reunion's picnic buffet and, afterwards, donned our life jackets before boarding See-Doo's, boats and the tubes attached to them, I watched how my younger adult cousins interacted with Chris, in particular. Dan and Ben, handsome young Citadel graduates, among others, were so kind to lend a hand, to give a high-five, to make sure an extra kindness was extended a young man who is their contemporary (or a little younger) in age but in many respects will lead a very different life than themselves. It made me -- the youngest grandchild, yet old enough, really, to be these young men's own mama -- feel all fuzzy inside and little bit watery in the eyes.

So, while some adults with disAbilities don't want to be singled out as "special," I'm choosing here to single out the youth of the Walker family who demonstrate what a special family looks like.  Those who smile and take the time to show the love to their "special cousins" along with the rest. As a "special parent," I never, ever take such kindness for granted. Never.

Happy Art

Cake by Andee Rudloff

Art can be soulfully contemplative. It can ooze with dire angst. Or, in the case of Nashville art activist Andee Rudloff, it can smack you square in the heart with happiness.

Going, gone too soon will be the deliciously, happy and screaming saccharin-colored sweet food stuff (see above) Andee has exhibited through the end of the month at the Green Hills Whole Foods.*

And this would describe Andee. Well, not the saccharin part. But the happy part. And the largeness of her work is indicative of her time, talent and passion when it comes to helping others with artistic causes. A generous 50 percent of the sales of Andee's work for this show benefit the Whole Foods Whole Planet Foundation.

Originally from Bowling Green, Ky., Andee is also a muralist and serves at the educator for outreach at the Frist Center for Visual Arts here in Nashville. She is also formerly the curator of the Arts at the Airport Foundation. That cool art you see when you breeze by en route to your gate. 

Holding true to the belief that we should never take a second for granted, one rarely sees Andee standing still, but always in constant motion. I've left out numerous achievements of hers here, but wanted to note what promises to be a fabulous show of some equally colorful Nashville Artists.  Don Evans, Myles Mallie, Brandon Donahue, Keith Harmon and Ellen Stevens are in an exhibition, "My Magic Cape," curated by Andee for Tinney Contemporary July 18 -- August 1st. (I last wrote about Tinney Contemporary here.)

*Apologies to Andee and my Nashville readers. Andee and I had a Mac vs PC war (yes, I still use a PC) and were unable to share the above image during many initial attempts, causing me to miss my writing window to craft this piece until now. But, you can see it and more for three more days, including the rest of today!

The Never-Neverland of Comparison

 

Photo: seier+seier+seier

"What are YOU doing here?" It wasn't the first time I'd had an evil glare aimed at me in the line at Weight Watchers. Last time it happened I must've been suffering from an aggressive case of PMS. Because I WAS aggressive with the woman who dared as to ask the question with disdain. She turned to leave as soon as she jousted the question my way, stepping off the scale, folding up her weigh-in book and proceeding to leave the Y before our little weekly meeting started. "WAIT!" I said to her loudly, causing her to spin around and look at me with an expression of surprise. "I'm not letting you get away with that comment!"

I lifted my shirt several inches and inadvertently pushed my yoga pants down so low that my Victoria's Secrets were showing. "That's nothing," a couple other women piped in. "Listen, you guys," I lectured them. "This is not about comparing ourselves to each other. We are each on a personal journey here and whatever you have to lose -- 100 pounds or 16...I've seen members over the last nine years attend faithfully to lose both numbers -- it's about YOU! Not anyone else's numbers! We're here to support one another. Not compare ourselves." (Do not mess with me during a bout of PMS. I'm warnin' ya.)

It's a lesson (not the PMS...the comparing) that I learned well during my autism journey...which is what launched me into Weight Watchers the first time. Thirty pounds of self-nurture in the form of food post diagnosis. After five years of yo-yo-ing, fretting and schlepping it around, I finally swallowed hard and joined a group. I lost the weight, mastered some great tools, made some great friends that are still friends today. And, I kept off the weight for eight years until I met my gourmet fiance two years ago.  Since January, I've been hell-bent (most of the time) in losing the 15 I carelessly gained back. (About five now to go. And then it's all about the long-term maintenance.)

Back to the lesson. It's true, we can always find someone who has circumstances more dire-seeming than our own -- or less so. But it's about you. It's about me. If it's yours, it yours. If it's mine, it's mine. No Ifs, Ands or Buts. Regardless if it's pain (physical or emotional), disAbility or weight loss. It's about the journey. Your journey. Comparison can be toxic and a major trip up. Feel what you need to feel. Then find a route to maneuver your way out. And beware of comparisons. (And curly-headed blondes with PMS.)

Ahem. Rant over.

The Curse of Consumerism

Photo: ilkerender

One of the greatest gifts of being a journalist is the opportunity to learn another human's story.  Of course, there's the challenge of doing it justice through one's words. And this intense summer of writing, I'm grappling with that everyday in my current book project, From Heartache to Hope: Middle Tennessee Families Living with Autism. There's this unexpected blessing sometimes of taking away a conversation, an impression that changes a writer forever. And Saturday before last I savored this gift...as I did laundry.

The crunch for time is so palpable for me right now, I've forgone my semi-annual day-long fall-winter to spring-summer closet swap ritual. This year, the shoes will not be polished before they are stored in boxes until fall, which comes kinda late around here in terms of temperatures. As a result, my closet floor is jammed with Birkenstock sandals competing for space with red and black cowboy boots. Over a couple of weeks, as I've put up the daily laundry, (the stuff that gets washed daily and then sits in a chair until I fold it a couple times a week while drooling over Anderson Cooper,) I've made the swap from one closet to the next. And, now, I'm working on Saturday again here as I write. I decided I could manage sticking my non-wool sweaters for a spin in the dryer with one of those magic sheets that do the job, so it's reputed, of a professional dry cleaner. I culled the wool sweaters and put them in a bin for a trip to the cleaners. And the only reason I was this ambitious was that I was trying to find a little black slinky jacket that's gone missing. 

Hanging the freshly steamed sweaters -- oops: note to self no more red sweaters Dryel-ed with brown, black and gray sweaters -- I noticed that my sweaters needed a "shave." From the friction, they have some little bally things on the edges. And something from somewhere is leaving these tiny small white pieces of itself on the sweaters. And that, too, needs to be shaken off and tape rolled. Maintenance! This is just the affirmation I need to keep me from going out and buying new clothes with the birthday money I was gifted. I really don't need any more!

And that's when I remembered Ted. I featured Ted Purcell in an "Earthkeepers" series I did with my buddy writer-editor-photographer Bill Bangham for the now defunct MissionsUSA magazine back during our society's second and then forgotten wave of environmental awareness (in the 90s). (Too bad we forgot.) Ted left his post as North Carolina State University campus minister to pursue a bivocation in spiritual ecology. At the time I interviewed him he was also the part time campus minister at Duke University.

I've never forgotten the personal anguish and struggle Ted shared with me about the hamster wheel of consumerism. A much more frugal human than myself, he explained that he purchased two pairs of shoes a year. (Imelda -- hold on.) One pair of Birkenstocks for the summer and a pair of sturdy hiking books for the rest of the year.  Even with his paired down lifestyle, he talked about the psychic energy expended to fork over the cash for good shoes and then in the back of his mind be concerned about their upkeep. Get it?  I do. I've got these sweaters. Too many of them. (Yes, I cull and give to charity many times a year.) And then the energy I must expend on getting them to "look right," to maintain them. It's like an emotional poverty of consumerism. And I think about it every time I buy a new pair of shoes, or a new purse. And frankly, I think it's a good thing to think about.  And to continually question my/ourselves about. What do we really need? What is the cost of it in terms of personal energy? Not to mention the fuel it consumed to get to the store and then to my home, not to mention how it may have been produced, what it was produced of and who produced it under what conditions.

I don't believe in wearing sack cloth and ashes to identify with the poor or necessarily doing without for the sake of Mother Earth. But, I think it is Good to be Aware of our Choices.  If we are not Aware...then we are asleep. I'd rather be Awake with Consciousness than asleep to the Consequences of my Choices.  You?