by William Ernest Henley
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Sunday, December 19, 2010
For the past couple of weeks, I've been quite devotedly watching past seasons of the miraculously witty show "Psych". The show is centered around a man who is a freakishly observant goofball.
He did poorly in school, dropped out of college, worked a variety of jobs for which he quickly lost interest, lived in several countries, and finally found his calling in pretending to be a psychic to assist the police in solving crimes.
The entire premise of the show is that the guy is a brilliant loser. It's that the life he led in his youth was a waste. And that the settling down into a career is to be desired.
But to me, that life of adventure, of moving about with no commitments, seemed less like a cautionary tale and more of... well... a dream come true.
He did poorly in school, dropped out of college, worked a variety of jobs for which he quickly lost interest, lived in several countries, and finally found his calling in pretending to be a psychic to assist the police in solving crimes.
The entire premise of the show is that the guy is a brilliant loser. It's that the life he led in his youth was a waste. And that the settling down into a career is to be desired.
But to me, that life of adventure, of moving about with no commitments, seemed less like a cautionary tale and more of... well... a dream come true.
Sunday, December 05, 2010
Twirling
"I have a brother with autism."
I uttered those words to a stranger for the first time today. It was a qualifying statement. It made me part of a club.
I was outside the store where I work running the demo of the new product we're offering. A woman approached with her son, no older than four, curious if the product would be good for him, since normal video games require a frustrating amount of manual dexterity that many children with autism simply cannot generate.
I heard her say something to her sister nearby about autism and I had to pipe in. As I spoke, it became clear to me that I was just a salesperson to her. Just someone trying to hawk a product. And so I said the words. The magic words.
I have a brother with autism.
Instantly she began smiling and nodding. And as I talked with her about common issues, I saw that familiar relief flood her eyes. Finally, someone who understands! her expression seemed to say. And as I made references to behavioral quirks, she exclaimed, "Yes!" as if she was just discovering that she was not, in fact, insane.
I looked at the little boy, with his unkempt hair, his bouncy smile, and the filthy stuffed rabbit that he clutched, probably so dirty because he wouldn't even allow her to take it away from him long enough to wash it. I recognized the look in his eyes. Happy, curious, and a little bit frightened. A little overwhelmed. As if he knew that there was so much to learn and was trying to learn it all at once. I watched him jumping around rhythmically to the music as I danced and I said a silent prayer for him and for his mother.
---
I'm reading a book right now about a woman who has a severely autistic sister. Her entire life is defined by the word Autism. It is a tactile word for her, with a distinct look and smell. It is a word full of repetitive occurrences and a constant, dreadful anxiety that something is going to go wrong. Any minute now....
And as I read the book I wonder if this is going to be my life. Am I going to be defined by this? Will my family's identity become Autism? There is so much more to us than that.
My brother is amazing. He recalls words he's read better than anyone I've ever met before. He loves animals. He understands them. He loves dry, witty jokes and tells them with such disinterest that they become even funnier. He tells joke after joke as if he's reading from a page, but he's not. He has memorized the book.
He internalizes frustration with such a staunch perfectionism that it makes my own pale in comparison. He will never admit that something is difficult or challenging. Instead, he'll mumble, I hate this. I'm too stupid for it. I might as well not do it because I'm going to fail anyway. And as much as we try to encourage and edify him out of his defeatist pessimism, he doesn't budge and eventually we give him a cheap answer. "Just do it. It's your responsibility. We all have our part to play."
--
In the book I'm reading, the author compares the autistic tendency to twirl things to a desperate desire to navigate the roads of life.
Heidi was for twirling... The book was a steering wheel beneath her quick hands... She didn't have to look down to keep herself on course, steering through a confusing world of other people and noise and language.
As I read this, a light went off in my head. I'm learning about our needs for control. We all have our quirky habits, and many of them return to a root of being in control. So many events happen in our daily lives that seem random and chaotic and are totally outside of our ability to influence. So we create ways to control the little things. My desk may look messy, but it's meticulously organized and all my classes are color-coded. I can control that much.
My brother creates virtual aliens and orchestrates their evolution in a video game.
Some people throw tantrums.
Some play sports.
Some create art.
Some collect items.
Some cook.
Some exercise.
Some fix things.
Some monopolize conversations.
Some buy shoes.
And all of this is a way of dealing with a world over which we have no control. Beautiful results arise sometimes, it's true.
I'm very proud of the two paintings I created this year during my spring break. I like that I could do them. But if I'm honest with myself I can't help but admit that making those paintings, with their straight lines and defined colors, was just a way of trying to exercise a small bit of control over a world that was falling apart around me. And so they hang in that bathroom, a testament to my own despair at the time.
That doesn't make them not be art. In fact, I think that the idea that they were created from some strong emotion makes them more art than if I had simply been trying to copy a style for the sake of decoration.
That beautiful things sometimes result from such broken and insipid motivations is one of the greatest testaments to God's eternal control. And where HE controls (see: everywhere) we don't have to.
I uttered those words to a stranger for the first time today. It was a qualifying statement. It made me part of a club.
I was outside the store where I work running the demo of the new product we're offering. A woman approached with her son, no older than four, curious if the product would be good for him, since normal video games require a frustrating amount of manual dexterity that many children with autism simply cannot generate.
I heard her say something to her sister nearby about autism and I had to pipe in. As I spoke, it became clear to me that I was just a salesperson to her. Just someone trying to hawk a product. And so I said the words. The magic words.
I have a brother with autism.
Instantly she began smiling and nodding. And as I talked with her about common issues, I saw that familiar relief flood her eyes. Finally, someone who understands! her expression seemed to say. And as I made references to behavioral quirks, she exclaimed, "Yes!" as if she was just discovering that she was not, in fact, insane.
I looked at the little boy, with his unkempt hair, his bouncy smile, and the filthy stuffed rabbit that he clutched, probably so dirty because he wouldn't even allow her to take it away from him long enough to wash it. I recognized the look in his eyes. Happy, curious, and a little bit frightened. A little overwhelmed. As if he knew that there was so much to learn and was trying to learn it all at once. I watched him jumping around rhythmically to the music as I danced and I said a silent prayer for him and for his mother.
---
I'm reading a book right now about a woman who has a severely autistic sister. Her entire life is defined by the word Autism. It is a tactile word for her, with a distinct look and smell. It is a word full of repetitive occurrences and a constant, dreadful anxiety that something is going to go wrong. Any minute now....
And as I read the book I wonder if this is going to be my life. Am I going to be defined by this? Will my family's identity become Autism? There is so much more to us than that.
My brother is amazing. He recalls words he's read better than anyone I've ever met before. He loves animals. He understands them. He loves dry, witty jokes and tells them with such disinterest that they become even funnier. He tells joke after joke as if he's reading from a page, but he's not. He has memorized the book.
He internalizes frustration with such a staunch perfectionism that it makes my own pale in comparison. He will never admit that something is difficult or challenging. Instead, he'll mumble, I hate this. I'm too stupid for it. I might as well not do it because I'm going to fail anyway. And as much as we try to encourage and edify him out of his defeatist pessimism, he doesn't budge and eventually we give him a cheap answer. "Just do it. It's your responsibility. We all have our part to play."
--
In the book I'm reading, the author compares the autistic tendency to twirl things to a desperate desire to navigate the roads of life.
Heidi was for twirling... The book was a steering wheel beneath her quick hands... She didn't have to look down to keep herself on course, steering through a confusing world of other people and noise and language.
As I read this, a light went off in my head. I'm learning about our needs for control. We all have our quirky habits, and many of them return to a root of being in control. So many events happen in our daily lives that seem random and chaotic and are totally outside of our ability to influence. So we create ways to control the little things. My desk may look messy, but it's meticulously organized and all my classes are color-coded. I can control that much.
My brother creates virtual aliens and orchestrates their evolution in a video game.
Some people throw tantrums.
Some play sports.
Some create art.
Some collect items.
Some cook.
Some exercise.
Some fix things.
Some monopolize conversations.
Some buy shoes.
And all of this is a way of dealing with a world over which we have no control. Beautiful results arise sometimes, it's true.
I'm very proud of the two paintings I created this year during my spring break. I like that I could do them. But if I'm honest with myself I can't help but admit that making those paintings, with their straight lines and defined colors, was just a way of trying to exercise a small bit of control over a world that was falling apart around me. And so they hang in that bathroom, a testament to my own despair at the time.
That doesn't make them not be art. In fact, I think that the idea that they were created from some strong emotion makes them more art than if I had simply been trying to copy a style for the sake of decoration.
That beautiful things sometimes result from such broken and insipid motivations is one of the greatest testaments to God's eternal control. And where HE controls (see: everywhere) we don't have to.
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