Leisa A. Hammett

Thoughts to Meditate Upon....

One fall-out of all the workshops, classes, conferences and workshops I've attended are the plethora of notes. I have storage bins and shelves of note-crammed journals. Transcribed here, from the little black notebook that hitches a ride in my purse, are these scribbled bits from my **former mindfulness meditation group leader. May they resonate with you, too:

 

"Happiness is an inside job."

"When the mind is still/calm: Happiness arises."

"The breath sweeps the mind."

 

"There is nothing to hold onto. Groundlessness. Let Go. Let Go."

"If we want to be free[...] let go of suffering."

"Have Compassion to the contents of the mind. Let thoughts [of suffering, etc.] pass through without identifying with them. Practice nonclinging."

"The awareness of feelings (anger, etc.) is not the feeling. Awareness of anger is not anger." [For more on non-attachment, see this "Journey with Grace" post.]

 

And the best yet, the denoument:

"Life is Change. When we hold on, we suffer. Happiness is letting go." 

________________________________________________________________________

 

**The Nashville Mindfulness Meditation Group moved, last year, from the Vanderbilt Divinity School chapel to Second Presbyterian Church. The group is still led by "Christian-Buddhist," author of (What Christians Can Learn from Buddhists About Suffering,) Gordon Peerman, D.Min, an Episcopol priest, psychotherapist, Vanderbilt Divinity School professor, and Vanderbilt Integrative Medicine Center mindfulness teacher--and his wife, Kathy Woods.  

Photos: My neighbor's willow, copyright, 2010, Leisa A. Hammett

Hope, Believe, or Know?

It was an eclectic bunch from around Middle Tennessee who clustered at the mammoth log-cabin-style retreat home of a friend's father. Those gathering on a sun-blessed November Thursday shared a common sense of spirituality and a potluck of earthy-homemade Thanksgiving bounty. Post pumpkin pie, Bliss--a friend who taught yoga--and I talked about our dreams for the future. At some point she questioned the "weakness" of the word "hope" in reference to those future visions. I got it. I agreed. To a point.

From the vantage point of the disAbility journey, we need hope. It is another civil rights pilgrimage we are on. We need to hope that things will be better for our children in a society that defines and expects normalcy, of which we have anything but.

However, in the realm of our dreams of personal manifestation, I choose knowing. When my life course took at tumble one year into midlife--I define midlife as beginning at 50...I mean, 50 is half of 100, right?--I took to saying that I believed. I believed that I would climb out of the pit of circumstances into which I'd slipped and fell. But at some point? I chose to know.

How we manifest our dreams, those glimmers of inspiration--which can be defined as sparkles of hope--is to not only believe but know that they will come into being. This may seem like New Age mumbo-jumbo, or hoo-doo voo-doo, as I like to say, but we all do it. We dream. We have inspiration. We have ideas. Consider that those sparkles are God-given, if you believe in God--or any name you choose to call the Great Divine, Higher Power, Universe, etc....Those sparkles are backed by the gift of our talent, skills and smarts. Then they need us to breathe the breath of belief into them, fanning, then igniting them. And then, with as much absolute certainty as we each can muster, to know we each will accomplish those dreams. It's how books come into being. Businesses. Any endeavor birthed into life!

And, back to disAbility, specifically....I do hope for the lot of our people. I do dream and hope that society will continue to give way in their attitudes, institutions and hearts. I also know that it will be alright. It is. C'mon, it is. We are not living, for instance, in worn-torn Syria here. (God bless those dear souls as they wage their own, graver war of liberation.) IGBOK. It's going to be okay. Few of us face death in our daily circumstances. Know with me that whatever circumstance that you face, you will come through it. Just look at my personal history. There is victory and triumph that rises from the depths of despair and loss--being fired in my mid-20s, having my only child diagnosed with autism, divorcing not once but twice. I used to joke that I was a poster child for survival. But my friend Gregory helped me know that, instead, I am a poster child for thriving. Resilience. We can all have it. The seeds, like sparkling embers, they are deep down in your soul waiting to burst forth and flame into life and be light.

Hope? Yes. Believe? Okay. Know? Definitely. Know it. Know....

Above: A reject collage painting, "Dream Balloon," enhanced through photo filters, ©LeisaHammett.com

The Couch Chronicles: An Entire Day, "By Gawd," Spent on Facebook

A knitted caftan replaced the cashmere shawl she'd planned to don. Beneath it she wore fleece and flannels all the day long once the mid-February threat of ice and snow cancelled her Sunday afternoon rendezvous with friends over steaming bowls of chili. She positioned herself comfortably on her derriere all through the afternoon, a lap top, in lieu of a log-burning fire, searing her thighs. She missed the chili but enjoyed sampling her would-be appetizer: peanut butter, mixed with mini-chocolate chips and apple slices. Weight Watchers be damned. As night set in she declared she enjoyed being a Sunday afternoon sloth. Then she remembered last winter had brought a number of opportunities to sport bad hair and fuzzy items of clothing. The neighbors said they'd frequently sighted her morphing into a snow sloth back then. So, she declared that e'ry gal oughta have the opportunity to squalor round e'ry now and then....Don't you think? Well, I do....

It was a day of cultural immersion. And also of a day of redemption. I'm a bit enthralled by Facebook.  I spent an entire Sunday afternoon last February, hopping off and on this cultural melting pot of politics, religions and pop culture. I was a bit taken aback by this unusual day I had. The weather cancelled my plans. I tend to be the type person who has every minute planned, even if for recreation. That's "good" and "bad" and part necessity of the complications of my life as a single mother of a child with severe autism. So, I took that unexpected gift of a day off and spent it on Facebook. OMG! I don't watch t.v. so this was my day for brain bubble gum--except it was so much more. I was so inspired and stimulated and touched by so much on a particular minister friend's page. I kept coming back and finding more things to read, which would then stimulate me to write blog posts of my own.

That February Sunday was the day after Whitney Houston's Funeral. I found much of the commentary on her death and life judgmental (my judgment) and disturbing. I blogged about it in a post published here: Whitney Houston's Death a Reminder of Our Humanity. But I also found on Facebook and the blogosphere glimpses of great compassion for both Whitney and for others. Such as one of my "liberal" friends post of a once-upon-a-time Religious Right leader who was humbled by the diagnosis of ALS. He lost his voice, his 5,000-member congregation and was now living a life that he described as what Jesus would have done, going to the bars.

Social media, surely everyone knows, is not just about an electronic version of second-grade-style "like"-ing. It is a powerful, contemporary medium through which courses the voices of our times. And while it can be used for such destructive purposes intended to break down and tear down and infuse negativity and pain, it can also be used for such great good.

Autism: We. Are. Everywhere.

We. Are. Everywhere. We are your children. We are your grandchildren. Your nieces and nephews. Your cousins. Your neighbors. Your co-workers' children. Your co-workers. The offspring of friends of your friends. Your spouse/significant other.

Image source: The Beats Saigon, via Google

We are artists. We are musicians. We are that weird guy in algebra. The strange girl in Latin. The water boy on the hockey team. We are college bound. We are college educated. We are Ph.D's. We are graduating high school with a certificate of attendance. We don't know how to write. We have difficulty understanding our prepositions.  We have Intellectual DisAbilities. We are articulate. We don't speak in complete sentences. We are mute. We give speeches. We write books.

Because we have autism, we are all on some level developmentally delayed. Some of us don't know that. Some of us are in denial. Some of us are incapable of understanding. Some of us are blissfully ignorant of our differences. Some of us are whizzes at overcoming our challenges. Many of us are learning to embraces those differences. Sometimes our parents come along. Sometimes we lead the way and sometimes they follow. Sometimes they get it and they take the lead and show us that our uniqueness--wherever we are on the rainbow--is good.

We have friends. We have no friends. We are happy. We are miserable.

We have autism. We are a spectrum. Our numbers are 1 in 88. There are so many of us.

We start off as children. But then we grow up. Much ado is made about us and our future when we are children. And then we reach that future. Sometimes it is very bright. Often it is not. And when it is not, it is because we are too often misunderstood. Often lacking opportunity to excel.

We are out there. We are here. Amongst you. We need your understanding. We need kindness. Some compassion. A leg up. An open door.

Autism. We are a spectrum. We are everywhere. All around you. Look. See us. But don't stare, please. And, be kind.

Thank you.

We are Everywhere.    

In the next decade 500,000 youth with autism will reach adulthood. What can one organization do to help one person with autism? What can one faith community do to help one person with autism? What can YOU do to help a person with autism? Think about it. We are in crisis and growing. We need you.

Thank you, Dr. Erik Carter, Ph.D., for these "talking points" above. Knowing I'd be giving several media interviews during my daughter's spring art shows, I was searching for a message to boil it down and speak to our needs. Dr. Carter gave me those three questions: "What can one...do to help one person with autism?" Brilliant. Thank you.

Kindred Stories & Writing Yours

 

Do you know how important your voice is to the world? Every person has a story. Really. June 1, I was priviledged to join forces with Lacey Lyons, Belmont University adjunct English professor and Courtney Taylor Evans, of the Vanderbilt Kennedy Center to present "Sharing Your Stories: Advocacy Through Personal Storytelling," at the 2012 Tennessee Disability Megaconference. There, we coached parents and adults with disAbilites on how to write their story via Tennessee's Kindred Stories project. (I've one on their website somewhere. I think it's this one: "[...]I'm giving this summer the finger!) Heads up: looks like we'll be presenting one or two more times the next year, perhaps in Nashville and then down the road in Chattanooga. 

Because this applies to so many people who for one reason or another are not sharing the gift of their voice, I'm posting part of my presentation here on "The Journey with Grace":

Get Over Yourself and Get it Out Your Story!

Folks, you’re gonna have to scrap your ego to be a writer. Writing never happens with a flourish of a magic wand and a sprinkle of fairy dust. Every good story you read in reputable newspapers, books and magazines was written and rewritten and rewritten and rewritten. Did I mention it was rewritten? There’s no muse that just poofs a perfect story into your head! It takes work! Writers HONE their craft. And so should you.

In fact, highly successful multi-book author Anne Lamott coined a term. Hope no one's offended by cuss words...Because her term is “the shitty first draft.” I wrote a book eight years ago that I’m just now rewriting. And the book I wrote eight years ago was my shitty first draft. (In fact, one reputable book agent praised my book proposal profusely, but returned it because of my written samples. Good thing. It's taken another eight years of living and the publication of my actual first book (another title,) to get to where I am now. And guess what, it will be rewritten. And. Rewritten.

Nike came up with a slogan. Bet you know the one: Yes! "Just. Do. It!" Again, having a muse is a myth for most of us writers. It takes discipline. Pure and simple. Sit down on your patootty and JUST DO IT.

If you’re having trouble, pull out a journal or a scrap piece of paper and do “The Artist’s Way.” Dump your thoughts onto paper until you’ve written three pages or 30 minutes. Many writers start out their days with this exercise. Go ahead! Write down whatever comes to mind. Your irritation with your significant other. The memories of the bad tuna sandwich you ate for lunch yesterday. Your to-do list. Anything! It clears the clutter so you can get down to to the real business of writing.

And then, can the critic. Tell that mama to. Shut. Up. You know. That whiney, pointer-finger wielding voice inside your head that’s judging mercilessly every word you put down on paper. Ignore it! Tell it where to go! Remember, just do it. Get the words out and then you can go back and rewrite.

Well?! What are you waiting for?

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Image courtesy of Beth Lehman via Pinterest via Kristen House of A Novel Idea

Siren Song Summoning the Sandman

 

Photo: ©LeisaHammett.com, Orcas Island, WA.; view from Mt. Constitution, 2010

Stealthily.

Much.

Too.

Slow.

It.

Creeps.

Seeping.

Up from my toes.

Dark. Somewhat somber.

A blanket of stillness.

It crushes my chest.

Sits on my heart.

Masks my voice.

Wanted:

this ~

oh, sleep...

which comes none too soon when interrupted in the half-time of night.

Autism: damn you for this thievery of yours!

Once again you've robbed us of our sleep;

yanking us up from our peaceful swim in the still pool of pitch black night.

The Most Difficult Person to Forgive

This morning I broke through. I broke through, at least, to another layer--a deeper layer. Of freedom. We talk in spiritual communities about the importance of forgiveness. In some conscious communities there is a belief that there is no need to forgive. That we make choices, on some level, that bring experiences into our lives from which we need to learn. So it is not what we perceive someone does to us but that we invited these experiences into our lives in order to grow. This is not a comfortable notion for many. I get that. Whether one agrees with that belief or not, many can at least believe that our experiences--what we label adversities--are actually opportunities. And though they may produce great pain, from the parched and cracked condition of our hurt, rich fruit can birth. This is true in my life.

March-April-May-June are anniversary months for me. It is a year ago that my father died, that I realized I must end my marriage and that I began the process of finding a new place to live and moving out into my own. For the first time in 26 years, I no longer owned a home. I was again a single mother. Shit....It has been a long, arduous year of journeying to the center of my soul. Of going beneath that dried up surface and finding the unhealthy nutrients that poisoned me--including a history of choices and the seed from where they were born. It has been a year of learning how to garden anew--to plant, water, nurture. To truly love and to care.

And this morning, I got it on more than just a knowledge level--not the kind I got in all my years of seminar slutting--but on a real, change-producing experiential level. I still held pain in my heart for the man in which I had placed all my dreams. But, I got it that I held the nutrients that would water the soil and unlock my ability to grow deeper. And the answer was in forgiveness.

I made a choice. I made choices. I can hurl blame and wave a victim card. But, it all comes back to me. And now it is time to forgive. But the forgiveness is not for him. I have tended the row of compassion in my garden where he is concerned. I have nurtured it for all the people in my life--my parents and other past relationships--for people who did the best that they could. Those who were on their own journey and brought to me and loved me from their own fountains of pain and brokenness, unknowingly. The secret ingredient to make my garden flourish was/is forgiveness. But, it is not forgiveness of another. It is forgiveness for me.

Mercy. Starts. At. Home.

Autism Summers; Past, Present

 

 

Funny....Time, when in the midst of it, seems an eternity. Long gone, it is a fleeting memory.

Summers past. Precious days. Years-on at a camp inclusion. Then: aged out.

Now, 18. We have little such possibility.

At the start of our journey, two friends dedicated themselves to advocacy. They'd carved a path for inclusion. At the end of their children's school career, they looked behind them. Dismayed. No one had followed.

One of them, still at it. The other, retired.

Funny....Now we stand where they stood. Grace and I. Child(ren) turned 18.

 
From here, looking back, I see the struggles continue.

From a place of long-entrenched peace, I attempt to assure young parents new to the journey that they will survive. Even thrive. If they choose. If they can lose the clench hold on their worry and know that somehow, though imperfect and too often battle-scar inflicting, it does work out.

And then....We continue on.

 

 

Photo: ©LeisaHammett.com, "Android-ography," Pixlr-o-matic app; Path to Jordan Lake, Jamestown, Tenn.; May, private writer's retreat

 

 

 

Happy Fourth of July, All!

 

 

May your holiday celebrations of our great land be full of amusement! And, God Bless America and ALL Nations of our world! Photo: Williamson County Fair, 2011, ©LeisaHammett.com, "Android-ography," with Pixlr-o-matic app.

Sunday Travels: Loveless to Leiper's

On my birthday weekend, I managed to do everything that I wanted to do: dine out, walk in the park, visit the Franklin Farmers Market, catch a flick, visit The Loveless, drive a bit of the Natchez Trace Parkway, visit Leiper's Fork, browse a bookstore and play with my pictures. Woo-hoo!

(left to right): The Loveless Cafe (which, has unfortunately changed management); the Natchez Trace Parkway; downtown Leiper's Fork, Tenn. ©LeisaHammett.com.
Natchez Trace Parkway, ©LeisaHammett.com

(left to right): The view from Leiper's Creek Gallery (a must-see. Owner Lisa Fox has impeccable taste in artists, many whom are local plein-air painters, plus sculptors;) Joe Natural's Farm Store & Cafe.