Tsara Shelton's Blog, page 9

Autism Answer: Getting Past The First Part

 

I'm suddenly seeing it more and more, I love that I'm seeing it more and more, and I can't wait till I'm not seeing it at all.  That's how I feel about the diversity and inclusion I see in shows and in print. Finally, there is more representation and inclusion for people I love. Autistic people, overweight people, older people, gay and trans and non-binary people, physically disabled people, black and brown people. Mixed groups and unusual relationships. I could go on. Now, I have to be entirely honest. I'm fairly new to watching shows. I've always been a fan of movies and books, but I have generally avoided watching shows. Not because I don't think they're good but because I don't trust myself to nibble on them in moderation. However, in my love life at the moment we are having a blast watching shows and smooching between episodes. (Okay, sometimes we smooch during episodes, too. This is why shows are great! Unlike movies, you can smooch during the show - especially sitcoms! - and not miss out on any urgent or necessary plot points. Even with the real good shows where subtlety and sophisticated storytelling are employed, there's so many more hours of show to help you get caught up. So, smooch away!) So if this diversity and inclusion has been more of a gradual graduation and not so much of a fantastic splash, as it seems to me, then my observation will be old news to you. But I hope you'll permit me to appreciate it out loud anyway.  When I watched shows in my younger years, I rarely saw people that reminded me of the people in my family (my mom was a single mom with eight kids - six adopted, four with autism and other diagnosis that included fetal alcohol syndrome and mental retardation - three of my brothers are native American, mom is bisexual, a creative entrepreneur and has been diagnosed as "historically Asperger's") and if I did see someone with any similarity to folks in my family it was generally in the form of a character who never changed, was whittled down to a stereotype, and was not the main character of the show.  I think this is partly why it was so hard for me and almost everyone we met to believe my mom when she insisted my brothers were far more capable and complex than we allowed for. When she would beseech us to see them as so much more than a character who would never change and grow, we couldn't fathom where she got this assumption. She confused us by asking us not to see them as challenged but to instead see they had uncommon challenges. Because, yes, they had challenges. My youngest brother, Rye, ran with desperate speed and agility to wrap his little lips around hot tailpipes for a reason. Mom insisted if we cared enough we could help him by figuring out what that reason was in order to find a new way to give him what he needed while keeping him safer and his lips less blistered. I have no idea where she got this certainty, but I know she was right.  There are so many people in the world like the ones in my family. Yet, we rarely see them. They're not the most common, but they are common.  Lately when I watch shows and see commercials, when I see print ads and read stories, I notice how many more of the less common people there are. And in more sophisticated and complex ways, as people with more to them than only the part we would label. I love that!  It still feels a little bit forced, or too purposeful, sometimes. Like, maybe the characters are there merely to say "see, we put them there" or something. But that's partly because we aren't used to seeing it so much. Sure, some of it is likely pandering. But I think it is largely genuine.  The thing is, we have to get past this first part. This first part where we make mistakes, where we notice it everywhere, where we struggle with our human nature to resist change while insisting everything needs to change, while we remember that a lot of people think diversity and inclusion is actually the wrong thing to do, and while we opine that we're doing it in the wrong way but struggle to agree on the right way. We have to get through this first part and get to the part where people are more willing to be who they are, to take their disabled loved ones to the store more often, to hold their same-sex spouses hand on the walking trail, to wear a bathing-suit in public regardless of thigh size or body hair or surgery scars.  I think once we get past the first part it will become like so many other things. Seeing ourselves represented we are more comfortable being ourselves, the public spaces become more accessible to the various disabilities and we meet more of our disabled neighbors, the husbands take their children to a park and so many people don't bother thinking "good for them" or "what is this world coming to" or things of that sort because we are past the first part.  I think it is deeply important to pay attention what we let ourselves get used to. People who have spent a life being abused are used to being abused. This is something worth changing. And being used to caring about and considering very few people who are disable or sexually diverse or not traditionally attractive is something worth changing.  And then one day, as it is with so many things, we'll be past the first part and onto the part where we see how it plays out. People and societies are always evolving so this is a never-ending gig. Paying attention. Making changes. Getting past the first part. But, for the most part, I like what I'm seeing. And I like looking forward to when I don't see it anymore.  Hugs, smiles, and love!!Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)  ________________________________________________
Want to see a pretty cool award winning project where my mom, Dr. Lynette Louise ("The Brain Broad") made us kids  invited us kids to be actors and crew members for the pilot episode of her comedy series Living with Lynette? Well, lucky you! It's available for viewing on YouTube and Vimeo! 
You Tube:

Autism Answer: A Hand Holding Me

Often my partner will place a hand on me, my hip, my shoulder, my thigh, my arm, my chest, and I will feel at once broken apart and held together. The way that hand holds me I feel safe and encouraged to let go, I breathe deep and swim in colors, my energy spreads out and connects with the universe yet I feel we're alone with only our love. Our love. 

It lasts. This unique feeling, this new feeling stays with me while I work, write, skate, read, dance. Oh, how it grows when I dance! I facilitate the growth, encourage it, now that I know this feeling. I close my eyes and feel that hand on me. I feel it hold me with a tenderness that's somehow strong, promising not to let go. That magic hand. And I fall deeper into the music. My body moves and I escape its borders, growing out into the room and imagining scenes I'm every part of and so is the universe; it is not about me yet always me. That hand promises I can go where I will without fear because it will hold me, my partner will hold me, and I won't be lost. 

I look into the eyes that look at me and feel connected, feel supported, feel seen. How had I not noticed this lacking in my life? Or, more honestly, why did I think only I could see me and hoping others would was childish and weak? In fact, with my partner I see more. 

I seek those eyes for stories of their own that might break free when my hand touches the body they belong to. What part of me, or who I am, is like that magic hand for my partner? Love has not made me never worry, I worry that I don't have a magic hand at all. I worry that I am not giving back the intensity I am being given. 

But love has given me the confidence to try, to ask. Because I want this love to continue to grow with our participation, with our desires and hopes gathering sustenance, so the avoidance of asking would take more strength than fear of the answers; fear of failure. 

Being in love, being loved, being touched by a hand that gives me freedom to become, a hand that doesn't try to paint over my scars but instead explores them to understand, is surprising me. It is unexpected and deeply, deeply, wonderful. I want this for me. 

I want this for others. 

It doesn't matter to me if the love is experienced by people of the same or different genders. If the love is experienced by people with the same skin color or spiritual beliefs. If one is more able bodied than the other, or one is much richer, or one is a generation or two older. It doesn't matter if there are more than two people experiencing the love together, I want this for others. 

There is danger in wanting this kind of love so bad we lie to ourselves or justify cruelties (others' and our own) in order to invent it. We might build it out of all the wrong materials on a faulty foundation and simply pretend it is what it isn't. 

But it isn't our place to assume someone else has done this merely because their love looks unlike something we imagine love should look like. 

The hand that holds me, places itself on my skin and cracks open a new world of meaningful memories and safe vulnerability, is magic to me. 

I want this. I love this. I am better with this. 

I am better with this. 

 ____ 

 

NOTE: Today, May 17th, is International Day Against Homophobia, Biphobia, Interphobia and Transphobia. I wrote this love story today because I am an advocate for love, inclusion, and not judging who loves who. My mom is bi-sexual, my son is gay, my other son is bi-sexual, my nibbling is nonbinary, I could go on. I want everyone I love to find healthy love. And that is easier done when the world relaxes it's judgements regarding what love is supposed to look like. 

Hugs, smiles, and love! Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)

Autism Answer: From Client to Clinician by Louloua Smadi - Book Review

"From Client to Clinician draws readers in with the beautifully told story of a family searching for something. Louloua Smadi shares how her brother's autism triggered a family mission and how that mission led to her own personal fascination with human behavior and neurofeedback. By taking readers along on her journey she offers a compelling case for neurofeedback therapy, specifically when combined with putting the client and their personal goals at the forefront. From Client to Clinician is an important and inspirational book." ~Tsara Shelton, one of Louloua's biggest fans even if she is a bit jealous of Louloua's absolute awesomeness :D 

 

From Client to Clinician by Louloua Smadi

 

Traveling with Louloua Smadi From Client to Clinician, from sibling to self, from France to Lebanon to America, feels like journeying with someone who brings out your best self. And on your travels you are often introduced to something new while simultaneously reconnecting with something familiar. The tone throughout From Client to Clinician is one of stimulating discovery, and the mechanism used is a limitless love the author has for humanity in all it's diversity.

Throughout the book Louloua shares with refreshing frankness the obstacles and fears her family faced when trying to love and teach Milo, Louloua's autistic brother. With that same frankness she invites readers to undergo and understand the massive shifts they made as a family - shifts in beliefs, in behaviors, in methods - in order to better understand Milo, each other, and what true healing looks like.

Full Disclosure: I love Louloua. I have not (yet) met her but she is a sister to me. In life, and throughout the book, Louloua shares experiences and conversations she's had with Dr. Lynette Louise ("The Brain Broad") which influence her style and bring success to her own healing; lessons and conversations that reveal why The Brain Broad's holistic methods create such unique results around the world. And Dr. Lynette Louise is not only The Brain Broad but also My Mom. However, my love for Louloua runs deeper than the mere fact she and I share a mentor. While reading From Client to Clinician I felt connected to her as a person. Admittedly, we are not the same (truthfully, she's been a better sister than me) and her interest in neurofeedback is far grander than my own (Read: Louloua is smarter than me and probably my mom's favorite. Giggle!) but the way she learns, the way she chooses to understand what she's learned, the person she wants to be in the world, these things are familiar. And the way she writes, with vulnerability, clarity, and vision, remind me of how I want to write. 

I believe I am not the only reader who will feel similarly connected to Louloua when reading this book. If you are autistic or have an autistic family member, you are going to recognize your own family in these pages. The fears, the hopes, the obstacles, the reactions we receive from the pubic, though your stories won't be the same as the Smadi's they are likely similar. And with these stories weaved in throughout a book that offers realistic hope and answers, the familiarity feels exciting rather than commiserative.  

Also, the author manages to affect readers with her passion and innate interest in neurofeedback (bio-feedback for the brain). Louloua is drawn to neurofeedback therapy first when it helps her brother and then as it helps her. Her curiosity and excitement influence the reader and as we learn about this natural therapy, as we are offered cogent and compelling information about the brain and behavior, we easily understand otherwise challenging concepts. 

Reading this book, infused as it is with empathy, science, personal stories, hope, humanity, and a vision of diversity that includes everyone while raising the bar, is a transformative experience. I highly recommend it to caregivers, parents, educators, disability advocates, and anyone who enjoys spending time in conversations that consider all the people in our world. 

You can purchase the book here: From Client to Clinician: The Transformative Power of Neurofeedback Therapy for Families Living with Autism and Other Special Needs

Autism Answer: In Transition

 

Shoes and headphones on the road

The California night air was warmish, my headphones – Marley's purchased as a random “I love you” gift from my youngest son – pressed comfortably over my ears as I walked, danced, and spun continuously along the same path, repeatedly circling the cul-de-sac where my mom's house was home to much of my family. Some of my sons and grandchildren, my mom and my brother were living there.

I had lived there.

At some point in time almost everyone in our circle had lived there with mom.

However, as I shimmied my way through the neighbourhood, transition was everywhere. Not only in the lives of my family but everywhere in the world.

A pandemic was pushing people of every nation to make shifts. For some, the shifts were subtle. For most, they were (and continue to be) remarkable.

Almost everyone I knew had wondered, did I cause this? Is it manifested from a mixture of reluctance and need to make drastic changes in my own life?

Like so many others, my family was making drastic changes. Pushed into the position by uncontrolled circumstances we were at once – though separately – doing the work of controlling our outcomes. A living feeling of excitement, concern, and uncertainty danced in all our moments.

I was using music and movement to focus my feelings; to corral them into myself so perhaps they wouldn't interfere with the loved ones around me.

And boy, was I feeling.

I had fallen in love. I suspect for the first time. It was (still is) intoxicating.

His name was (still is) Ian. And though I was married, he was not my husband.

So I was breaking away from the people I'd spent over two decades actively holding to me. I was breaking away to live in Quebec with the man I was in love with. Despite having absolutely no clue what that would mean for anyone in the future. Despite knowing it would for sure hurt and confuse people in the immediate one.

 

 

Despite all of that it did (still does) feel like the right and only thing to do.

 

But, boy, it was not easy. I'm gifted at going with the flow and pointing out how and why everything is awesome along the way. But pushing away, making my own waves, swimming out alone - I had little experience with this. Feelings filled me and spilled out into every room I entered. 

 

So I was stepping outside to avoid trapping loved ones with my moods. 

The cool concrete felt rough and real on my bare feet as I danced and related to the Rock Music pushing its way into me from my headphones. (Rock Music, a love child of Folk Songs, inherited an activist social change attitude, which I love.) I was trying not to sing along with those rocking tunes loud into the night where neighbours might be sleeping. At least not too loud.

Falling in love. I didn't believe in it. Oh, for sure I believed in love. In choosing to love; in acting with love toward ourselves, in finding ways to evolve - lovingly - with our environment, in loving each soul on the planet and recognizing our connection. Loving our connection.

But “falling in love” seemed to me like a dangerous trope, an uncomfortable trap.

Wanting or waiting to “fall in love” held a person hostage in a place where they would make excuses, change only to please someone, focus too much on the other person in the relationship, put too much expectation on what they could and should be, put their intimate happiness and success in the hands of someone else. Not walking away when they should or not staying the course when they could.

But my experience has been entirely different. As I fell in love I felt myself expand. I didn't change or dig my heals in and refuse to change, instead I grew interested in, simply, more. The exciting butterflies-in-my-stomach-barely-breathing-addicted-to-him-swooning was there too, which has it's own fun, but there was so much more as well! His words and ways brought me new ideas and perspectives, offered as parts of himself that were a reaction to parts of me. Our words and ideas being honestly shared, noticed and cared about, considered and consumed. I felt him touch me before he touched me. I wanted not to be “right” when discussing my ideas, I wanted to be heard. I was. He was.

It isn't easy when you're forty-five to consider that what you believed and lived isn't good for you anymore. It especially isn't easy if you've spent much of your time teaching it to your children; explaining it and exampling it. It especially isn't easy if transitioning into a new belief means knocking down the life you've built, a life that includes and is relied on by others, in order to build something completely new that, frankly, might fail. Might even make you feel and look like a fool believing in magical forest fairies.

But at forty-five I'd built a life enough times, feeling entirely unprepared and even sometimes like a fool, to rely on experience. Plus, I was a magical forest fairy. I'd be okay.

 

As I was getting ready to leave for Quebec, my mom was letting go of her house and making plans to live with my brother in an RV. What an adventure! What a transition! Mom, more than most, is gifted at building a good life for her family after banishing old beliefs, or simply discovering better ways to live the ones she's got, and starting from scratch. Again and again.

My sons, though, they had less experience. They were building their new beginning that is closer to their beginning.

How wild, how spot on that I was spending my last few weeks, before heading to my next new beginning, there. At that home, with mom. My brother. My sons. My grandchildren.

Everyone was having to make hard plans. The pandemic had pushed everyone around and forced decisions. Admittedly, everyone had been sort of sitting on decisions they wanted to make but had yet taken the scary steps into, “I want to, I need to, but who knows what will happen? And anyway, how?”

How wild that we were all there together, making separate plans. Considering where we would go and how we would create the lives we felt were best for us. How spot on that we were all piled into that home mom graciously shared with us – a house from yet another new beginning - before spilling out and finding our separate paths.

My oldest son, his wife and children, they were trying to find a place to live on their own, trying to decide what kind of family they wanted to be.

My second youngest son wanting to live in Canada. Almost all of his life having dreamed of a small cabin in the woods of British Columbia. Now that he was without work or a place to live, time to figure out how the heck to make that happen.

My second oldest son living with my sister, wanting a place to live with just him, his wife and daughters, and a business plan for his life. Maybe Canada. Something he and his wife often thought about. Well, time to make a plan.

And my baby boy, the one who bought me the headphones, living in an apartment in Texas with a couple of roommates, not far from the University campus. Dealing with me and his dad more than he wanted to. More than was fair to him. Wanting his own life. Especially now that his parents were getting a divorce because I fell in love.

“Sometimes goodbye is a second chance.”

As I neared the bulbous dead end of the cul-de-sac, considering one more circle of the street, the song, Second Chance by Shinedown, started playing in my ears. Manifested by the perfection of it. Finding my feelings and giving them focus.

My youngest son in my mind, singing at the top of his lungs, “I'm not angry I'm just saying, sometimes goodbye is a second chance,”his favourite Shinedown song, meaning much to him.

“I'm not angry I'm just saying, sometimes goodbye is a second chance.” So much.

When we do choose to make changes in our lives, our beliefs, our way of thinking and living, we often think we have to see the old way as bad. To be angry about it, or consider it wrong. Conversely, sometimes out of an unwillingness to see how we've lived or thought as unhealthy, we stay. Hold tight. Argue for it. Dig our heels in.

But change and transition are going to happen. And when we take the reins it can be more than exciting, it can be what we need. It can be life saving. Often it is necessary for our very survival. 

 

While we're in transition, and transitions often last long, it's good to be careful how we categorize the people, places, beliefs we're transitioning from and be mindful of the expectations we build for the people, places, and beliefs we're transitioning to.

 

As I walked faster and danced harder and sang along a little louder heading back to mom's, deciding to walk circles no more, itching to share these thoughts with Ian, I saw my oldest son stick his head out the front door. My heart leapt at the site of my boy. I love him!

“Mom,” he said, “you're singing too loud. I'm trying to get Nevaeh to sleep but she keeps hearing you sing and asking for you.”

Oops!

I guess my feelings can spill out and interfere with my loved ones even when I'm unaware. Even when I think I've done a good job of containing them.

This is worth noticing. 

 

Hugs, smiles, and love!Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)

Autism Answer: Pinwheels and Prevention (Child Abuse Prevention Month)

 

Tattered colorful toy wheel with statue of children behind it.

When I think of a pinwheel (which, I admit, I rarely do) it's not so much a feeling of childhood innocence I get but, rather, the sweet simplicity and reliance on an outside force to move it - like a child. I think, because pinwheels are often used as a prop in storytelling to denote childhood innocence specifically when that innocence is going to be manipulated or completely mutilated, I have come to see them more as a warning about childhood innocence.

April is Child Abuse Prevention Month. It is also Sexual Assault Awareness and Prevention Month as well as Autism Acceptance Month. [A list of awareness dates can be found HERE] In my life, these have played an important role and I find it simply neat that they choose to be together in April, when my mom also has a birthday. She too has played an important role in my life and is the reason child abuse prevention, sexual assault prevention, and autism acceptance are major players in my world.

My mom is an unusual mom. Not surprising, she is an unusual woman and they make unusual moms. She herself struggled with a not-so-typical brain back in the days when nobody was talking openly or thoughtfully about autism or synesthesia or schizophrenia or any of the other variety of diagnosis professionals have flirted with for mom. Also, she was a “strange” child at a time when smacking kids around was almost expected, and unusually harsh abuse was kept quiet. And sexual abuse? Well, as my grandma said when mom told her I had been sexually abused by my step dad, “These things don't have to end a marriage, I can pay for her to go to boarding school.” Sort of explains why grandma and grandpa stayed together till the day he died and mom lived away from home from the age of fifteen.

What on earth does my mom growing up in an abusive environment with an autistic brain have to do with pinwheels? I myself had no idea until just this moment.

Pinwheels for Prevention was started in 2008 by Prevent Child Abuse America. The idea is to shift our thinking and actions around child abuse prevention. Rather than publish and post pictures of abused children with copy that begs us to care, which we do, overwhelming us to the point of being unable to think of good ideas that might make change, Pinwheels for Prevention asks us to focus on our community and any actions we can take to prevent abuse before it happens.

This brings me back to my mom.

My mom cared so much about becoming a mom and doing it with fairness and love. I think it's in her soul, but growing up in a home that treated her and her siblings in abusive and unfair ways had her hiding in a cubbyhole making clear and specific plans to be better than that. My mom was able to bear two live children, me and my sister, and one son who didn't make it. Then for health reasons she had to have a hysterectomy at the young age of twenty-three. And that is when she began to adopt and otherwise open our home to others. Children from homes of abuse, children with disabilities and dysfunctions, children in need of fairness and love. Fairness and love that was not offered in their homes or in their communities. These people became our family.

My mom wasn't able to prevent the abuse that had happened before my adopted siblings and temporary friends stayed with us, but she was able to help everyone understand how these things happen, what to do to heal ourselves, and – importantly – how to break the cycle. For some of us (like me and my siblings) this is not new news, that there is a cycle of abuse and that we must take action to break it. For my mom, this was horrible wonderful news. Horrible, because she had to contend with the mistakes she herself had made before seeing the cycle, and wonderful because something could be done and she would do it.

Perhaps the hardest most wonderful time in our lives so far was during those years of hard lessons, introspection, walking away without knowing where to go, seeing my mom make it all up out of thin air, necessity, and creativity.

My mom was planting pinwheels for prevention. She was focusing on her vision where all children grow up surrounded by belief in them, raising the bar, fairness, love, and support. For my brothers who were on the autism spectrum, this was easy for my mom at home but impossible in the community. Schools, neighbors, grocery store shoppers, parents at the park; everyone in the world treated mom and my siblings like problems, dangers, or people to pity. This, my mom and so many other special needs parents have said, is the hardest part of raising children who are disabled or cognitively challenged. So my mom took us out into the world, often, but always carefully and cleverly. She knew that the world would not change if we hid away, and she knew we would not become independent happy people if we hid away, and so her pinwheels were us and the attitude she practiced. “We stretch people,” she likes to say, it helps her take the time to explain and be patient with others.

Mom's diligence and consistence with me and my siblings worked wonders. We have all grown in ways professionals and statistics argue against, and we are happy.

Around the globe my mom plants pinwheels. She works and speaks and writes and performs, always with a meaningful message and specific actions to be taken that include and care about everyone; but especially children. Especially children with extra or special needs. 

Children are like pinwheels in a way. They are reliant on outside forces to spin them and unable to choose which outside forces and in which way. Unlike pinwheels, though, children are alive. They matter more. We have so much power with children; they need us to care about their reliance on us.   

The pinwheel is a symbol. And I think it is a good one. Planting pinwheels can remind us of our role in the lives of children; whether we have our own or not. 

We don't all have to be extreme like my mom to plant pinwheels, but we can all plant pinwheels. We can focus on a vision of the world where all children grow up surrounded by belief in them, raising the bar, fairness, love, and support. And we can make shifts with that in mind. We can consider our attitude in the grocery store when a parent is struggling with their child, reach out to an overwhelmed mom or dad we know and do something to help: make a meal, watch children for them while they nap, simply tell them we see them and point out something great you noticed they did. Notice great things they do. It is not hyperbole to say that these shifts can change the course of a life, can actually help an overwhelmed parent not become an abusive one. And where abuse exists and does happen, being a safe space rather than a closed off judgmental one can mean a child reaches out. These are pinwheels we can plant.

Also, we can plant pinwheels. Perhaps get together with a child in your life and make them out of materials you have at home. Get creative, plant pinwheels, create connections.

Or, adopt a bunch of kids and be amazing and teach the world to do the same like my mom does.

Whichever you prefer. 

 

Hugs, smiles, and love!!Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)

Book Review: "Of Women and Salt" reviewed again but differently - Because One Thing is also Several Things

Today is publication day for Of Women and Salt by Gabriela Garcia! 

I invite you to read my review of this book on Disabled-World. I decided to write a separate review for SexualDiversity.org - a site highlighting news and stories related to LGBTQ love and sexuality as well as other underrepresented or commonly misunderstood relationships - because I want to highlight the theme of the book that struck me as most relevant for those of us creating romantic relationships while contending with the romantic relationships that came before us.

____________________________ 

Of Women and Salt is an expertly weaved tale starring five generations of Cuban women. All of these women are connected either through family or happenstance, affecting each other's lives regardless of distance in time and place. And all of these women are both extraordinary and ordinary; like so many women we know.

The mothers in Of Women and Salt are all living in places and times where building a foundation of stability is darn near impossible. Revolutions rage around and inside them, husbands rage around and inside them, and the threat of ICE (U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement) rages around and inside them. These mothers find ways within the chaos to bring safety and stability to the lives of their daughters and, in so doing, build their own unstable stories and frameworks. It is beautiful and human and real and raw.

The daughters in Of Women and Salt (of which some are also mothers) struggle to understand themselves and their pasts. Because their mothers are strong and unwilling to yield in areas they believe best for their daughters, they make strong barricades between them. Again, it is beautiful and human and real and raw.

As the daughter of a strong woman myself, one who never built barricades but was perhaps unnecessarily open and honest in order not to do so, I felt my own connection to these women grow deep. As they (mothers and daughters) made choices and took actions in love, choosing to hold onto or, in dark and dangerous ways, get rid of husbands, they were teaching each other what love is, what we do and don't allow in our relationships, who we become in order to make it all work. And each woman chooses to see what they are being shown in ways that are both unique to them and built by their relationships to each other.

I watched my mother struggle with relationships. When my step-dad molested me and she left him, becoming a single mom with six kids – four of whom were small adopted boys with various disabilities and challenges – my mom worked with passion and vulnerability to learn what the “cycle of abuse” is and to take any action to break it. Mom rarely dated (six kids doesn't leave a lot of room for romantic love) but when she did she was careful. Whether dating men or women she watched them closely for any signs of prejudice or cruelty. And because we all have some prejudice and cruelty, she always had to let them go. Not trusting herself to choose well.

My sister and I learned different things from watching this play out before us, but we both learned from it. Lucky for us we are all close and supportive and believe in consistent growth so the times we found ourselves needing to make changes we were not alone. We had help. We had each other.

My mom, though, did not. Like many of the women in the book my mom had to do it all alone. She made choices that were near impossible to build the support and strong foundation we – my siblings and I – were able to take for granted.

While reading Of Women and Salt I was moved by how well the author shows these relationships between women, the way we are influencing each other and how we are both unable to insist on the way our influence is received and how we are responsible for being careful with it.

There are moments in this book that break your heart; there are moments that reach out and acknowledge you; there are moments that give you power while simultaneously reminding you how little you have.

Ultimately, though, for me the novel was a moment of feeling connected to women around the world and finding comfort in that.

We are building society together, fathers, mothers, daughters, sons. We are connected, regardless of time and place. And though we can't be certain of how our influence will play out we can be careful. Be inclusive, open, and willing to make changes.

Like my mom, we can work with passion and vulnerability to learn the places we are perpetuating cycles of abuse (in our homes and communities) and take actions to break them.

Like the women in Of Women and Salt, we are all bound to environments that we can only partly create. And like the women in the book, who are expertly crafted and imagined, we are influenced by our environments.

These women will influence you.

Of Women and Salt by Gabriela Garcia
Publish Date: March 30, 2021 (today!)

Pre-Order via Amazon: Of Women and Salt

 

Image: me reading "Of Women and Salt" with the novel cover fully in view.

Book Review: Of Women and Salt by Gabriela Garcia

 

 Of Women and Salt by Gabriela Garcia Publish date - March 30th  Number of Pages - 204Genre - Literary Fiction
Pre-order via Amazon here: Of Women and Salt  _______________________________________ 
"We are Force. We are more than we think we are." These words, written in the margins of a book by characters in the novel, are powerfully used and underscore the feeling I was left with after closing the final page of this debut novel.

Of Women and Salt by Gabriela Garcia invites readers into the lives of several extraordinary/ordinary women who are separated by time, place, politics, and so many barricades built within themselves. The writing style is both simple and sophisticated; clear and poetic. I love when a novel shows me to myself while also revealing motives and experiences and thoughts entirely unlike my own, stirring empathy and understanding in all cases. This novel did that for me. 

While exploring the personal and political lives of these Cuban mothers and daughters, traveling with them as they made choices or choices were made for them, and considering the cultures we create and how we are both powerful and powerless in the making of our world, I easily recognized myself and other strong women in my family.  

There are some pretty dark and uncomfortable experiences that are referred to in this story - molestation, domestic abuse, addiction, to name a few - but the author does a powerful job of revealing just enough. Inviting us into the trauma without asking us to relive it. In the case of the molestation, for example, it is quite similar to the molestation I myself experienced at a similar age. I also chose to believe and feel similar things, and act out in similar ways, and put myself down with almost the exact same language as Jeanette - one of the central women in the book. Yet I did not find it triggering and, instead, felt understood and a little bit absolved. I cannot say it will be the same for others, but I do hope so.

The use of time is brilliantly done. Because the theme, as I understood it, was how the actions we take - particularly as mothers - and ways in which we choose to hide, share, embrace, deny, explain, or forget those actions, weave themselves into the lives and environments of others - particularly our children and their children. Near and far away. In our present and long into the future. As we skip time and place in the chapters of this book, from Mexico to Miami, Cuba to Texas; from addiction in 2018 to cigar rolling in 1866; from fearing the nearby revolution will murder your family at home to swimming dangerous waters - family-less and alone - to try to make another place your home, we bring with us the memories and acts of previous chapters and are as affected by them as the characters we're reading about are. Though we are given the gift of knowing it.

This knowing, and again I love this, does not exactly give us answers. It is complex and unknowable how our actions will affect our people. But they do affect them. In my mind, this is an argument for being your most authentic, fearless, thoughtful self. For being open to evolving and growing consistently more authentic, fearless, and thoughtful. For being someone who is confident that when their actions influence people - and they will - those actions were ones you can explain with honesty. 

"We are force. We are more than we think we are."  

Particularly, in the case of this book, if we are mothers and daughters.
This is a lovely book. I recommend it to any reader. Particularly, mothers and daughters. 

Hugs, smiles, and love!Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)

Autism Answer: I Haven't Met You Yet (A letter to my granddaughter)

 

                                                                                                              March 11, 2021
Dear Aislinn,  Tomorrow you will be one week old and I still haven't met you.  Oh, you spent some time here with me and Ian before you were born. I had the pleasure of singing to you, of feeling you shift around in mommy's womb. You were here with your dad, mom, and big sister, Clarke. My heart - my heart! - when I remember your sweet sister here calling out, "Gweema!" and letting me wrap grateful grandma arms around her itty bitty body.  I love you, Aislinn. I just haven't met you yet.  You've been born into a world swirling thickly with ideas, desires, needs, and beliefs that splash and clash and dance, diminish and expand, hurt and heal. (I don't only mean us grown-ups tend to argue and debate, I'm also referring to the balance of nature itself which is brilliant, bold, and assertive.) Your cousins and sister were born into this same world, too. We all were. But you, Aislinn, arrived at a time when this swirling world is keeping me away. There are travel restrictions and a virus whose spread we're trying to limit. Unlike any time in my life, Aislinn, the world is working on the same problem at the same time. There are a surprising number of sides to this story little one, and I am just one grandma with a few thoughts, no big answers or fighting words, but my relationship with you begins in this moment no matter how few or big my thoughts and words are. I love your cousins, I love your sister, and I love you. You are all singular and extraordinary. I crave your spirits and care more than feels manageable about your hearts and souls. All of you. You are all special to me. But you, Aislinn, are newly special. A love of my life that I cannot hold in my hungry arms. They ache, Aislinn, with the lack of you. I held your sister, not long ago, for hours and hours and hours. My arms ached with her weight, with my desire to meet her needs as she slept ever-so-lightly. Do you sleep ever-so-lightly, sweet snuggle bug? My arms do not know. My arms ache to know. So you and I are starting off learning each other in this new way.  I do get to see you. Pictures, videos, and video chatting are not substitutes for the real thing but they are real. I can sing to you and watch you with your sister. Watch you with your mom and dad. Hear your little voice as you cry out. (Although, I have not yet heard your little voice. Do you have a loud cry? Do you demand attention from the world or simply call out to those close to you? I don't know these things. I want to know these things.)  I love you too much not to learn this with you. This way of getting to know each other. And, do you know little pumpkin pie, that we are not alone? There are millions of others unable to gather or snuggle or show up. So many others who cannot lean on their usual ways to connect with each other and celebrate life. So, like us, they are figuring it out.  I hope that we are all stretched to be better because of this. With you being born I have so many reasons to care about using this moment well. Not only because you and your sister and cousins are in this world and I want it to be a place where we use moments well, but also because I am trying to use this moment well and I'm noticing a few things. Surprisingly, I feel myself resisting. I want to hold you and sing to you, I wanted to be there with you and your sister from the beginning, be the helper-self I know me to be for your mom and dad, so I catch myself resisting the joy of this new way. This being apart way. Partly because this new way is temporary (I will hold you and be with you, Aislinn, I just don't know when) but mostly because I know how much I love the other way and I don't want to lose that. Silly grandma! I can love both ways. And this is the way we have right now.  Also, the world is sort of smaller but also sort of bigger. Because we are unable to travel and visit much, we are practicing new ways of being together. And if we practice being honest and authentic and vulnerable in these new ways, we can grow in unexpected directions. I'm sorry to tell you little love bug, but even before the travel and visits were limited people struggled to connect in meaningful ways. This is something I can't wait to discuss with you as you grow, but for now just know that we - as a world, but also you and me - have been almost forced to contend with this. To explore where we've been lacking and make changes.  So, sweet snuggle bug, we are building something new together. Well, new to me I guess. You are learning this from the beginning.  More reason for me to do it well.  Aislinn, you matter so much to me. You and your sweet cheeks and full head of hair have my heart. Yet I am no one to you; I know that. But I will build something with you.  You are singular and extraordinary to me.  We will navigate this new relationship together and build something unexpected and unrivaled. I love you, Aislinn. I just haven't met you yet.  Love, Grandma    P.S. "Haven't Met You Yet" is a song by Michael Buble, a singer your Uncle Declyn likes. I have been singing that hook in my head since you were born and, this is something I can tell you about me, I like that it has an upbeat tempo. It's a fun song. I like using it to remind myself to be happy and remember that I will meet you, it just hasn't happened yet. I love using song lyrics to feel things. Oh, and I can be annoyingly positive sometimes (ask your dad, he's comfortable saying I'm annoying sometimes. tee hee!) but mostly I'm just normal positive, not annoying. Positive. Hugs, smiles, and love!!!Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook) 
Photo Credit: Obviously, not me. I haven't met her yet! This pic was taken by baby's mom, Aly. Beautiful!
 

Autism Answer: Everybody Eats

 

My boys, eating apples.


I am not a foodie. I'm not much interested in food, particularity not how food tastes, or how it's presented. I've never had much interest in the history of a dish. Because of this I have spent a lot of years foolishly thinking of myself as someone who doesn't care about, and has no feelings surrounding, food.
But, no no no no no. that is not true at all.
Recently my mom and I were invited to write for Eat, Darling, Eat , a website dedicated to stories about food, accompanied with recipes. More specifically, a website that acts as an international buffet of stories wherein mothers, grandmothers, daughters, sisters, and aunts experience deep connections around shared meals and moments.
Actually, my mom was invited to write a story and she kinda fed them the idea of including a story from me - a mother and daughter story site with stories from a mother and daughter. Admittedly, it is a delicious idea.
But I was hesitant. I mean, I don't care about food, right? Mom tried to teach me to like soup, a brilliant brew that can be simultaneously used for leftovers, nutrition, and soul food. Unlike my mom and sister, I just never much liked it. Mom tried to teach me to close my eyes and imagine tastes on my tongue, swirl them around to delight in the flavors belonging only to me before excitedly gathering the real things and mixing up a meal that can be shared. She tried to teach me, she exampled it beautifully, but I preferred to get a plate of cheese and crackers while crunching on celery.
Yet, I do care. About food, and about stories. Particularly stories that center around the women in my family. So, I agreed.
Funnily enough, at first I was a little annoyed my mom had already written her story (a spectacularly written memory of my mom and her sister attempting to please my grandma by clearing a plate of her famously disliked Tomato Aspic) and my job would now be to write something that tied into her story, that complemented it in flavor and tone. Mom lead me into a situation where I would have to swirl flavors around for myself in order to serve up a story to share with everyone. Well done, mom!
So I sat down to write a story about food and my family. And, well, there are so many stories I could write! I mean, holy moly! I may not be a foodie but, surprise surprise, food has played a huge role in my life. In my family's life.
I have major memories of mom baking strawberry-rhubarb pie while smoking cigarettes and sipping coffee. My little sister and I would watch her move gracefully in the kitchen, baking from scratch and singing to us. She'd roll imagined flavors around in her mouth and know precisely what to add to the pie. And though the pie wasn't exactly the same each time, each time it was the best pie.
A few years later, after mom had adopted all four of my brothers and terms like "autism" and "fetal alcohol syndrome" and "learning disabled" became commonplace in our home, if not easily understood, I learned to love the care and commitment behind the nutrition in every single bite and ingredient of our meals. More than that, I learned to ask where our food came from and how it was grown. Those years mom almost never left the kitchen, feeding six kids on a macrobiotic diet - a diet that insists every ingredient be close to its natural state and locally grown - meant a lot of chopping, pounding, mixing, steaming; everything from scratch and nothing too easy. Also, my brothers all struggled with various eating disorders or food reactions so even if mom wasn't cooking she was sitting with them, encouraging and insisting they get nutrition in their bodies. She was paying attention to them in order to deduce who was reacting in what way to which food, and working to find ways to get the necessary nutrients in them without pushing their little bodies too hard. It was during those years that I started to notice what my friends were eating. Their school lunches had me asking questions about their cultures and religions. Their food reactions or allergies. After school some of my peers would walk to a nearby convenience for junk snacks. Interesting, I'd think, other families are allowed to eat junk. Also, they have spending money.
And a few years later, after my mom had gotten legal custody of two girls, my newest sisters, now a home with one single mom, four teen girls and four elementary school aged boys, the kitchen became a place for chores and food bank foods infused with healthy ingredients. Mom still did most of the cooking - one pot wonders and soups were her specialty; healthy things mixed together with spices and onions in a big ol' pot on the stove - but now we kids were expected to also cook, clean, and make school lunches. Our buddy system worked well, one teen girl would be buddied up with one little brother. We were expected to expect them to be able to learn skills which, when your brothers have various disabilities, is a valuable skill itself. Learning to believe in others regardless of appearances, while learning also to adapt for their challenges. Seriously, time in the kitchen with a buddy could be frustrating but it was always an important opportunity. (One I wish I had taken better advantage of as a big sister. Often I did my best to get out of it. However, my mom is not a fool. Often she also said, "Oh, you have plans? Take your brother!") Those days I noticed the importance of how we work together in the kitchen, and what it did for us as a family. I payed attention, also, to how other families did or didn't work together, and how that appeared to play out for the family.
Much later, as I became a mom myself, I noticed how little I seemed to learn from all of this. My mom was an everyone sits together at the table kind of mom. Not me. I liked me and my boys to eat together, but often we did so in front of a movie. Or in a mess on the floor while playing with toys. Also, my mom made sure we ate everything on our plates before we could ask to be excused from the table. My sons, on the other hand, knew they could eat till they didn't want anymore as long as they didn't expect me to make them something else later. And nobody asked to be excused from the table because we were rarely sitting at it. And meals? I pretty much made spaghetti or cheese and crackers or sandwiches for every meal. I cared about nutrition so I read ingredients on labels and made sure all food groups were represented (my cheese and crackers always included a vegetable, so ha! Healthy!) but I rarely made food from scratch. I read directions more than recipes.
My poor mom. She taught me better than that. Meals with a movie? Foods from a box? Leftovers on the plates? That's not how I grew up.
But I did grow up caring about food and the kitchen. And I brought that with me as a mom. I cared about how the foods were grown and what the ingredients were, and later I cared which food companies I gave my grocery money to, how they treated the environment and their employees. I cared how my sons reacted to being fed what I fed them, and I encouraged them to feed themselves when they were hungry.
As all this came flooding to mind I decided I was grateful to mom for having already written her story, helping me whittle down my ideas to something that incorporated and included hers. I mean, my goodness! For a non-foodie I have a lot of thoughts and memories about food!
When I take a moment to visit the site we wrote for, Eat, Darling, Eat , it is clear that I am not alone. Everybody eats. Everybody has memories of food and figuring it out. What we like, how we feel about it, how we move away from our mother's kitchens into our own.
I hope you'll visit the site as well for stories of recipes, memories, and moments shared by others. If you prefer to listen, there are recordings of authors reading their stories. And, perhaps, you'll submit a story of your own. If you do, please consider sharing it here with me.  My mom's story: Tomato AspicMy Story: Tomato Aspic, No More

I'd love to enjoy a moment in your kitchen! Even though, you know, I'm not a foodie.

Hugs, smiles, and love!!Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)

Autism Answer: My "That Reminds Me of Me" Problem.

 

Me, mom, and my brother, Dar, in the audience.


I love being an audience. Seriously, listening or reading or watching is my jam. I crave hearing good stories and music; seeing art and nature. I think I would quickly wither away if I was denied these delights.  In a way, I'm a fantastic audience member. I show up ready to like what I'm about to see or hear and my entire being works to prove why what I'm seeing or hearing is good, valuable, entertaining, and brilliant. I like the feeling I get when I let myself respond with laughter or tears, so if I'm audiencing you and you are there, you'll get feedback. I nod, lean forward, ah-ha, and rarely daydream.  But, problematically, I also often think or say, "that reminds me of this thing I think, saw, heard, wondered... " I crave stories and visions from outside of myself, from outside of my scope of thought and experience, in order to learn and be connected with others. In order to be moved by what I don't know. To consider beliefs I would never have conjured alone. And yet the moment I feel a familiarity or recognize myself in the story, I practically pounce on it. Rather than allow the yarn to unravel I attack it with my claws and tear it to shreds. "That reminds me of me!" and at that point I'm no longer really listening.  I mean, clearly I'm still interested and involved. But - as my children and my love can tell you - I'm less listening and more telling. However, there is a listening involved in my telling. I'm listening to what reminds me of me and seeking to connect it to the universe around me, and so I'm feeling my way through all the listening I've done before to piece it all together. But in the meantime, I'm not really listening to what's in front of me anymore. And, to make it worse, I'm not letting the folks around me listen either. Or, to make it even worse, I'm not allowing the person talking to continue their story and discover what they may have needed or wanted to discover along the way. I interrupt with "that reminds me of me!"  I am trying to get better at not doing that. I'm trying to get better at letting the story play out and NOTICE what reminds me of me, FEEL the connection without having to pounce on it.  Considering how much I love listening to what others are willing to share, and knowing how deeply I adore being shared to and with, you'd think it would be easier for me not to interrupt with "oh, and me!" But it isn't easy.  Especially since a little bit of "that reminds me of me" is good. When I've told a story or written a thought I love hearing that it resonated with others! That it reminded them of them! And I like being interrupted with such things as well! I also love when folks say I made a point they'd never considered, and it gave them pause. This, I love most of all. When it happens to others and when it happens to me. And it happens when someone is a good listener.  So I'm working on being a better audience. A better listener.  It sounds so simple but takes work. Or, is that just me?*Feel free to say this reminds you of you.* Hugs, smiles, and love!!!!Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)