More about SPD, Autistic Spectrum and Impro

 

I Knew What I Was Getting Into
on Misty Edwards' "Joy (Live)" album
From Beanscot's YouTube Channel

This is not applicable to all forms of SPD, but SPD makes me a real 'slow mow'. Not just because I don't like fast movements.  I focus too much on details, that slows me down as well. Looking at matters from a helicopter view takes me very deliberate, conscious acting.  'Slow' has become one of my main characteristics. One that I'm not proud of.

   Already at primary school I decided that competitions were not for me.  Because like everybody else I hate to lose all the time. The only fair challenge was competing with myself.  That's not so bad. What about the following quotes?

• "He who conquers others is strong; He who conquers himself is mighty"  by Lao Tzu
• "I count him braver who overcomes his desires than him who conquers his enemies; for the hardest victory is over self" by Aristotle
• "He who conquers himself is the mightiest warrior." by Confucius

   Many people with SPD have learned to use personal goals  for a challenge, rather then compete with others. Nor do they try to excel in what is fashionable. 

   This attitude has its drawbacks. For instance it can cause loneliness.  Although... not necessarily. If you go out into the world often enough you will find kindred spirits. I have made many friends. They are however of the migratory kind. Many are scattered over Europe, some even live in Asia. 

   But hang on, there's a good side to it too. It sets you free. Free from the judgement of others, free from the pressure of deadlines and free from that fear of not being on top of the latest info, the latest gadget, the latest fashion. 

     I don't keep up with the latest news flashes, I don't tweet or live my life through Facebook. I even disregard notifications at my work if they are published as newsletters or some such nuisance. And that's why, when I was a student at the Hubrecht Laboratory, I didn't know that the regular monday-one-o'clock-lecture was cancelled. At 13:02 I grabbed my pen and paper and went to the library. The lights were turned off already, the speaker wanted to show a short film of her work. All seats at the back and at the corners of each row were taken, as if there was a conference of the Claustrophobia Society. I had no choice but to sit down in the middle of the front row. The lecture, in english, was clear, well told and very understandable. It was about a project involving fertilisation and development of frog's eggs in space. Not my favorite topic, but interesting.

At the end of the lecture, the speaker,dr. Ubbels of the Hubrecht Laboratory -my next lab neighbour so to speak- came up to me and thanked me for showing my interest by showing up. Well, I never throw away a compliment. I 'pocketed' it and returned to the histology lab. “Where have you been all the time?” the other analists of the lab chimed in chorus.

“At the lecture. Why weren't you?” The others where puzzled, explaining me that the lecture had been cancelled.

“But what about the lecture of Geert?” Now my colleagues started to laugh. Except for one, another student, My collegemate to be exact. He was a special case. 'Space crazy', knew a lot about planets, stars, space research and science fiction. “You went to that lecture?” He looked at me with awe. I nodded and shrugged. What was so special about it?

“She held that lecture for astronauts and NASA en Estec personell. People from the lab were not invited.” I couldn't smother a mischievous grin. The collegemate went on, “I can't believe you just went there. I wish I had had the guts. I'd love to be among all those astronauts.”

“Actually,” I said, rubbing it in,  “Geert thanked me for coming. She wanted people from the lab there.”

     The consequences of this mistake were two summer jobs and a request to participate in a science project involving a rocket launch. Keith Johnstone -father of Impro- is right: making mistakes is fun.

     Talking about Impro. The prejudistic thought is going about that people with autism or Asperger, -maybe even SPD?- could not enjoy Impro. Too unpredictable, too little routine. But people in the Autistic Spectrum want clarity, not routine. Routine is just a  lacklustre answer to a request for clarity.
    The German Impro players Christine and Deniz Dohler discovered the similarity between Impro and SonRise, a succesful playtherapy for children with special needs. Check out their site if you want to know more: AuJa! [german]

Dutch Impro teacher Marcoen Hopstaken has asked me to organise another Impro workshop for people who play -therapeutically- with special children. And I'm about to challenge Marcoen: I'll ask him if I can also look for adults with autism or Asperger for a workshop of Applied Impro (which is Impro used for team building, social skills, therapy, etc.).

It'll certainly be a new challenge for me. And I like to challenge myself. I said that before, didn't I?


Are you challenged?   Maybe you can check this out, a conference about Applied Impro:

Shining Your Brightest

AIN World Conference 

San Francisco 2012

20-23 September

Damn Tasty

What a week... this week I had to do a course in hospital administration for my work. Which meant coming home late and working five days instead of four. In that same week I stayed up late several nights, partly to communicate with some people in L.A. (9 hour time difference). And because I had only the later part of the evening to do all the chores I usually do when I get home from the office. Just when I had decided to pull my weigth and get rid of a lot of the trash   [which I did: no more old paper piles,  five happy degus in clean cages,  a cleared dinner table. And no dirty dishes.  No more Olympics in my living room / studio]


Today's friday, a regular day at the office, thank God. So this morning my son and I picked up our habit again. We always take the same train at our home town. At the next station we get off together.  My son is at walking distance from his school and the connecting train to my work stops here. Before we separate, we go to a tiny café called 'Teestie' [pronounced as 'tasty']   for a chocolate milk and a coffee. The latter in a carton cup, because I have only time for half of it. The rest I take with me to platform 1.

Funny. Yesterday I went to bed two hours earlier than all other days this week and I got up feeling worse than ever. My mind too chaotic to make coffee for breakfast. So I hopped on the train in a low-caffeine state, thinking how unfair it is to have a hangover without having had a party (not that I'm fond of parties...) The idea of having a double espresso-black-no_sugar is what I clung to.
At the next station Teestie was open, no customers, no standing in line! My son walked over to 'our' table and I went to the counter, with visions of my double espresso-b-ns. The coffee machine made a familiar sound already, a reason to get suspcious...
The girl behind the counter gave me her best welcome back smile  -I had been absent a few days due to the training-  and informed me she had already made my coffee. She was preparing a tray putting milk and sugar on it, which I never use. I added a bottle of chocolate milk and the girl completed the still with my -undesired-  coffee. In a stone mug!!
She made almost every mistake possible. Except for one thing. She tried to show me how well she knows me and that she likes me, by serving so promptly with the extra effort of preparing that tray. And any coffee served with so much care is Damn Tasty. 

Putting out the Trash

Indeed, there is no one on earth who is righteous, 
no one who does what is right and never sins.

Ecclesiastes 7:20

I don't know how it is with you, whoever reads this, but in my life symbolism is not limited to dreams.

Or maybe it is not symbolism, but some 'twin aspect' between mental processes and physical life. I'm am talking about dyeing my hair and putting out the trash.

Indecisive is my middle name. I let matters pile up, until there is an overload. At that point setting things straight becomes a matter of rolling up my sleeves, gritting my teeth and doing an arduous job.

Let's compare it to burning logs and trash: you can either have a cosy fire in your fireplace every night, or a bonfire once in a while. There is no good or bad here, it's just two different styles. I am a bonfire person. But why... why do I yearn to have a small fire burning in my fireplace every night? Or do I feel I should live like that? Am I mixing up real yearnings (true commitment) with my upbringing (false commitment; commiting to the yearnings of my parents) ?

I always tell my son that the education parents give, is just a survival kit, to reach the 21^st birthday. By then a person should have figured out his own value system and should redo his own 'upbringing'.

If you are not sure whether you agree with the way your parents raised you: raise a child yourself! If you are educating it right, I mean: conscientiously and NOT on cruise control, you'll be reraising yourself in the mean time. Wow, I'm finally calling myself a good parent!

About imperfect parents;  For english subtitles, click the up-arrow above
and then 'CC'

No this is just a side track. I was talking about indecisiveness. Whenever I am munching on a problem, either not deciding or not acting according to my decision, I fail to put out trash! Litteraly.

Please do not visit me this week:
- my dinner table is inaccessible since I do not clear away the tools and materials I need for sculpting. - there's a lot of saw dust on the floor, thrown out by my degus, who demand a clean cage. (They are now carrying around banners. Lucky for me that I cannot read degu scribbling)
- there's a mountain of old paper that I did not put out last week, when it was to be 'collected'
- dirty dishes have piled up so high, the Olympic committee asked if the pole vault competition of 2012 could be held at my place.

All this is a symbol of my clogged psyche. Are you shivering, feeling nausea, thinking this is a nasty side effect I could do well without?

Wrong. I'm glad it happens. If I close my soul eye trying to ignore my internal problem, my physical eye cannot ignore the external situation. So the physical translation forces me to clean up ... my mind.

And what is even better: Hard work¹, like carrying heavy piles of old paper to a recycling container, give me the right proprioceptive input to feel better and stronger. -Yep SPD again- . And that helps me to finally make up my mind and perform that unpleasant task that was clogging my psyche.

So hurray for the physical twin of my psyche. It is a second entrance into solving my problems.

I know that I am right on the brink of unblocking my mind and perform a really dreaded task very soon: I have dyed my hair with henna. It's fiery red. Which looks quite natural on me, because I was born with that haircolour. Could it be hint, in regard to my bonfire character? Alas it fell out when I was five days old, and I got 'milkman's dog hair' in return.

Dyeing my hair is another physical twin of mental perturbation. When I feel I do not like my life anymore and a change is urgently needed, I dye my hair. Not that the different color will change my life. But the moment I get into action to get rid of my boring hair color, I take mental action as well.

What I have to do, and hate to do, is find a home for my mother. I hate doing it, because she used to say she'd rather die. But a household that combines puberty, dementia and midlife crisis is a bomb. And I have to defuse it before it explodes. I quote Ecclesiastes 7:20 to myself to get the job done.

People too often poke fun of the placebo effect. The following situation is sometimes called placebo effect as well. When a man² feels his headache clearing away just seconds after taking a pill, people naively conclude that the headache must have been imaginary, faked. Because it takes at least 20 minutes for a painkiller to do it's job.

What I think has happened is that physical and mental twin actions took place. Someone just decides that enough is enough. And then he acts physically: walks to the medicine cabinet and takes a pill. In his mind, unseen, there is a twin change: suddenly our body releases us from our headache by producing the right hormone or neurotransmitter. A switch was turned at the enough-is-enough moment. So yes, a real not-imagined headache can disappear before the pill is -chemically- taking effect.

Did you, dear reader, realize that there is a perfect word that sums up mental and physical twinning?
Defintion 1:   perceive (an idea or situation) mentally; "Now I see!"
Definition 2:  make real or concrete; give reality or substance to;
Yes, it's the verb  "to realize". Beautiful word! It sort of proves my theory.

AFTERTHOUGHT (10/22/2011) 
Actually, the quote of Ecclesiastes is NOT a good motivator.  Why would I call admitting that caring for a person with Alzheimer is beyond my limits and finding a  -hopefully- good home for this person,  a sin?  It is not. It's currently the wisest thing to do.

1-For those who are curious: YES, I DO NOT OWN A DISHWASHER . I WASH DISHES BY HAND !!!!! -

2 I'm not going to say woman, women are too often accused of badly timed headaches

Haesito in Medio [5 of 5]

<-- part 4

5 Getting Unstuck

This time I applied some dovetails before twisting a bandage around his hand. I managed a decent 'X pattern', considering my efforts to touch Justus as little as possible. 

As soon asI was done, Justus went back to his work and checked his mask meticulously. Satisfied his mask was alright, he turned to me. A teasing laugh came into his eyes. “You're worse than I thought. How can you stick to your place when someone needs help? Don't you care?” 

“My heart went out to you. But my body wouldn't. I turn into stone in situations like this. And I

cannot always undo the spell.” I had reached the workbench too. Nervously I let my fingers run over the edge I had been carving into the plank. My fingertips alone could tell the irregularities of my cuts, I didn't need my eyes for that. These were aimed inward, were I was fighting a battle. My shame against the wish to be honest about this problem I had with being helpful to other people. “You know,” I placed the plank straight in front of me, “That's why I planned to burn a drawing I made recently, into the center of this plank. A ewer, a basin and a towel. Reminds me of that passage in the bible where Jesus washes the feet of the apostles.” 

Justus face had relaxed ever since I took the initiative for this 'self exploration'. Now he sat down again on his work stool, putting the mask at a distance.

“It's not that I don't want to be nice to people. I remember giving things to my friends, or helping them accomplishing tasks. I got scolded terribly for it at home. My education did not deal with being kind to others … But I don't think that that's the cause of my problem. Already at kindergarten,” we smiled simultaneously. It obviously was kindergarten day today, “my teacher asked me to comfort a crying classmate. I asked her how I should do that. When she suggested I'd put my arm around the girl, I walked off. I was not going to touch anyone.”

“How about your home? You said you took care of your mother when you were a small girl. How did you do that?”

I laughed for a second. “I was only keeping her company. She was phobic and didn't want to be alone.”

“How ...”

I raised my hand signaling Justus to be patient. I knew what he was about to ask. “I felt horribly lonely and afraid.” I tried to recall the feeling. “Like there was some indefinite bad fate looming over me. I was not allowed to have playmates around, so I used to carry a toy with me, to help me feel brave. Usually a dog.” I winked at Loba, on the once-white rug.

Justus nodded. “I remember you said that being nice meant disappearing, becoming invisible. Could that be related to the loneliness you felt while comforting your mother?”

Maybe. I thought about it, my eyes locked into the sky again. It seemed logical, but somehow it missed a decisive 'click'.

I managed to look Justus straight into his eyes as I continued. “That's not what I meant when I started talking about the towel and the basin. I have sensory processing disorder,” -Oh dear, did that sound formal- “which means in my case, that I'm sensitive to light touch and to movement. My most used expressions were 'don't touch me' and 'put me down'.” I could see the corners of Justus' mouth curl up. He could well imagine me saying those things.

“Whenever I heard the story of Jesus washing his disciples feet... well, I knew what the story was supposed to say. But I couldn't help thinking, that I wouldn't pick up the basin either. For a different reason. Sometimes I even wondered whether Jesus would understand why.” I could relax when Justus smiled at me. I no longer felt teased or put down. “I only thought 'who would want me to touch him? Let alone wash him?' ” Auch, that thought hurt.

Justus grabbed my hand with his one good hand, preventing me from pulling away. “Does that hurt?”

I blushed heavily. “Not physically. But it does upset me.” He didn't let go. Wanted to know what I felt exactly. I had to concentrate to identify my mixed up feelings. “Part of me likes it. Some other part would even like to return the favor. But most of me wants to dash out and hide behind a tree. Where I would probably try to rub off the feeling.”

Now he laughed. “So you're not used to it. Better practice more, lady.” I pulled my hand free. But Justus immediately extended his hand to me, beckoning me to take it. “You said you wouldn't avoid pain or embarrassment. Now I'm making you stick to it.” Sheepishly I took his hand, eying his face from he corner of my eyes.

“It might be easier if you looked straight at me.” Justus really was making me go through feeling hurt and embarrassed. But I've said I wouldn't run. So I gritted my teeth and looked in his eyes. Was he teasing me or not? I couldn't make it out.

“This doesn't feel bad to me. Why would you think people don't like your touch?” After a playful wink he continued, “Not bad at all. If I had all day, I wouldn't let go.” He did let go however. In a reflex I rubbed my hand 'clean' on my jeans. “Thank you very much,” Justus mumbled.

“It's not just touching. It's more than that. When people are together, at a party or working on a project, whatever, doing things for eachother, I just cannot get myself to do my share.”

“You turn to stone. But why? What do you imagine might happen if you do spontaneously serve someone. ”

I sighed, what if … “It is crazy. By not serving others, I imagine their anger or contempt. Which is actually a realistic idea. But the thought of me asking others what they want and giving it to them... I imagine people will be bothered, annoyed by my presence.”

“So you really think people don't like you. And your habit to petrify, which others won't understand, makes it a self fulfilling prophecy.”

I sighed, wondering how I could break through such a circle.

Justus picked up the conversation again. “You have a very belittling image of yourself. And that is probably why you let Randy get as far as he did. If you had more self esteem and confidence, you could have stopped him when he started. ”

I remember how Randy slunk out of the cabin. His personality was not as formidable as his build. Justus was right, I probably would have managed to put him off. I shouldn't have let him think he could have his way, for so long. My fault, again.

“Don't blame yourself,” Justus voice broke my train of thoughts. “There are enough conditions in your background, that brought you into this plight. Nonetheless ... you are now responsible for getting out of it. Not that you have to do it on your own.” he hastily added, “People will help you along, but you have to be the driving force. That takes commitment.” The word was a cue for me to look at the woodcarver's eyes. Or rather, look into them. This time I did not see them as funny blue marbles, almost popping out. They had depth, honesty and helpfulness. “I know that you can commit yourself if the commitment is your choice. And I know that you have the stamina to go through failures. You didn't run from all the challenging situations you faced here. Neither have you in past your life. You just tightened your stomach and walked past scolding schoolmates. Or clung onto your toy dog to stay with your mother. Now grid your teeth again and help JoAnne.” Justus got off his high chair, leaning on my shoulder. That was at least not light touch, I did not feel the reflex to retract. But he left his hand there... “I hope I have given you today at least the necessary belief in yourself. That you are worthwhile. Because... you are.”

Those stupid tears welled up again, blurring my vision. I wiped them away with the back of my hand.

“Now which other tools are you going to use to carve out the real JoAnne? The one who is not tough and cynical and who does not stay petrified.”

“Awareness and practice. Awareness of the gap between what I do and what I want to do. And practise, to collect positive experiences to replace my silly fears. They should make good tools to carve out the real me.”

“Great. I mean it.” Then Justus' sly smile, complete with the tiny wrinkles beside his eyes, returned. “Because it is way past lunch time. And I would love to work some more on 'Jack Daw' instead of having to cook for us.”

“OK,” I accepted the chance of doing something for him. But a basic fear must have shimmered in my eyes. For he said 'comfortingly' that he would be working with his back turned to the kitchen anyway.

“That part of the floor is yours now.” A good thing it was. One of the first things I did was pull out the drawer with cutlery too far out of the kitchen counter. The crash was tremendous and the floor filled up with spoons, knives ad forks. If I ever felt like a nuisance... “Sorry,” Justus jelled over the noise of the clatter, “I forgot to warn you that the stop of that drawer is broken.”

“Is that what it was? I thought the drawer was too short.”

Justus sniggered and continued his work, while I cleared up the mess. At least it was a good icebraker. After that I dared make as much noice as I needed to, 'and then some'.

There was not a wide range of food stored up, but when it comes to cooking, I'm a great hand at improvising. As the smell of soup, with white wine in it, filled the cabin, Justus could no longer keep his back turned to the kitchen. “Is it ready yet?” he asked.

“Almost.”

“Then hurry up, woman, I'm hungry.” Justus walked over to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. To do so, he took off the bandage and the dovetails. I checked if he needed any help with that, but obviously didn't. So I continued cutting bread and laid out several kinds of cheese on a plate and invited him to the table.

As soon as he was seated, he held out his bowl for soup. I noticed that his hand had healed perfectly. The old strict Justus returned for a moment, as he raised his eyebrows to stop me from asking the wrong question. We ate our meal with a lively discussion, moving to and fro between verbal battles and whole hearted agreements. But the meal came to an end and so did my stay at the cabin. Justus finished the edge around my plank for me, while I washed the dishes and cleared his kitchen. He wrapped up the plank when he was done and put it in my backpack.

“Before you go, let me draw you a map to show you the best route to a bus stop.” He used a folded up piece of paper for it. “You walked through a nudist area this morning. Lucky for you, the guests arrive late on Sundays.”

I couldn't help laughing. “I guess I would have been a bit overdressed for the occasion.” In spite of the heat I wore jeans, a shirt and gilet.

“Just a bit, yes.”

I imprinted the map in my head and put the paper in my pocket. Then we walked to the door together. Justus assured me I would be taking the right road from here on. My heart always had been speaking up in time, but from now on, I would be able to recognize its call sooner and respect its value. With this reassurance, he hugged me. Just for practice, he said. I'm glad he didn't kiss me goodbye. After a kiss I would not have been able to leave. Because I sensed I would never see my woodcarving teacher again. And was not allowed to ask if I was right.

I turned to look back a last time when I reached the road. By then he had already disappeared from the doorway. Half sad, half satisfied at this special day, I started my walk back into my own life. From my pocket, I retrieved the map Justus had drawn for me. It was the paper on which he had written the invitation to help myself to some coffee. I decided to keep it, to reassure myself all this had really happened. I unfolded the paper completely. On the inside, was printed:

JALF is urgently looking for an 
 Animus 
 who will transform the wishes of the Soul into Reality
 and build a bridge connecting the deep Self with the World. 

Experience is not required. 

 

The candidate must have 
  appreciation of Modesty, 
  aversion of anything related to Pomposity or Convenience, 
  inexhaustible Patience,
  a Rock-solid Conviction during Stormy Weather and 
  a Sharp Eye for the distinction between Acting out of Fear or out of Love. 
 

The Animus is not easily intimidated. 

Required language skills:  
  fluency in telling the Truth, and 
 a good working knowledge of 
   Symbolical and 
   Metaphorical speech. 
Or willingness to learn this. 

 For more information please contact JoAnne Lakefield.

© september 2011

JoAnne Lakefield