Leisa A. Hammett

Happy Birthday. To. Me!

Happy Monday and Happy Birthday. To. Me! Today I am 50-plus-three. And, here goes my annual "Journey with Grace" post on turning a year older....About 10 years ago, my quintessential Southern lady friend, Patsy, who always wore her long, blond hair tightly and perfectly coiffed and lacquered upon her pretty head, ssshhhed me when I dared to utter my age in public. "Leisa!" she chided: "Don't start telling people your age!"

I finally got it this last year that if I worked in Corporate America or some other more traditional institution of employment rather than self-employment (since 1991) and the Office of Special Needs Motherhood, I might be a little more reticent to proclaim my chronology aloud.

But, sorry, Patsy, here's why I do.  I believe age is good. I am not ashamed of my age. I've earned what's come with it. And yeah, some fringe benefits aren't so fringe-y. More on that later. I refuse to buy into the belief that we screech downhill upon hitting 40. I'm pretty aghast to hear this sentiment from too many around me born in my decade and the one before it and the one after it. We are still young, people! Like the rest of life, I believe much of age is about choice. Choice of attitude--how we view age and how we treat our bodies. Like, you know, that little scripture passage in "The Good Book" about treating our bodies as temples? Well, yeah. It's all we've got. These conglomerations of cells that propel us around. Science supports this and also that it's never too late to start taking better care of one's health.

Before I come across like I'm preaching the message of "Holier Than Thou," I've had my years lulling in the pits of physical health. I got sick despite my years of regular exercise. (I finally got my lazy butt active during my last semester of college when the stressors of commuting to "the big city" of Knoxville from my small college town while simultaneously balancing a full course load and a full time job. Stress relief! Yes!) But, my diet did not follow suit and my health progressively worsened throughout my 20s when my diet consisted of sugar-sugar, carbs and fried "fern bar" foods. By the time I turned 27, my body declared "No More!" and for the next five years, I collected diagnoses that included chronic intestinal yeast, TMJ, multi-heavy metal poisonings and Epstein-Barr--which was quickly morphing into Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. 
Luckily, I lived in Atlanta then and had progressive wholistic physicians who quickly set me on the path to recovery through diet, nutritional supplementation, intravenous chelation, deep tissue massage and amino acid therapies. (Read, I was cured. And, taught a HUGE and costly lesson about health and my body.)

Though I've slipped from time to time, sometimes fixating on my over-love for sugar, I never left the whole foods lifestyle. My supplements are not covered by insurance but the only prescription drug I've taken for years are natural, compounded bio-identical hormones, which, overall, have helped me sail fairly smoothly through a very, very (sigh) long perimenopause. (Whether I've reached the denouement, is still up in the air.)

In my late 20's I also began practicing yoga. Back, you know, before it was cool. Folks, yoga, tai chi or, the most gentle and easiest, qi gong, are the three ways to stay flexible when aging. Don't move and muscles and joints will lock up. Remember, I'm not pulpiteering here. I neglected my diet and exercise when finishing my first book and it took me a very long time to regain my flexibility and loose the extra pounds padded on via daily comfort food indulgence. As for exercise in addition to morning yoga (about 10 minutes, followed by a short meditation--which also has health benefits,) I walk. This week, for Grace's health--as she's experienced a recent, unexplained weight gain--we are starting with a trainer, which I plan to document here. I want not only good health for myself but good health for her.

Read the under message here: I am the mother to a daughter who has moderately severe autism. I am 
53,  she is 19. Developmentally, she is anywhere from four to six. And I am, did I say it before? I'm 53. Last week was extremely challenging because not only is she a young adult with the mind of a child, she is aging out of services. I want to come back here and write and write and write about the challenges of this third summer of her aging out. But, damn, I'm busy driving her to kingdom-come right now. Hence, I could not manage a post last Friday. (I'll catch up here. Eventually.)

Parents of special needs children--you, my sisters and brothers on this arduous journey: PLEASE take care of yourselves! You're not going to be there for your child if you eat and live like there's no tomorrow. I am aghast at the epidemic of indulgence-induced obesity in our land of gross-plenty. WE are breaking our healthcare system. We are to blame. And, yes, again, I've had periods of over-eating: in 1997-2000 to soothe my grief over my child's diagnosis. In 2007 to 2011 when I said yes to a relationship that was destructive. Again, I used food to stuff down the feelings with which I refused to deal. And, at late 40s and early 50s, I couldn't bounce back from the ill-health effects of weight gain as easily as I it did when I was in my late 30s and early 40s. And, I knew that the path of pills and bowing to the system of medical dieties would not cure me. Only making wiser choices and getting back to the clean virtues--eating and living a whole foods lifestyle would and could work for me. And it is working. I gained 15 to 20 pounds in said relationship. I've got about five to go now. Weight Watchers works well for me because it teaches portion control and just what the cost of each food I put in my body. Right now, I'm using me as my locus of control. Relying on the internal and not the external....

I wanna live. And I wanna live well. I wanna live for me. And, I wanna to live for my daughter. And, I wanna live--in the ways that are unique to me, using my gifts--in service to my world. And I know that to do so, it's a web of commitment. A dedication that I make each day. And the more I do it, the more natural and innate it continues to become. I choose to age well to the best of my ability. And I choose to believe that age is not a curse but both process and progress.

Hello, 53. Thank you for choosing me today. Happy birthday. To. Me. 

Will B. Dunn: RIP

Honestly, I never knew a whole-whole lot about Will Campbell, who died yesterday, a life well- and long-lived in irreverence and in service of the just God in which he believed. I had friends who were friends of his, reporter colleague-friends who'd interviewed him, friends who'd met him. He lived on the other side of town, here in NashVegas. My favorite story via a friend who talked to him at a Southern Baptist Convention (SBC):

It was half-a-decade-plus, probably, into the Fundamentalists' hostile corporate-style take over of the SBC, then, at least, the largest Protestant denomination in the country. Something of which they are/were very proud. I know because I worked in the communications departments of their various agencies for 11 years. (Bet many of you didn't know that, did you?) (I try to keep it a secret.)

One particular year, Campbell showed up at the annual convention donning special attire for the occasion. (The collective body of Southern Baptist churches are called a Convention and then The Convention has a convention. Every June.) Since the kick-off of that 10-year successfully waged and won battle to claim The Convention back from the liberals, the Fundies--as we used to call them--made ummm, what's the superlative? Something besides horrific--which they were--declarations each June during their three day (or was it five-day Convention? My memory of the misery is partially blocked). Rev. Bailey Smith of the great state of Texas made the first. (Now remember I'm JUST the messenger here). "God doesn't hear the prayers of a Jew." (WHAT? Ummm. Wasn't Jesus a Jew?) All you little girls who grew up in SBC churches in the golden era of (the liberals, ha!) who decided to become ministers and are about to graduate seminaries?: "Women cannot be ministers." (Or, at least the ministers that lead and preach behind the pulpit of the church every Sunday.) Or, oh, yeah: deacons, either!) "Boycott Disney because they promote homosexuality." (Huh?!) And I think they were at it harping on the gay thing again last year. (And I think a very old Campbell came publicly, with a response, to the defense of love, justice and rights. Bless. The old radical. God love him.) That last proclamation (something damning about the way some people are born, meaning sexual preferences,) was years after they ousted every last damn liberal from the pews. But my memory lost track after "Eve tempted Adam and therefore women caused the fall of man and so therefore if you work for a Southern Baptist agency, you must pledge the Baptist Faith and Message and your wives must submit to you." (That one had a lot of hard-working professional Baptist SINGLE women scratching their noggins about just where in the heck they fit in. (And what about that "wives love your husbands" part and the fact that "submit," in the classical languages--Greek, Hebrew, yada--means "love?" (Great example of culture adulterating the context in which the text was written...Just sayin'.)

BUT, I digress. Or do I? It was the Will B. Dunn's and the Will Campbells (well, there was no other quite like) who kept reminding The Convention of its hypocrisy in the face of the loving God they said they served. And, as for that story I started to tell you a moment ago:

Campbell showed up (about seven-years in to the hostile takeover) sporting a railroad engineer's hat. Somehow the subject came up about the "why" of the hat. I suspect my friend who told me this story didn't have to ask "why" Campbell wore this hat. Campbell told him. Told everybody he encountered, I think . The reason he was wearing a railroad hat, he reportedly told my friend, was "because that's what's going on here!" (Railroading!) (Get it?!) (Ha.)

God is loving. God is love. Humans forget that of which they/we are made. Young women who begin questioning the inconsistencies of religious rhetoric when they are a mere eight-years-old and then find themselves as a young woman being embroiled in the ugliest of religious politics...well, it didn't help in a journey out of Christianity. But it was not the key reason for leaving the faith. Simply, I found, that for me,  God was bigger than one path and one way. And all that railroading that Campbell spoke of? Well, it just helped me get a faster running start to catch that fast train the heck out of Dodge.

During this era, back in the 80s, I heard a prominent minister, the elected leader of The Convention, lie to  the faces of a room crammed full of reporters....I came to realize that despite our human forgetfulness of the God in whose image we are made, we do make "mistakes." (Or, as less than optimal choices. There are no mistakes....Lessons. Lessons.)  God does use even the most cracked and chipped of the vessels She creates. Even the minister of thousands in a downtown Southern mega city who lies to reporters. The one who eventually got caught in another string of lies about a series of affairs with female parishioners. He fell from grace, or at least human doled out grace. The grace of the forgetful. He's back in the pulpit. And back on t.v. And God can even be glimpsed in his messages. Like always.

Part of the journey, for me, is cleaning out the vessel so the light can shine through, in, out and from and remembering the vessel was created perfect, that I allowed life to crack and chip it. That sometimes the lesson is to crack even crack completely in two or into many pieces. And part of that allowance--on whatever level of consciousness--was/is to learn. So despite my disdain for the corporate church of my youth, again, it is MY truth that God works beauty for the best interest of all people, even me, even through the Baptists and other religions, and all people, including me, who too often forget the life and message and beauty of God and God's manifestations.

You can Google oodles about Campbell and his life and about the cartoon and the cartoonist who made him even more iconic. I have another story I could tell about that duo, but I cannot tell it publicly.  I do not begin to do justice here to Campbells life of justice. He lived his faith during the Civil Rights movement when his church body (The Convention) remained stagnant. (Interpret: Segregationist.)

Will B. Dunn. R.I.P. Thank you. I hope you're having a grand time wherever you are out there in the cosmos, whatever form you have chosen or will choose to take in this next life adventure. And, bless. Bless us all. In our forgetfulness. In our woundness. And, when we remember who we are. When we live the words of that which we claim as our respective Truth. Namaste.

My Church of Christ friend, who is a Sunday School teacher, a preacher, a philosopher and a politic-er, Bill Peach, resurrected a couple of his past blog posts celebrating Campbell while he still graced earth with his presence. You can read them here: Brother Will. And, here, Obscenity. Enjoy. Bill's a fine thinker and a hell of a writer.

"Posibilitarian"

Since about the time I plunged into the blogosphere, in 2008, I've been following a number of artists and photographers. Kelly Rae Roberts, being one of the more spectacular. Instagram has helped me reconnect with many of these artist bloggers and more. Here's a video from her "about" page. Enjoy. (And see why I'm enthralled.)

 

What Is and the Is-ness of It...

Descending down the long-tall escalator at one of our local cinemas the other night, my friend and I glided by the guragantuan movie posters. We chuckled at the silly characters, such as the one-eyed, green monster wearing braces who was so ugly he was cute. Passing by each, I remarked, "I'll take Grace to see that this summer!" "Yeah, let's do!" my friend exclaimed, excitedly. Reaching the bottom floor, we walked down the corridor toward our theater and it hit me: I'd been dreading this summer.

On one level I knew the dread was there. I'd spit at it in moments of lament about falling off the cliffs of autism services into a black hole of adulthood. And in other ways, it was if I'd unknowingly experienced a home invasion that left toxins that poisoned my entire being....

Negative thoughts are like that, you know. Science shows what we think can become toxic chemicals that destroy not just our attitudes but the very bodies in which we move about on this plane. And, I'd been guilty of that thinking about this summer. And last. And the one before that and the one before that when I first smacked into the wall that I'd been warned about when my daughter was diagnosed at age three. The one that would be there as she sped toward adulthood.

Back to the movies. Thinking about those, the laughter, the silliness, the togetherness it would bring...that brought joy. And, it was accepting What Is. And, the Is-ness of it all. Truth is there's a lot of things we can do. They cost money. They cost more of my time and energy. The energy of a body that's older and a self that yearns to write and create more on her own. And, yeah, I'm not real wild about that, but it Is. And accepting the Is-ness of this new-to-us reality, I siphon the toxin. It also gives me breathing room and the knowing that I must do something about this Is-ness.

This summer, if all goes to plan, I'll spend another portion of another vacation exploring what's working in neighboring North Carolina in the arena of art, entrepreneurship and social enterprise for adults with disAbilities. Specifically, I'm exploring creating an integrated creative arts co-op that offers the options of maybe a fine art studio, quality crafts and a bakery. Not an adult day care. Not a segregated workshop. But, a meaningful work-experience-environment where art by adults with disAbilities can be created alongside typically developing artists who share studio and gallery space. For those who are interested in joining but aren't artistically inclined, there's always packaging, marketing, delivery, etc. This is not an original idea, it just hasn't been done locally, exactly, that I know of, at least. These are trends happening in the field of disAbility nationwide. I'll need a lot of help. Some art-appreciating parent types are with me. Some artists in the greater community are with me. Yet, right brainers need the partnership of left brain cells that can write grants and start up non-profits. I'm a pretty balanced right and left brainer but I know that my energy sizzles to crisply burnt toast rapidly with these types of left-brain intricacies. (Hint-hint.) Just like raising our special children, it takes a village, each bringing their own set of gifts to the project/person.

So, back to Is-ness and What Is. It starts with my attitude. An acceptance of even the things that I might not like. ("Rocks are hard and water is wet.") It's a zen sorta surrender. And in surrender, I release the struggle. And in releasing the struggle comes peace. And, in peace is a very fertile ground for Joy. And to enjoy. Enjoyment of even the Is-ness.

Is there an Is-ness is your life with which you've struggled, be it disAbility or otherwise in this big One we call Life?

Pictured above: GraceArt, Untitled [Heart] by Grace Walker Goad, for sale and currently on view in a all-new 2013 senior artwork solo show, sponsored by VSA Tennessee in the Polk Theater Lobby TPAC, the Tennessee Performing Arts Center.

Graduation Day Spent Behind the Camera

Graduation came and went. Nearly a week ago. And, I am still processing it all. The day. This milestone. Very slowly processing. Yet, perhaps not yet willing to take the time to full process it all. I've been working on my book this week. By the time this blog post publishes, I'll be on the way back to Louisville for a weekend of art museums and play.

I confess. I hid behind a camera during the ceremony. There were 22 of us there in the Grace Goad Fan Club. Sorry, folks, but only two of you can snap pictures without cutting off body parts, including heads. One of you would have bitched about the camera the whole time and the other one of you doesn't like me. So, I held that big digital device up in front of my face and let er rip on sports mode. ClickClickClickClick. It wasn't until Grace exited the stage that I realized what I'd done.

Missed. The whole thing.

And. I know better.

Once, at a conference many years ago--I can remember the dress I was wearing and my age, 26--an older, wiser woman came up to me and said: "Your reporter pad gives you a chance to hide." Cameras do that,  too. I recall reading how someone went whale watching and decided not to try to capture it because in so doing, they'd miss the glory of the actual moment of being in the presence of that incredible creature. I tried to remember that the few times I have been fortunate enough to watch whales.

More on this Grace's graduation and how it's shaking down will come. The continuance will share what I did experience behind the lens. (This post--The Little Drummer that Graduated--shows what I and our family, at least, saw.) And eventually, I'll process the feelings over this momentous occasion. Probably part of the reason I've not yet unpacked them is because they are bittersweet. In ways that only other families of children with autism and other disAbilities can relate. 

It will come.

The above photo: one of two in which the photographer was documented being at the actual event.

ONE (Part 2)

Two months ago I shared on "The Journey with Grace" that my artist friend Pam Jolly Haile was collecting 3,000 thumbprints to create a mandala for a project called "One." This, below, my friends, is the result of her work:

Stunning, huh?

Here's what the artist writes about the piece:

"One [...] incorporates approximately 3000 individual thumbprints collected by [more than] 30 collaborators [me, Leisa, included]. The [thumb]prints represent the beautiful diversity that makes up our world: children, 90-somethings, men, women, LGBT, various ethnicities, spirtualities and religions, people with autism and other disAbilities. The intention is to make a statement that although individusals, we are all ONE."

Before I decided to post this today, I had talked earlier to my shaman friend who is writing a book about radical spirituality. I called him and asked him to read to me again one of the summary points of his book in progress. Here is how he summed the point and related it to artist Haile's work:

"Each individual thumbprint is each individual's universe of experience. However, when we put them all together, which the artist did, they become a picture of the Unity of One."

Thank you, Pam, for your artist labor of creativity, which reminds us in a world hell-bent on creating separateness, that though we may each be unique in our experiences, we are all one in our humanity. We need that message right now more than ever. Bless the artist messengers.

A Book of Poems for a Special Needs Mother's Soul: Autism disrupted, Chapman Linthorst

What's the ridiculous statistic on the number of autism books published--per day, week, month? My writing coach shared it with me once. I cannot find it now, but if I didn't believe in the power of my own voice and have the umphhh of creative drive, I wouldn't be writing my second book. Thankfully, poetess and poetry therapist Jennie Chapman Linthorst also believed her voice needed to be shared.

Obviously, there are a plethora of books about autism and other ever-rising numbers of developmental disabilities. Many of them good. But, hands down, this is one, by Linthorst--Autism disrupted: a mother's journey of hope--that I urge parents and those who support us to purchase. This book is soul manna for mamas of a special needs child, or those close to such mothers, or who work with them, or simply want to savor wise words that simmered deep within a very spiritually conscious and amazing woman. Autism disrupted is an extraordinarily special little book.

The name Linthorst is no stranger to "The Journey with Grace." I've featured Jennie's creative filmmaker husband here, here, here and here. Erik produced the 2009 Nashville Film Festival pick "Autistic-Like: Graham's Story. When It's Not Autism, What is It?" and the update and PBS premiere "Where's Graham Now?"

Due, perhaps to the early detection and rigorous diagnosis and the luck of their child's personal mixture of DNA, Graham eventually ended up with a (correctly labeled) diagnosis of sensory integration, initially (also correctly labeled) as autism.

But all that's kinda beside the point as mother Jennie, goes inward and opens up the wounds of her weeping heart, examining the scars left from her mother's death, the ordinary and extraordinary (via special needs parenting) struggles with her husband. She peels apart the layers of her insecurities and takes the resonating and engrossed reader with her as she kisses and blesses those hurts with tender self-care and love.

Writing to others like herself in "Put Your Hands to Rest," Jennie writes in this excerpt:

 

"Hey now,

hey now,

be gentle with yourself--

mothers of this special world.

 

"You, too are special--

chosen to make peace

with this uncharted path.

 

"Put your busy hands to rest.

Tell the nagging critic to step aside.

You have done enough for today,

guilt moves you nowhere."

 

My copy of this slim, 95-page book of poems is dog-eared. At some point, I stopped marking pages less  nearly every page bore a folded corner. I so loved Jennie's Autism disrupted, that I purchased a second copy and am giving it away here on "The Journey with Grace," plus shipping, at my own expense, (U.S., only, sorry). I want some other mother to have a generous slather of this healing word salve. So, please share this blog link with others so they will know about this offering. There are many books on autism, but this is the only one I know of (probably--surely--there are others,) that condenses all our complex, multi-layered feelings and then further boils them down into a perfectly, yet, not-too-sweet, warm syrup of poetry. Thank you, Jennie, for using your healing gift to help others.

I'll run this giveaway for 7 days, ending at 6 a.m., CST, on Monday, May 6. The blessed winner will be chosen via random.org. To enter, write me a verse (a simple sentence will do,) about your experience with autism. Don't worry if you feel you've not got a way with words. You won't be judged. The important part is putting it down in words. I'm sure Jennie would say that is where the healing begins.

And, in the meantime, if you want to learn more about Jennie's offerings as a certified poetry therapist, check out her webpage of offerings, LifeSPEAKSpoetrytherapy.com, which includes guided expressive writing offerings for special needs parents, educators, physicians, seniors, etc. She works with her students face-to-face, via phone or Skype. (She's originally from Knoxville, on the eastern side of my state, but now lives in California.)

Write to win (at random) in the comments section, below, of this "The Journey with Grace" blog post. Please be sure to make it easy for me to click and link back to you and inform you that you've won. If you don't, then in the interest of time and fairness, I may opt to run the randomizer again and choose the next entrant. Then, I will do my best to get this mailed out in time for Mother's Day. I can't wait to read your entries!

Wisdom on a Wordless Wednesday in a World Gone Wild(er) ~

Resurrection [A Partial Easter Re-post]

 

"Happy Resurrection from Fear to Love, from grief to joy,

from ego to Field, from separation to Unity. You are Loved

and kept in the Light."

Photo & quote originally published last, and a much warmer Easter, April 8, 2012. An Easter message emailed to me while I was in South Carolina, from my spiritual teacher, Ken Wheaton.

Me or Her?

"I know there's a lesson here." I realized there was a lesson in the frustrating experience I was having and that realization came just as I said those words. It took me a while and a talk with my spiritual teacher, to whom I said those words, to know the object of the lesson:

Surrender. Priorities. Nurture.

All of those three things are particularly difficult for special needs mothers, I believe. We find ourselves too often easily caught in a tailspin, a whirlwind, a vortex of challenges associated with our children's disAbility. Obstacles which are frequently beyond our control. Systems designated to serve but often succeed in wounding both us and our children. Family dynamics. Social quagmires. Surrender? Yeah, sometimes we must let go to be at peace. Like that St. Francis prayer: give me the wisdom to know the difference of the things I can change and those I cannot....(Paraphrased.)

Priorities? How, when it all screams equally to be done yesterday?!

And that's where nurture comes in. Sometimes we have to put ourselves first, making our care our priority.

Part of that challenge of surrender, priorities and nurture comes from the survival of our very mother-spirit. Who are we as women? Not just as mothers. Who are we as individuals? And what do we crave to feed our hungry souls? And how are we going about serving that necessary urge?

For me, it's creativity. Yeah, this blog is a platform for my books, for my daughter, for our autism/disAbility community, for my social cause(s). But it's also a sheer indulgence for me. And for that no apology is offered forth. This is an exercise in creativity and fulfillment for me.

The next step is another book. The previous falls were times of adjustment and moving. So, the last two springs have gone something like this: Mondays, GraceArt. Tuesdays, my spiritual teacher. Wednesdays, the blog. Thursdays my home/office. Fridays, the book. And, the book, that's the one that's been getting shortchanged.

Like this morning when I got myself all in a dither about the images that had not gone through--in dozens of attempts over more than a month--to send them to our solo exhibition gallery in another state. WTH! I've done this hundreds of times during my daughter's art career, etc. I finally surrrendered. The kind co-owner was going to take apart the frames and photograph Grace's art for their publicity flyer. I could have educated myself on how to send a Zip file. I could have figured out how to release the available images from Flickr. Easy for you to say, maybe. I'm tech-challenged. I let go. I meditated and the answer came: send them via Facebook. I did. Problem solved.

And two-and-a-half hours had evaporated. And had I figured out the techy stuff, more would have vamoosed. Precious hours pre-designated for the book. The lesson was to surrender. Put important things on the backburner and work on me, my book, my creative nurture. I have no regrets about those two-and-a-half hours. I act as my daughter's agent, it was part of the job. But now there's the job of tending to ME.

It's not a Me or Her question here. It's both of us. As difficult as it may be. It's a matter of spirit survival.