Leisa A. Hammett

Compassion: A Valentine 4 Self; Dr. Kristin Neff

Psychologist Kristin Neff is the mother and wife featured in the book and movie, "The Horse Boy." The movie was reviewed here on "The Journey with Grace." I found Neff's work via a Google search after I first viewed an advance copy of the film. What an incredibly, multi-talented, loving, amazing family.

 

 

 

Recently, I stumbled upon an online interview  about how Neff used her research practices on Self-Compassion for herself when her son was diagnosed with autism.

I love how this journey of autism/disAbility can use our gifts to transform not only ourselves but those around us near and far....

Happy Valentines Day, tomorrow. Love yourself. You are the foundation of your Life, Your Family, Your World. Compassion for others--so needed in our world--starts from Within....

Here's another incredible look at loving and taking care of yourself from the perspective of another special needs, mother. Julie Keon: What I Would Tell You.

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Interestingly, a week ago after walking Radnor Lake I returned to my car to see someone had gifted me two discount sale copies of The Horse Boy. (Who are you? Either you know me or you saw my autism bumper sticker and puzzle magnet...?) I am keeping one copy since you meant for me to have it and will donate the other to our local Autism Society. Thank you!

Passages of Time

 

"The days are long, but the years are short." --Gretchen Rubin, The Happiness Project

 

January 11, 2012...the date entered at the beginning of the morning's journal entry. It caused me pause....As the seasons come around...as the seasons arrive...yet another one is gone...another one is new. I am, once again, struck by the passage of time, as I tend to be when the seasons change--a key marker for the passage of time in my life. Maybe for others, too? It's as if I have a flashback, a quick deja vu. I realize: Oh. My. Another spring?! Another summer?! Another fall?! Another...winter?! Another year has gone by. Here I am again. Anew. A beginning. A chance to begin again. It's humbling in a way. Another year lived. Another sped by. And, here....I am. Now....[And a month has passed since I penned this in my journal.]

Photos, Leisa A. Hammett, copyrighted. I love the austerity of winter, especially as illustrated by bare tree limbs and expansive skies. GrateFULL.

Telling the Truth About Deen's Sugar-Coated Lie

The hoo-la over the diagnosis of the Queen of Fat & Sugar, Culinary Marketing Guru, Paula Deen, with Type-2 diabetes has simmered down a bit in the last week. I guess. At risk of sounding self-righteous: I really don't know because I rarely flick on the boob tube and best I knew, the controversy was never reported on my only news source, NPR. It was the blogosphere that tipped me off to the mean and nasty fest that was broiling over Deen's diagnosis. Talented blogger, special needs dad Rob Rummel-Hudson (Schuyler's Monster: A Father's Journey with His Wordless Daughter) posted on Facebook that making the Savannah-based Diva the butt of jokes was in poor taste. But via local Nashville fitness blogger Dyan of Don't Diet, Live It! that I learned the distasteful back story....

Dis. A. Point. Ing. Very.

From the headlines I expected a reformation. A new movement. I imagined the lives of foodie followers led down the table runner to salvation with Deen seated at the head teaching new math with a division of loaves and fishes and reversing her condition. (It is done. It is possible. I've witnessed it multiple times.) A reformed sugarholic for nearly 25  years now, I was excited, enthusiastic, as I clicked the news link, anxious to savor the details. Maybe this will be a wake up call for America's choice-ridden slide into obesity, I fancied. But. No. The scoop is Deen has known for three years about her diagnosis and sidles up to the public now with the endorsement of Big Pharma--Novo Nordisk-- a company that manufactures injectable diabetes meds. Her two sons, who do not have the diagnosis flank her as company spokespeople....Dialing up the heat of insult, Deen states in all seriousness:

She does not plan to limit her dietary excesses except her propensity for sugar-shocked, Southern tea. Writes "Coach Dyan" who watched Deen perform in a media circus parade, including The Today show: "She does not plan to change her lifestyle or cooking style[....]She said that she, like all other baby boomers, must face the reality of developing diabetes, heart disease, and high cholesterol."

There. Someone said it. Deen vocalized the sentiment of too many Americans. Descending into old, decrepit age, chock full of prescription meds and frequent consultations with allopathic medical doctors is just. The. Way. It. Is. Disease Rules.

Not.

Why am I passionate about this? Am I trying to pick at Paula? No. But I will speak the truth of my experience here. This mentality, as spoken aloud and lived by Deen, is a very real, negative reality in our culture today. But, I have chosen and live and believe in an alternative reality where Choosing Health Wins. As a young post-college adult, I began eating poorly, indulging in fat, excess sugar and fake foods. By my mid-20's, I developed a host of annoying gastric and transfered conditions. My trips to doctors became routine. By the end of that decade I was diagnosed with heavy metal poisoning, chronic intestinal yeast, chemical sensitivities and chronic fatigue syndrome. Eventually I found the ways of Western medicine and synthetic pharmaceuticals made me sicker. I quit listening to standard medicine and went the way of the quack, as our culture considered natural and alternative and diet-based medicine back then. Now? Science has proven those weird ideas...that too many in our culture still consider foreign. In one year I cured my chronic fatigue syndrome and heavy metal poisoning with the help of innovative, open-minded medical doctors in Atlanta, where I was then living. By first changing the content of what I ate, I immediately saw results in my weight, hair, skin and nails. I ate then and now a whole foods-based diet. Real. Food. Fruits. Vegetables. Whole grains. Some dairy and some quality meats. Organic as much as possible and lots of pure water. I have my dark chocolate and I drink wine on occasion. And if I let off the lid my sugar tooth will still rule. So, yes, those who know me have seen me big at the party buffet. The contents of my pantry? As pristine as a health food store.

My journey to whole food led me not only to whole health but to yoga and then to environmentalism because I saw how I ate affected how I treated the earth and in turn the earth's ability to sustain humankind. I learned as my mind cleared and my body cleaned itself from the inside out, that it is difficult to be fully conscious when I crammed fake stuff that my body could not process. And that clarity, slowly over the next couple of decades led me to a wider more inclusive spiritual path. In my experience, one led to the other, all so beautifully connected. I am so grateful for the journey that started with getting sick from a contemporary American diet and has served by body, mind and spirit so well the two ensuing decades.

We do have a choice about our health. And making a choice for optimal health is particularly important if you, like me, are a special needs parent. How can I meet the lifetime demands of my differently abled daughter if I am not preparing my body to sustain the long journey ahead? I do this--I eat pure the majority of time and I excercise regularly first for me and my quality of my Life. And then I do it for Her and any other loved one that may be in my life at a given time. And then, I do it for Us. What our culture is failing to realize is that WE ALL pay when some of us choose the path of disease. All of our costs go up. Preventative medicine via preventive diet, the bountiful foods of Mother Earth, are mighty cheap in comparison.

My Truth: Eat Well. Eat Real. Eat Whole. And do not accept that doctors, disease and decrepitness are the future. You bet the hell I am not. Make that I'm choosing the heaven of living well. Diss Dean and preventable disease and follow the path toward health. Quality lies there.

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What Deen's not taking into consideration with her refusal to change her diet and simply take medication: According to Mayo Clinic those with Type 2 diabetes may feel fine at first in the early stages but complications include: heart and blood vessel disease; nerve, kidney, eye, foot damage; skin and mouth conditions, osteoporosis and Alzheimer's.

Monday Morning Addendum: below, I've added three comments. The longest one shares two aspects of clarification, including more of my recent journey here for greatest authenticity. Thank all you who've visited here already this morning!

Two Current Movies Feature Asperger's

In theaters now, two movies highlight Asperger's syndrome. Viewed last weekend, Joyful Noise, alone, didn't charm enough with it's fun, fabulous music, and tender plot to demand anything other than a blurb on Facebook. But last night's take on Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close wrenched my guts and propelled me to the keyboard...not to mention that's two movies--released in the first month of 2012--both featuring characters with the high-functioning form of autism. (...Screw DSM-V. Details on the controversy on "The Journey with Grace" this Wednesday.)

 

Such an oddball match, it's alluring, Queen Latifah and Dolly Pardon play two deep-in-Georgia matriarchs with big hearts and opposing wills. The music score is riveting and rocking throughout. And hot newcomer Jeremy Jordan is ever easy on the eyes and ears. It's a heart-tugging story of hard times and big hopes. It's a bit cornball and thoroughly Southern. Any guy or gal, like me, that's grown up in an evangelical Protestant church (sshhh, don't tell anyone!) will be time tripped back into Wednesday night choir practice as it it were old home week. It's sweet and tendar and a bit mushy and a depiction of what small-town life might be in the best of circumstances where color doesn't matter nor does quirkiness, of which there is plenty. Not the least of which, in the quirky department, is Queen Latifah's son with Asperger's. A subplot of struggles in both families play out, with love, friendship and music saving the day. Unless your itching to grab a show out, save this feel-good flick for the Netflix list.

 

But the two-plus hours spent last night in a too-warm, packed theater to see Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close was worth every minute. This is one of the most incredible movies I've seen in a long time. The acting was absolutely impeccable. Flawless. Every. Single. Actor....Tom Hanks, Sandra Bullock, John Goodman, Viola Davis (The Help,) Max Von Sydow (who impressively pulls off the role of a mute Holocaust survivor,) and the nine-year-old narrator, who has Asperger's--Thomas Horn. My friend pronounced Horn a child prodigy for his performance. (It's not the first time the young actor won accolades.)

The multi-layered and clever plot, based on the epononmously named 2005 novel by Jonathan Safran Foer is thoroughly engrossing. The tradegy of 9-11 is central to the movie and it painfully picks the scab left on the  American psyche. But, this is not a "9-11 movie." Instead, viewers are swept up in a little boy's Asperger's riddled and angst-ridden search. Metaphor is courses. And, cinematography stuns--especially with the close-ups of the child protagonist.

I'm one of those people who reads the playbill after the play. And, hence, movie reviews after the film. Reviews were a bit dour on Incredibly Loud and Extremely Close. (Blah-blah.) I judge that much like the audience's reaction at the movie's ending. Immediately around my friend and I were a number of twentysomethings who quickly stood up from their seats, as the credits began to roll, and loudly voiced their reactions. They were not parents, most likely. And, too, most likely unaware of the intensity of parental love and the grabbling experience of autism that they'd just witnessed. Yet, other theater goers eagerly appaulded the moment the screen went dark before the roll of actors appeared. Hankies dabbed, loud sniffs and sniffling sounded. And, I shook, literally, with tears at the movie's end. I'm not sure I've every been moved so viscerally by a movie, except maybe Farenheit 9/11, which incited intense anger within me.

So, thumbs up, Hollywood. You got us covered. Twice. Thank you. And for Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, one word. Or, rather one more word: BRILLIANT. (And...one more: bravo!)

*Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close garnered two Academy Award nominations including for Best Picture. Not writing about on "The Journey with Grace," but Meryl Streep delivered her ever-classic and flawless performance on The Iron Lady. That's another one worth catching when out on a winter's eve.

I'm Not Sorry....

It'd been nearly 10 years since I met up with my friend from the small, informal playgroup in which we were both members when our children were babes. Long ago she'd moved to Western North Carolina. When I vacationed in Asheville last summer, we shared a meal downtown. Time had passed, gray peeked through our locks and lines had crept from the corners of our eyes. Our children were grown now, one of hers had jumped from the nest and the other was perched on the edge. A far cry from the diaper swaddled, round-bellied children who lolled about on the floor as their female parents dissected our roles as mothers, wives, women, politics, religion...no topics were left un-discussed by this special, treasured, diverse group who met twice a month in each others' living rooms.

I told my old friend the news of my marriage ending and she began a refrain: "That SUCKS! That SUCKS! That. Just. SUCKS!" She repeated it several times during the download of current events portion of our catchup. I winced each time she said it. I knew it came from a place of love and compassion. She grieved for me, her friend. She knew how I'd left one marriage, bundled my hopes and then entered another almost a decade later. It wasn't supposed to turn out to be this way....Or was it?

After we finished our lunches and hugged each other goodbye I got in touch with the discomfort her words summoned within me. It was my Life. And it didn't and it doesn't suck. Was I disappointed? Hell, yes! I'd lost something that I'd expected. Something Big. But, my Life, despite "the current condition" didn't and doesn't suck. The experience and the Gift of Life is just too precious to let our conditions, many of which we create, mar our perspective--the total picture of The Goodness. The Joy. The Hope. And, The Blessings of Living. They exist, in Real Time amid what we label as heartache, frustrations and our loss of what we expected....

Journaling yesterday morning, I tried to parse out these feelings once again and decided to come here, vulnerable, open, and share them with you. It was here and on the social media venue of Facebook, where "The Journey with Grace" is also posted, that many readers were extremely kind, generous and gracious,  expressing in the comments on both online sites that they were "sorry" when I humbly and authentically shared the news of Divorce 2.0. Again, I knew, I know, the words, the sentiments of "sorry," were and are a sincere, heart-felt attempt from dear, compassionate people grasping for intangible words to communicate that they wished things had turned out differently for me.

But...Sorry? No, I am not. I am not because I know and I see the Great Divine Scheme in how Life works. This doesn't don me with some magical power that others do not have. There are others who also see their lives this way. It is in the teachings of the ancients and the great teachers of the 19th century, which formed  New Thought. But our culture conditions us otherwise. To Blame. To Pity. To proclaim "Woe is Me." Have I had my moments of sorry or woe-ing me? Oh. Yeah. I've hosted a number of pity parties complete with a band. (Grief is Good. It is Real. It is Normal. It is Necessary.) But then I snapped out of it. I took the handlebars and not the sidecar seat because I know that I am the author of my Life. It, this Life,  does not happen to me or others at random. I am not at the mercy and control of a Sky God who wishes me harm and unhappiness. I am a co-creator in this Life of mine. And when my choices are "less than optimal," as I choose to call them, I have the opportunity to mine the Gold in them. And there is Gold. There is Gold in all of Life. I've found Gold in Autism. I have found Gold in Job Loss. I have found Gold in Grief. And I have found Gold in Divorce. (I even believe there is Gold in cancer. Surely you've heard the stories of the jewels found?) I know with all of my heart that I could not have reached this destination of Now and gained the awareness of past influences on my choices without the mining, without plunging to the depths that I have in my Life. And, that I would not reach the Now of tomorrows had I of not gone down deep and learned what I needed to learn. Now the smart thing is to make sure I pave a path with that Gold that directs me to wiser choices that bring me less pain going forward. But it takes a lot more mining.

I've got perpetual helmet hair these days because of all this mining. But, I've no regret for the hard work of shoveling before me.

Sorry? No. GrateFULLness.

Photo: Leisa A. Hammett, my new patio garden. "Begin Again" stone from my all-time favorite catalog, Isabella.

An Irreverent Homage to a Mentor

Someone special left earth Monday night. I met Jim Newton when I was a whipper snapper still in college, a senior holding down my studies and commuting an hour from school to the 1982 World's Fair in Knoxville where I was the communications director for an on-site pavilion. We became friends and he, also a professional adviser to me. Two years later, when I left my next job, which would be in Nashville, I'd learn that he'd asked my employers if they'd loan me to be his communications assistant for a special assignment in Lausanne, Switzerland. They said no. (Insert explicative for male dogs and an exclamation point.) You'da bet I'd of said "YES!" and been packin' my bags if he'd asked me directly. But then the dogs and I eventually had a parting of ways and I ended up in Atlanta working for Jim.

This seasoned, veteran newsman, turned savvy public relations adviser was brutally honest. He cut me no slack in editing my youngster’s too-often sloppy copy. I learned from him as he wrote both pr strategies and disaster plans, literally pounding out their drafts on an old, noisy clunker electric typewriter. And while he could cut my ego to its knees, he always had a kind word to add that encouraged me to keep going.

Those were some of the best years of my youth. We had a special team of 20- to 40somethings working together in the communications department of a nonprofit agency. In our wing, we dissected world news, talked about art, politics, our shared the love our burgeoning city and our lust for good food. We eagerly consumed that food during lunch hours that were beyond the legal limits rightfully dictated by our employer.

Jim was my first mentor. There had been others before, but he was the first to whom I pinned that name. This was the mid-80s and "mentor" back then had another connotation in certain contexts. And Jim would grin slyly when I said that and remind me of that double meaning. But that was Jim. He loved the fact that he was "just a dirty old man." He flaunted it as a badge of honor. Back then he was the age then that I am now. And I remember well the belly dancer we whisked quickly into the building foyer and up to the fifth floor for a surprise performance on his 50th birthday. This was not an ordinary workplace. It was a religious organization. A conservative one. And what we'd done was delightfully taboo. And, frowned upon when word got out. Oops. Too late.

Jim thought that tagging himself as a dirty old man meant he could get away with certain comments and approving looks regarding a woman's appearance. In one of my angriest moments I'm sure I shook with anger as I fiercely glared at him, pointed my finger and threatened: "If this were IBM you couldn't get away with those kinds of comments! For the record they were mostly somewhat benign, but then they weren't. This was the 80s and women--particularly nice Southern girls like me working in religious organizations--didn't have words and categories to describe these situations. That was before Anita Hill.

Anita Hill left her mark in history, bless her, more than two decades ago. And she left one on my mentor, Jim. Internet technology reconnected us over the last decade and more than once via phone and email, he told me that he now got it, that commenting on a woman's appearance in the manner that he did within the workplace was not acceptable. Thanks to Anita, he now understood my anger. And he apologized. Humbly. Repeatedly.

And now I am humbled. During the holidays the "call Jim" notation never made it off my to-do list into an actually phone call. I had heard that his leukemia had returned and things weren't looking good. And then week before last, I heard that he had been moved to hospice. I exchanged emails with one of my former colleagues. It looked to be too late to call. And then, last Monday, it really was too late. Time was up...

Time has long been up, too, for my whipper snapper days. Despite his “dirty old man" behavior, I loved Jim. I am grateful for having worked with him. I am grateful for his honesty, even when it was a bit abrasive. For his kindness to me. For his belief in me. I sometimes then did not feel worthy. I think maybe he saw in me what I could become. I am appreciative in how he shared his knowledge. He took me under his wing.  Maybe I wasn't the only one he mentored that way. He loved me and he loved us all, all the talented people he chose so carefully to be a part of his team. He was good to us. But then he did expect something of all of us in return....

Every one of us in the department had a tale of being interrupted in our work in the late afternoon by a frantic Jim, high on coffee and sometimes antihistamines (this was Atlanta and pollen was plenty,) plus mega doses of adrenaline. (Jim subsisted on those three ingredients back then.) Could we take him to the airport he'd ask, his eyeballs and neck veins popping? And, he always asked us this wee favor with one hour (or less) to spare before his flight departed. Again, this was decades before 911 changed everything and now that one hour will barely allow a traveler to reach their gate. Jim always made it to the plane. Everytime. But by the time he leaped out of the passenger side and slammed the door, the veins and eyeballs of his once calm chauffer were also popping, their own heart pounding with adrenaline. I made that trek from midtown Atlanta to the airport, maneuvering rush hour jams more than once. At one point, we my colleagues and I may have made a pact, in those Nancy Reagan days, to "Just Say 'No'" to Jim.

The world has changed since 1982, when I first met Jim. But my fondness, my gratitude, they are eternal. Like the place that he has gone to now. Jim: I join so many who will miss you. Thank you for the multitude of blessings (and laughs...often at your expense) you gifted us here with your presence. I hope you are happy and that there are lots of coffee and maybe a few pretty women, cause, you know...some things never completely change....

Grace

 

grace n

A favor rendered. 

A[n...] immunity or exemption; a reprieve. 

Divine love and protection bestowed freely [...].

The state of being protected [...].

Suddenly....Life as I'd known it somersaulted up into the air, spinning. Spinning. Landing me. Abruptly. Crashing me down upon my ear. I was no longer a mother choosing to be at home raising my young child. Instead, I found myself creeping along the interstate amid frantic a.m. commutes to Vanderbilt for early intervention. My daughter had just been diagnosed with autism.

Quickly, I checked myself back into therapy. Old baggage, once stowed, jammed into recesses, had suddenly reappeared demanding me to unpack its' contents so I could travel the arduous journey ahead. My therapist then, told me at least twice, if not more, that someday I'd realize why I'd chosen to name my daughter "Grace." She said this so confidently. So compassionately. Smiling knowingly at me each time she told me this. Even after we parted ways, upon meeting up with her a time or two, even years later, she'd say the same thing. The name "Grace" had been chosen more, she implied, than the fact that one of my college best friends had named her oldest daughter "Olivia Grace," and I liked the middle name so much I copycatted. It was more than the fact that I was enamoured with the old fashioned name of old women from my childhood. More than the fact that Susan Dey's character on L.A. Law was affectionately called "Gracie" by her handsome lover. More than the fact that it was the only name my Grace's father and I could agree upon. More, even, than that grace was the single most defining word for what I believed was the essence of God Divine.

Fifteen. That many years later, battle scars inflicted and healed, not one divorce but two laying in the battlefield of my soul. Both parents now departed....At last. I knew. I got it. Grace....I'd named my daughter Grace because grace...was what I needed for myself....

Mercy. Compassion. And...Grace. May I continually drink them deeply. May I own and embrace them fully for myself. May I show them to you and all those who may cross my path. (I'm learning. There's a curve.) I now realize it truly starts with me--with each one of ourselves...manifesting within first and then pouring into the external. May you, too, find these things for yourself and for our world. Just think what could happen....

I am grateful for this grace.

Namaste.

Divorce 2.0

...This is the blog post that once upon a time I dreaded writing. Back last early June when I moved out of the house I shared with Husband 2.0, I dreaded the thought of coming here and posting this very personal and once very painful news. And then, over the months as I began the process of actively healing, the time that I shared it here could not come soon enough. Not all of the dread of sharing this very intimate bit of news here has dissipated. It's just that Life has gone on in many respects and I've been eager to be authentic here with you, my readers. But paperwork and circumstances beyond my control caused a wait of at least five months before my second divorce was final.

Now I'm not proud to say I've been divorced twice. Oh. No. Nor to share it here. I am living testimony of the culture of today. You know, the voyeuristic, tell-all, tweet it, post it on Facebook, blog about it culture. I've engaged in it readily because this is part of my Art. Without regret. Writing is how I express myself. And to be a writer in the thick of contemporary culture, well, online media is where it's at. I shared here about "The Boyfriend" of three years, who became "The Fiance" and then whom I wedded, making him "Husband 2.0." So, in the spirit of authenticity and of closing this painful lesson-chocked chapter of my Life, I'm sharing this news with you--as soon as I could do so officially. Yes, there's been a hell of a lot of inferences here to divorce and something deep and kinda dark going on in my Life since early May. (And then the day after we went to court to stand before the judge, uncontested, I made a passing reference. January 14 marked 90 days, when in the state of Tennessee, a divorce claim, once filed is official, if uncontested.

The essence of my lifestory to this point, the one I aim to share here and in my books is that it is not what happens to you, to us, to me, but how you, we, I, choose to react to it. Hey, Life Happens. Substitute the second word in that sentence if you like. But even then, perception is up to the individual person living it.

I won't write any gory details here. In my moments of negative fantasies--which usually seem to happen in the shower--I'd post shitty stuff on Facebook. But that is not who I am. And that would not serve anyone--me, Husband 2.0, or you--the reader. I know that I get back what I put out. And I want positivity in my Life. And while this divorce is completely different than the one from Grace's father--The Wuzband versus Husband 2.0...hey gotta have some fun with it all, eh?--overall it has been conducted peaceably. And, I still maintain that is so the way to go if at all possible and I believe it is possible more often than not.

If you've really grasped the essence of what I write about here, what threads through my posts about Life and disAbility again and again, you know that I value a sense of personal Spirituality. That I believe Life is Good. Maybe I've not been so clear that I also believe that there are no mistakes. Okay, I'll concede... maybe...sometimes..."less than optimal choices." But there's that Choice word. And then there's the Perfect word. Something I write about a lot in regards to my daughter with autism. What if it's all Good? What if it's all Divinely Perfect? Perfectly Imperfect? I do believe it is....

The last year-plus was one hell of year.  I turned 50. I remarried. I turned 51, I got divorced again. And in the process, a very integral part of this picture, which I have written about frankly, my last remaining parent died. As I wrote here and here, I could not see some of the patterns that I had unconsciously created in my Life until my father died. His death was a HUGE wake up call. And, I believe that Life gives us those calls and they get louder and LOUDER until we really, really hear them. Until we "come to" and listen.

I believe that sometimes painful things in our Life have to come about to propel us on to our Greatest Good. I'm propelling. Very much so. And I look forward to sharing with you where I am going.  Stay Tuned. I'm wincing now and then, but I'm excited about my New Life ahead. 2012, bring 'er on!

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As of midnight Sunday, I have eliminated the "Journey with Grace" blog category "Marriage 2.0." This is a personal decision I've reached after much thought. None of the posts in that category will disappear from this blog as they were placed in one or more categories upon their creation. 

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"Disappointment to a noble soul is what cold water is to burning metal; it strengthens, tempers, intensifies, but never destroys it."--from Eliza Tabor

Teamwork

Swiftly, we entered my condo and like seasoned professionals began a triage of sorts. Instead of doctors, it was The Wuzband and I and the patient was our 17-year-old daughter with autism. She'd just had oral surgery to remove her wisdom teeth. I pulled out old beach towels and spread them under and on top of the covers, while he supervised her toileting from outside the bathroom. I ran cool water onto washcloths, wrung them, rolled ice cubes into them and tucked them within plastic bags before stowing  them in the freezer. Soon, our subject, too, was out cold.

It occurred to me how smoothly we assumed our positions, her father and I. A team. Our post divorce relationship has never fit the stereotype society wants us to believe of two warring parents. Nashville's leading special needs trust attorney once told me that she'd seen a lot of parents like us. That somehow, when there was a special needs child involved, the mother and the father seemed to get it right. The only true reference I have for that is our own experience. And, from what friends in and outside of the disAbility community say, we are exemplary. (I am currently learning about "Conscious Uncoupling" and may share more here on the blog at some point, perhaps soon. In 2010, I wrote on "The Journey with Grace" about Spiritual Divorce.)

All I know is that before the judge raised the hammer from her desk and declared "Divorced" from The Wuzband, I'd gotten clear that what we disagreed upon when we were married would never be agreed upon as divorced parents. Leave old well enough alone and start anew. I remember the day, where I stood and the approximate time when I raised my hand in the form of "Stop!" and nonverbally made this declaration to myself and to him.

So, we work together as a team now whereas we didn't so well before. We triage in times of surgery (there have been several,) and in our weekly passing of the small torch we lit together--the one who will always burn brightly in both our hearts.

You, see, when parents become embittered, spitting poisons at one another as "ex-es" or soon-to-be, they've got it all wrong. While they may wish to punish the one to whom they once said, "I Do," they hurt most the small ones who still need their love. I say: Grow up! Act your age! You're a parent! You've got a charge who does not disappear once the divorce papers are signed. Agree to disagree and then love that/those child(ren) and make them priority.  You may no longer love the other parent, but do the right thing by that child whom the two of you brought forth into this world and whom would not be here on this earth if you had not once upon a time, even for a few moments, loved one another.

The teamwork, when it comes to parenting, continues whether you're married or not. And in the case of "special children," that teamwork is often going to continue long past age 18. It will continue until you each breathe your last breath. Make it work. Life will be easier. You will be blessed for doing the right thing.

The jewel, the evidence, in my memory that we had a special thing--The Wuzband and I--was when my mother died three years ago. The Wuzband, left work, drove up from Birmingham and picked up our daughter. I drove to South Carolina to be with my family. My then boyfriend drove down a few days later and The Wuzband drove Grace up from Alabama. (Complex maneuvering and coordination is the sub-story of my Life.) The Boyfriend and The Wuzband later rode together to my sister's house from the church after the funeral. Together, all of us, as a family, dined on funeral fare that afternoon. And long after we put down our forks and spoons and licked our chops, The Wuzband, who was a member of our family for nearly two decades, stayed and visited with my family.

That is called Peaceful Parenting. Peaceful Divorce. It's doable. If you find yourself at the threshold of Divorce...as too many find themselves at the precipice of a New Year--just do it. Do it Right. Do it for the children. Years down the road, you'll be so glad you did. I believe in You.

Launching 2012: New Year's Traditions

There's the standard fare of black-eyed peas (the edible version you stir in a pot) and greens. Opening and closing a door to let out the old, jumping from a perch at midnight to leap into the new....And while I usually incorporate those fun things into the dawn of my new year traditions, I also incorporate two others.

Burning bowl, Leisa A.Hammett

I was in my late 20s, living in Atlanta, when I first heard about The Burning Bowl ceremony observed by Unity churches across the country. But it was a decade-and-half later, in 2003, before I attended my first and have continued almost every year since then. In essence, you write down all the things in your life you wish to discard and be done with and then you burn that list. At Unity of Nashville, burning bowl service,  attendees then write a letter to themselves as if it were the end of the year, congratulating themselves for all the things they have manifested in their lives. The church mails the letter in the self-addressed envelope at the end of the year and it is amazing to see what the spirit of intention can manifest. This year's service was done more Taize style and I found it to the most moving burning bowl service I had attended. Maybe it was in part that I was so ready to release and start anew. I left feeling purged and cleansed.

II felt the same at the end of Sunday, when I created a trilogy of vision boards to manifest three main things in my life this coming year. In 2007, a climatic year in my life, I created my first vision board. Before I even pasted down the image of New York City I felt compelled to place into my career section, something incredible happened....Every year since I've either attended an artist friend's vision board party or created my own alone. This year I hosted a small gathering of friends in my home. Between clipping, pasting and arranging, we sipped mimosas and fed our souls with friendship and steaming bowls of black-eyed peas and chopped kale. I generally "feng shui" mine, clustering certain things I wish to manifest in my life into certain areas on the poster board. Again, I have been amazed that often up to nearly 90 percent of what I intend to create, big and small, manifests. It's about the power of intention, of creative thought, of Believing. I generally put mine in my kitchen in a very visible spot, such as the cupboard next to the fridge where I reach for my drinking glasses so that each time it is in my visual field, I either consciously or unconsciously am reminded about what it is that I am choosing to create. My goals have ranged from love relationships, travel, things for my daughter, career achievements, small material items, etc. 

However you mark the beginning of this New Year, I wish it to be full of Peace, Joy, Love, Happiness and Abundance for you. I'd love to hear your traditions here in the blog comments! 2012 is going to be phenomenal! I'm convinced!