Category: Uncategorized

Gods impersonating as children

Healing looking very suspicious these days, tracking along side escalating dollar amounts almost becoming a trillion dollar industry.. If healing is thriving in a time of sickness then we ought to be careful what we name sickness.

-Bayo Akolomafe

What does it mean to be well? Functioning? Normal? Contributing? Sane?

What does it mean to be these things from the view point of an ideology that is failing, has failed and who’s very fabric is falling away at the seams?

Should we even want to be well when wellness means falling back into systematic ways of being, partaking in stories that have not served kindly on the majority of humanity as a whole. Where do we find ourselves if we refuse to follow along, refuse to indoctrinate our children and force them to define themselves by notions that only serve the small minority, but instead waver on the outskirts, on the margins, belonging somewhere but no where from the grand narratives point of view.

How do we justify a life of happiness, enough food, warm shelter, access to clean water, the ability to take what we want to believe in and leave the rest behind for someone else’s contemplation because the harsh truth of it doesn’t feel good, because we know that what is on offer, is most certainly causing another to suffer? How do we justify our phones, our clothes, the very earth we hold ourselves to, when it is to the detriment of another be it human, non-human or life force. Can we still be alright with that, if that’s what it means to be well? Are we functioning well by fitting in, showing up, and wearing the construct of the story that has been passed down, placed upon us, even when we know that the fabric of the construct is dramatically failing and falling away, that it makes no sense anymore to the children that can’t sit still in a classroom, to the children that can’t ware shoes or don’t own any, can’t read or whom carry the companionship of voices in their heads. Are we well if we know these things and still we look the other way, we medicate, force and dominate, trying to make these things fit, that were most likely never meant to fit us this way in the first place.

Maybe we are not meant to be healing, fixing these things. Maybe the children that are being born into these untameable bodies that are bursting in their own wild forces are meant to be here. Maybe they are not really children with Autism at all but Gods of some other time. They are arriving in a cataclysmic motion, with an irresistible compulsion, causing trouble, denying the normative, upsetting the grand narrative. Could it be that we haven’t yet realised it is not for us to decide how they should be in the world, that it’s not really about us shaping things differently so that they can fit better, when fitting in is no longer what is necessary. Maybe they are here to take things apart, to cause mischief in the systems, to undo things, upset things, make trouble, disturb all manner of the seemingly normality of things. What if that story we are trying so very hard to manipulate their bodies into is finished now, that the reason they arrive in such grand force, what has been assumed could be an approaching Autism epidemic is because we are not listening, we are not really paying attention. Instead we are still trying to play out a narrative centred around an androcentric normality that no longer exists.

…maybe we should be ‘considering not what gets in the way of healing, but .. what healing gets in the way of. ‘ -Bayo Akomolafe

Maybe healing and fixing these things is, to not consider what we may not be able to see. Maybe we are yet to have the language for such places. What if we are being asked to consider and trust something so vastly different from anything we have ever known or seen before and what is really happening is that we are scared. We are afraid of arriving somewhere and not knowing the answers, or worse still that there will be no answer. We are afraid to enter into these unknowable places with our children because we feel that we are the ones guiding them, that we know what is best for them, it’s what the narrative has always been. But maybe we need to step down now, from our hierarchy and thinking that we know what is best, for it is overtly obvious now that this is not the case. Possibly it has never been. Maybe we need to place our faith in something else, be it the roots of the tree, the soil of the earth, the unassuming butterfly or the invisible ones who occupy the unseen spaces or could it be in these wild Gods that are impersonating themselves as Autistic children.

..a deeply limited observation, a tiny infraction of sorts

“Where running our of words to describe things.” Tyson Yunkaporta

He is not just thinking in spaces of here, nor in places that are concrete and known by the matter of what we assume to be fact and certain. A red chair is a red chair that sits before me. He’s not just thinking with his own mind in the solitude of self, individualised and seperate as it seems, in body and space. He is not thinking alone like this. He holds access to a magnitude of worlds, of universes, of things that perhaps cannot be known about or seen or touched by us from this point of time or from this point of reference. He, at times whilst in the thoughts of all that cannot be seen or touched, moves in a systematic dance with his hands. Visually sifting and sorting out the invisible threads of creation that contain the fabric of the unseen worlds. He has no real name for this, but his look assures me it must be done. He is not really all here but neither is he all there, where ever there is. He floats in the mystery of this space not really fitting anywhere. He comes not wholly in the light nor from the depths of darkness, but sits within the equanimity of both, which he says is a shade of purple and is where he needs to be, no matter how I try to lean him futher into the light of grace. There are things he says, are not for me to know. So I let them be between him and his God. It would seem that he is here to do things that are not really of this world at all. He seems to be working from some other unknowable space or perhaps place. He seems to be doing something here, that possibly matters, that is possibly necessary, yet it remains in the unseen, it is not tangible, cannot be recognised or commended and proudly acknowledged, there’s no certification for work like this. At this point, it would be more rational to disregard, to disorganise his innate, organic organisation, to attempt to undo his unusual invisible doings, to dismiss his hand dances as repetitive self stimulatory behaviours, or so it would seem. Yet, the small voice of my own knowing says that what he does, must be done. That this is not mine to contain, name or control. It is not even mine to understand. Do you suppose that maybe nothing needs to be imposed here?

wander lines

A philosophy of tracing 

This TRACING / from before the sign / I will never cease to see in it / what no gaze / would it be mine / will ever see • the human is there / perhaps / quite simply / with no one in the end / without voice • those / TRACINGS / are from my hand which borrowed the manner of handling / the style of this janmari who speaking is not • and everything that I can write from this / TRACING that all the writings of the / world have no chance of drying up. (Deligny, 2007: 813; quoted and translated in Alvarez de Toledo, 2013: 5) 

I am exploring wander lines. trying to move away from neurotypical thought processes to a wider less structured thought way. I am trying to not think in straight lines, like my son and my eldest daughter, they don’t think in straight lines.

I was leaving early on a Saturday morning to head to a farmers market. It’s always a big day, a big drive there and back. As i was heading our down our driveway i was stopped by fallen trees laying across my access. This was a big deal, they would have to be moved and i was annoyed that i was the one having to do it. From closer inspection it would require a chainsaw, not an easy task for this moment and for one person. I worked in slight annoyance, internally voicing my frustrations at the inconvenience, which could have been tended to yesterday. Why didn’t she say this needs to be cleared, she knew that it was mess, she knew because she walked over it to check the mail. Why didn’t she say you won’t be able get through tomorrow. I was having a self indulgent early morning rant to myself.

Nevertheless I was able to clear the path, remove the trees and branches and the nuisances that were ailing me and was on my way to the farmers market. All was well. On my drive I calmed. Breathed. And there it was. I understood the need for the early morning obstruction. The obstruction was not in the fallen trees on my path, it was in the obstruction of my thinking of how she thinks. Yes, she knew about the fallen trees, yes she mentioned them in an incidental way, but she wasn’t thinking in straight lines. She doesn’t think in straight lines.

I had been pondering on Deligny and his maps of wandering lines. I was wanting to understand this more, explore it from new spaces within my own thinking. I was wanting to see it in movement, thoughts in processes not travelling on straight lines. It seems someone was listening.

The straight line process would have been to notice the fallen trees and say we need to move them before tomorrow morning. It would have been to work together and have the driveway cleared for access again in the morning. But that’s straight line thinking, neurotypical line thinking. Its thinking- action-result kind of thinking. Its thinking that has been educated, indoctrinated, cultured into us like good manners. Its viewed as rational and necessary, as normal.

But it starting to feel false. As though by thinking in such ways we are denying something else. Perhaps something is becoming lost within us, within this process, something innate, ancestral, something that offers more to the experience we are having. We are not seperate from our experiences. My fallen trees were my lesson here. It would seem as though they were a cleverly planned obstacle placed within my path, within my thinking of things. They were my obstruction of thought and became an invitation to think of things from wandering lines.

Deligny clearly recognised this in his working beside non-verbal autistic children. What can be lost within the language of words. It reminds me of my son when he was small. He didn’t talk with words until he was four. We had to understand each other in other ways, by other means. We had to feel into these places. I had to remind myself that i can know him from here, just as a mother understands her newborn babe, words become so unnecessary from this space.

..that touches us without our knowing why, a touching that occurs not through the effects of language but beyond, where “something that cannot be seen” exists, something ineffable but nonetheless “immediately felt” (Deligny 1990).

My son thinks in wandering lines. He has his own maps of thought. They make little sense to the indoctrinated typical mind. They aren’t clear, they don’t stay in one place, they cross space-time- realities. Yet when i listen, really listen, his anarchy of thought makes way for contemplative thought, they invite possibility, maybe not always in this place, or in this time, or even this universe but what he chooses to use his voice for is stories of happenings and who am i to determine such things as real or not.

carly

beings as wild alters

“I worry about fixing these bodies that are beginning to experiment ..when we have fixed the human race the human race can no longer evolve. 

We think of ourselves as a climatic species but we are living in dynamic environments that are shifting that we will need to glitch out and become disabled in order to inhabit and so I worry about fixing these bodies that are beginning to experiment at the very edges of the eco tones of what is supposed to be materially appropriate. So somebody’s body that could be fixed I wonder if it should be fixed.” -Sophie Strand

this is the space I find myself occupying now. im sitting in wander. wandering lines, that are not set with a concrete direction or goal orientated destination, i already know that there will be no real answers to the questions that i am asking here. there will be no ending or certainanty, to be looked forward to. it will not be completed with yet another DSM5 diagnosis and a full stop. no, that is not the way of the wandering lines.

when I speak of wandering lines i am thinking away from what we think we know about autism, mental health, stability, what it means to be well. i cannot tentatively hold myself completely to notions of how the world interacts and responds to these things so much anymore. i have cautious steps now. i have learned to not trust the narrative. i have ventured in my thinking of things from wilder places.

 It’s in the glitching out, its in the disability, its in the diaschronic. Its in the place that we loose eloquence that God comes in.  

Bayo Aklomofe

instead i find myself trusting something that cannot be named, that is innately inherent, and who’s guidance has never wavered over the years. my faith in these unknowable spaces have always shown me the way, where to place my next step, or they have laid before my very feet the guidance i am seeking. these Gods have always traveled beside me, even in the times when i wasn’t able to hold space for them.

The void isn’t empty. The gods are everywhere. We are swimming in dynamic, animated, tentacular territories and there is no escaping that, there is no removing ourselves from that. We are always in conversation with these bio field signals. 

Bayo Aklomofe

my son’s story is unfolding in wildish uncertain and sometimes uncomfortable ways. when he moves, it is through space time, through universes and galaxies and inconceivable notions of more than we can comprehend. i’m sure its not really new to him now, i think he has always occupied these wide places of existence. maybe what’s new is he is somewhat more aware now of this traveling self he inhibits and it is beginning to ruffle him. it has become obvious that he is not contained or limited in his thinking or do i dare assume knowing, to any preconceived ideas of how we exist in the here and now. he moves from spaces much wider than that.

i as a mother of this young human, and my ‘i’ in this is small i know, for i don’t think he has ever been a child, especially one for me to call my own, he belongs to something much greater than that. nevertheless, i wonder where i am to stand in the witnessing of this unfolding of self and other. i wonder where my place is, if it’s really relevant at all, from such expansive unknowable landscapes.

i have borrowed a notion, of’ beings as wild alters.’ Bayo Alomofe tells of a story of his beloved wife Ej and her philosophy towards caring for their son in the unknowable times of trouble. i have listened to this story many times over and it always brings me to tears, it reminds me of all the times i too have fallen to the ground to be beside my son in the face of the unknowable storm. Ej invites us to hold our children as alters, as a wild place where the subject is not to cure or to fix them into sanity, instead the object is to worship, to stay in the trouble of the yelps and screaming. this resonates in me, it makes sense to not move in these times, but rather lay down in the face of the fire. for, we can never be sure of where the fire has arrived from or where it is on its way to, we can never be certain of what it means to have such things move through and captivate the bodies of our children. there is no real language for these places, perhaps we are not meant to bring them out of the turmoil, or lead them away or quieten them down, we don’t know what they are moving in the heat of the storm.

revisiting this space from another time

many moments have passed since I have traveled within these pages. I owe so much of the story I have now to the time I spent here exploring possibility and then, the inevitable unraveling of myself and everything that followed.

I wonder now if I could step back in? could I arrive here again after all this time and continue a journey from such a vastly different place, from such a vastly different self?

looking back, I can see the hard choices I made to be where we stand now. Great sacrifices have been made, that have not gone without notice. Ones have had to let go, when it was not what they were wanting, ones have had to go without the stories for us to move forward on the unknowable path we needed to take. We have travelled the nomadic experience, we have slept in wild places, woken beside oceans, played in sacred rainforests, spent more on barefooted adventures than in a classroom. There has been no school. There has been no indoctrination of an old story. And the children that were so little when we began our adventurous life are not so little anymore. And I wonder what will become of this wild experiment we have been on, where children have been given their lives to call their own? i wonder now how the story will play out?

maybe there is a space here.. beckoning to be rekindled.

maybe there is still something to be found amongst the raw tales and musings of life and wonder .. maybe the story isn’t complete.. maybe there’s more to tell.

My children will not grow to know this day as a celebration. They will learn the heavy truths of the suffering that occurred during this time. They will not be sheltered from the painful reality of our history to follow along in this new tradition of celebration, when remembering is more appropriate for the occasion. We will acknowledge the true Australians of this land we have all laid claim to. We will recognise and validate exactly what this day represents. We will say how sorry we are in our hearts and ask to be forgiven, for the undeniably unforgivable.

 

 

 

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The children rise slowly now, and only begin when they are ready here. There is no where we need to be anymore, most of the time preferring to not venture out at all. Days fill quickly with imaginary play, day dreaming and exploring our new sanctum. The peace is animate. We are all breathing freely now, not answerable to anything or anyone, except ourselves. I imagine in a perfect world its the way it should always be, and we are all the more the happier for it. I am watching the children unfold in their own uniqueness, in a space without life’s constrictions, its allowing them to be all of who they perfectly are. As i move closer towards what is true for myself, the more settled they are becoming within the truth of themselves.   I have withdrawn on purpose, with purpose. Choosing to let go rather than fill unnecessarily our lives and time with things that don’t matter. I am growing stronger, quieter, surer and feeling my way through what i am wanting to remain, quickly giving myself permission to let go of what no longer needs to, without   apologising.  I’m seeking within, moving in the direction of having, doing and needing less and the more i enter this space,  the clearer things are becoming, with a sense absolute. This is my life, the story i am creating on the pages are mine to own and live by, and all that’s really seeming to matter now is that i stay faithful to myself.  I understand that my truth will not always be what serves the truth of others and only with love, can i say, that  I am alright with things being that way.  It is within the certainty of this space, I have let go of any need to please or pretend or play any roles anymore. I am moving from a different place now, and everything in life seems to be aligning itself along side it, including the children. So much of life seems to be directed for us, set on a path whether we are willing to follow it or not.  I realise it is  a courageous path to take choosing to follow your own wild heart, and in doing so be fearless with your choices, and i know it’s not for everyone, but it is where i want to be, that is something i know for sure.

A Room of One’s Own

So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters; and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say. But to sacrifice a hair of the head of your vision, a shade of its colour, in deference to some Headmaster with a silver pot in his hand or to some professor with a measuring-rod up his sleeve, is the most abject treachery, and the sacrifice of wealth and charity which used to be said to be the greatest of human disasters, a mere flea-bite in comparison.

Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own

alright then..

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“Advice? I don’t have advice. Stop aspiring and start writing. If you’re writing, you’re a writer. Write like you’re a goddamn death row inmate and the governor is out of the country and there’s no chance for a pardon. Write like you’re clinging to the edge of a cliff, white knuckles, on your last breath, and you’ve got just one last thing to say, like you’re a bird flying over us and you can see everything, and please, for God’s sake, tell us something that will save us from ourselves. Take a deep breath and tell us your deepest, darkest secret, so we can wipe our brow and know that we’re not alone. Write like you have a message from the king. Or don’t. Who knows, maybe you’re one of the lucky ones who doesn’t have to.”

— Alan Watts

 

thank you

she is..

She is the masters finishing touch. Eve is the crown of the creation, Not an after thought. She is Gods final touch, his pièce de résistance. She fills a place in this world nothing and no one else can fill. Look out across the earth and say to yourself.. The whole vast world is incomplete without me.

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.. this is what it is like to be with a woman at rest, a woman comfortable in her feminine beauty. She is enjoyable to be with. She is lovely in her presence. Your heart stops holding its breath. You relax and believe once again that all will be well.

 

-John and Stasi Eldredge, Captivating