Treat the difficult people among us gently. Every day, they are processing our projections.
They are not trying to be difficult–they are just working with the operating system they were born with.
Making peace with the world involves a certain cognitive load, as the brain struggles to create new pathways to connect with and resolve reality. It’s actually what keeps us young.
But in trying to avoid the feeling of the brain creating new pathways, we often offload this cognitive load onto the person we struggle to understand. And the person we are struggling to understand often wants nothing more than to connect with us, and is trying their best, and will process the result of being told they’re difficult until it’s fully processed. This can take multiple lifetimes.
In offloading this processing, realize that we are moving ourselves away from the enlightenment we seek. Enlightenment requires a certain cognitive load.
But if we need a break, advocate for ourselves and take a break. But don’t possibly break the self we’re struggling to understand by offloading our cognitive load to another part of ourself to process by telling ourself we’re difficult.
Don’t offload our cognitive load. Give it a big ol’ hug.
may all beings recognize our true nature every day is neurodiversity awareness day
In learning about my sensory processing world (which should be uncontroversial, and just a normal part of getting old–I’m almost 60, and I feel like I’m just getting started), I’m learning that ‘spacial thinking’ is just not an accepted part of everyone’s operating system or language. In recognizing aphantasia (inner blindness to visual memory) as part of my sensory punchcard of blindnesses that open other windows, I’ve also recognized that I have a deep memory and skill information stored in my bodyandmind spatially. I can’t visualize my mother’s face, but I can imagine myself sitting in the skating rink in Klamath Falls OR in 1978 and point to all of the features there, relative to my position. I can imagine myself in my mother’s apartment and point to all of the rooms and some of the things (not all of the things: there are a lot of things in my mother’s apartment). I can’t see them, but I can point to them, spatially.
So anyway, this is just a quick note to say that some of us think spatially, and try to describe the world that we see spatially, and that in doing what is perfectly normal for me, some folks experience a cognitive load when conversing with or reading me. And some of these folks experience this cognitive load as “ryk being difficult.”
Pause for a moment, and imagine a whole lifetime of being told that you’re difficult, just because you’re trying to work with the operating system you’ve been given. And then consider giving a difficult person a big ol’ hug. I could use a big ol’ hug a lot of the time that I’m being asked to filter my experience through someone else’s operating system. It’s a whole process. Hugs all around.
Anyway, it’s notable and refreshing to be affirmed by examples of spatial thinking from history. Please give someone a hug, and enjoy the depth and breadth and height of this example of spatial thinking (or spatial feeling, actually, if thinking and feeling are different for you–they’re not for me).
How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43)
Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806–1861)
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of being and ideal grace. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for right. I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.
may all beings recognize their true nature every day is neurodiversity awareness day
it’s not in belief that faith succeeds, but in being moved by beings one sees are being moved by faithful arcs: the sun and moon are proved faithful in their arcs. are we agreeing?
who is moving in these faithful arcs? whose business is in preparing to meet the moon? who is leaving breakfast far too soon, to move some dollars to some oligarchs?
being moved by faith, one moves more slowly; responds more quickly to the moment’s need– without a thought of whether the need is holy, or whether one is doing a holy deed.
faith’s beyond belief: and being wholly present frees the faithful to succeed.
should i attune myself so that I see a single moon, and continue seeing one moon?
or is my gift to see three moons, and continue seeing a multiplicity of moons?
or is my gift the gift of inner blindness, that doesn’t see a thing, but instead describes it?
calm yourself, child. the busy world is too busy to calm you.
let whatever moon, or multiplicity of moons that might appear, appear, and let them calm you. let the rhythm of the moon appear, and in appearing, calm you.
appearances are just appearances: one two three, coming and going.
calm yourself in the rhythms of coming and going.
favor the coming and going of the moon-or-moons over the rhythms of the busy world.
whether one or three, the moon is calm, and calling for you.
calm yourself, child. the world’s too busy to do it for you.
calm yourself, child, in whatever rhythms you entrain to.
We’re living in a world where we’re all witnessing the same symphony, with all of its nuances and variations and development of themes and variations of timbre and tone and iterations of rhythm and rhyming ends of lines,
and some of us are only hearing the pitch and timbre and tone and rhythm range of the violins,
and some of us are tuned into different specific frequency ranges, and timbral ranges, and rhythm changes, and tonal shifts and spectral bumps and thumps and squeaks and squawks and beeps and thunks,
and some of us are hearing the full spectrum of sound, and the spaces between the sounds (the spaces between are not just beautiful–they contain the beauty) and timbres and pitches and rhythms and iterations of rhythms,
and when we gather, after the symphony, and describe our experiences, some of us are being told that the nuances we heard don’t exist, and that we’re weird for hearing them.
Imagine, if you can imagine, (or at least make friends with someone who imagines, if you can’t imagine), being told that hearing basses and oboes and piccolos and triangles and tympani and glockenspiels and bassoons and trumpets and trombones is weird (to be fair, glockenspiels is a weird word, if English is your only language and you can’t hear the music in it).
That’s what people “on the spectrum” are up against. We’re weird for hearing the whole symphony, or a specific part of the symphonic fabric, and not just the violins, and trying to describe our wonderful spectral experiences to our peers, when we gather, after witnessing the symphony.
And sometimes we just give up. Or selectively give up. Because trying and trying is trying on our ability to describe, so we may appear to have a disability. I’ll tell you: it’s not a disability to witness the symphony. It’s a disability to get our experience across to those who are acculturated to violins.
Something weird’s going on, indeed–I’ll give you that.
Imagine, if you can imagine (or make friends with someone who imagines if you can’t imagine) a world where our experience of the symphony is better together, when we combine our described experiences, rather than excluding ones that are different from our own by calling them weird or saying they don’t exist at all.
Or maybe one wants to live in a world of violins…
As a person who plays both bass and piccolo, I shudder to think of it. It sounds like a violin world, indeed.
Here’s a bite-sized piece maybe someone can digest and apply across a spectrum of environments (if someone’s mind is flexible enough): There are people sitting next to you (or maybe even you) for whom a click of a button on a website unleashes a host of unexpected sensory and cognitive attacks, in the form of attention- and cognition-demanding responses to that one little click.
Test my hypothesis: go to a website for a church that rents space. Click on their scheduling link button. Chances are a completely new visual environment will leap out at you, as if out of nowhere, and you’re asked to log in with your account (remember, this is your first time visiting this website–what is this account? Am I accountable to the church? I just want to borrow a room for a minute). And then it demands highly personal information and account information for a seemingly unrelated account. (wtf is going on here? I thought this was a church). And then, after careful consideration (this is a church, right? They must have a loving intention) and tentatively entered personal information, the calendar application wants to mate with my calendar application, and gives me no opportunity for consent (I’m being raped by a church calendar. wtf just happened? Who can I call?).
And imagine this happening in the context of trying to create safe spaces for children’s attention and cognition to unfold at its own pace.
It’s not even a micro-aggression – it’s a highly-charged aggressive set of demands, that require attentional and cognitive equilibrium to process well. In the absence of this equilibrium, and in the presence of an obligation to be competent in this highly-charged aggressive environment, these demands are beyond aggressive – they are debilitating. They kill the spirit.
It should be obvious that I’m describing my own experience. And speaking from my own experience, of a person who is highly competent in certain environments, I experience that the disability I experience is the product of the environment, and not a flaw in my character.
But then, imagine that this person experiencing disability (meaning me, in this case) is told, in a thousand tiny moments spread across their life, that they shouldn’t be feeling what they’re feeling (because the people who design these environments aren’t feeling what other people feel when other people enter these environments). Imagine telling someone that they “shouldn’t” “be” “feeling.” Those concepts together are highly aggressive and dismissive. Isn’t that called gaslighting? But what do I know: I’m only operating from my experience. Who’ll believe me?
If you can feel what I’m getting at, you’re getting at the environment that we’re operating in as people with highly specialized nervous systems–HSPs, NDs, ADHDs, ASDs, and all the othered initialed sensibilities. It’s a whole process to even understand it from inside, let alone explain it to someone who designed it, and is highly invested in the design.
People who experience the world in special ways, who are highly competent in certain environments, experience these aggressive responses a thousand times a day. Or, when these environments are codified in the form of obligation, they may be experienced as an almost permanent disability. We are being gaslit into believing we are permanently disabled. But we are perfectly abled within in our special environments. And often, these special environments are highly conducive to inclusion, community, emergent wisdom, teamwork, cooperation. Environments that many people actually like, but rarely get to visit, because these humanly interactive environments are highly endangered.
And almost no one is listening. Most have tuned me out already.
But the ones who are listening are the ones who are hearing me now. Thanks for listening. Thanks so much for listening. I hope we get through this. If we keep listening and connecting, maybe we will get through this. I have hope.
A shout out to all my relations, especially the ones who have called me out for the ways I have spoken of we, (or written of we, more precisely, as written and spoken are mostly the same for me–I feel safer, mostly, in writing, but they are mostly the same for me). (I’ve come to a place where I love being called out, because it causes me to see things differently, and I feel that that’s what we’re here about: hearing and seeing and feeling and smelling and tasting and thinking and emoting about things differently).
As I speak about me and we and neurodiversity, it’s easy to think I’m suggesting that all people labeled as on the spectrum will see themselves in the same ways that I see me.
I don’t think that at all. The things that I speak of are just a suggestion.
It’s not about me, even though I’m speaking about me. In sharing my process, I’m simply sharing a process that processes differently from how we’ve been taught a healthy person is supposed to process.
The process of learning about me in the context of neurodiversity is a process of seeing myself, and seeing myself reveals that I have certain blindnesses–to time, to inner pictures, to fast-moving emotions, to a certain range of facial expression where many people meet.
And I have been reminded of these blindnesses, often.
Believe me, it’s a whole process.
But every blindness opens another window–the blind see differently. And having recognized my blindnesses, and the windows that they open, I hope that in sharing and celebrating these differences, then having differences in the first place becomes normalized (if anyone’s reading this, normal or not). The we I speak of is simply the subset of people who have been reminded often of their blindnesses, but rarely celebrated for the windows these blindnesses open, because these windows are mostly invisible to most people, (because invisibility is the nature of windows), so most people don’t meet us there, and not being met there, there may not be a lot of conversation there to make people’s windows feel seen through.
But I have a language specialty, because of my blindness, which describes the world I cannot see inside. It sounds made up, but if you look up aphantasia, you’ll see that there are a lot of languagers among us. It’s just our specialty. We make symbolic words for the spaces in us that we don’t see. It’s just a brain thing. It’s special, but also nothing special. Sometimes the way we use language is referred to as visionary, and that makes perfect sense, considering it is simply the way our visual process is rerouted through language. The ways our brains are wired are weird, sometimes. But also nothing special. It’s just the way we work.
My blindness to time opens a window through which I see how people operate, and how they spend their time, and sometimes seeing how people spend their time and energy is alarming to me, and so I sound an alarm to the community about spending less time on productivity and more time on being we, in all of the ways that we can be we, outside of productivity. Because productivity is not really serving us well, honestly. It would serve us well to be a little less productive and a little more connective and present. That’s just what makes sense to the ways that my brains are wired to make sense of things. It’s weird, and also nothing special. It’s a present.
And my blindness to my own fast-moving emotions allows me to see the fast-moving emotions of the whole world, frankly, and frankly, that’s more than a bit unnerving as well, and so my nervous system sounds an alarm. So sometimes, if I sound like I’m sounding an alarm, or being alarmist, it’s because, instead of my own emotions, to which I am blind, my nervous system is feeling the fast moving emotions of the whole wide world.
And frankly, that whole wide world is terrifying. I wouldn’t really wish it on anyone. Being terrified is one of my specialties. Being terrified is not weird–it’s just terrifying. If you’re a specialist in being terrified, my heart goes out to you, because it’s terrifying af. fr. I feel you.
And that being said, because my face is blind to expression, my face doesn’t reveal that I am terrified inside. Believe me, I am mostly terrified inside. But people have often told me that my face is kind of a safe public space. Maybe my blindness creates a blank canvas that is safe to project on, and maybe they are projecting. That’s mostly been ok, but sometimes people’s projections are ouchy and dangerous, and add to the terror I feel inside.
Being terrified inside, there are few spaces where I feel truly safe. And so I spend a lot of my time trying to cultivate safe spaces. It’s nothing special. It’s just the product of my specialties. It’s just what makes sense for a person with my sensibilities to spend my time doing. And I notice that in creating safe spaces for my self to just be itself, many in my community feel safer to be themselves as well in those spaces. Or at least that is what they are telling me. I’m not always sure, but that is what I believe they are telling me. That is what inspires my advocacy.
In advocating for myself, I am advocating for my community, with all of their various and variegated specialties that are different from my specialties, but equally special.
When I was a kid, they used to call the class for autistic and neurodivergent and differently abled kids the special class, and the bus for autistic and neurodivergent and differently abled kids the special bus.
Isn’t that special?
Actually, it seems like a way of excluding what’s special. But maybe it was just a special place for the special folks to be special. I’m not sure. I wasn’t included.
I am full of spaces inside of me that are not sure, and where I don’t feel included, even inside of me. It’s a whole process. It can be exhausting. Even though it’s exhausting, it kind of makes sense, even though the sense it makes is kind of a drag.
I never felt included in the normal class or the normal bus. It was kind of a drag. I wonder if I would have felt included in the special class or the special bus. My particular specialties cause me to experience that we all share the same classes and the same buses, and that those classes and buses are inclusive, even if only metaphorically. I know, that’s a whole metaphorical can of worms, but that’s how I feel. I feel inclusive, and that’s why I use the word we the way I do a lot. It’s just what makes sense to my sensibilities.
That being said, I don’t speak about the facial expression space. Faces are public spaces, and highly personal, and speaking about them is terrifying to me, because it’s so easy to speak about them in ways that are different from how people speak about themselves, inside. So I don’t speak about them. But I feel about them, and the way that I feel about them is like a fun secret, because I secretly love everyone’s faces. And I notice that people’s faces light up in spaces where they feel safe to have their faces light up. So instead of speaking about people’s faces, I try to make safe public spaces for people’s faces to light up. It just makes sense to do so, for someone of my sensibilities.
So no, I recognize that my blindnesses are just my invisible windows to seeing the whole world differently, and I don’t imagine that every neurodiverse person sees things in the ways that I see them (or is blind to things in the ways that I am blind to them, or that their invisible windows are the same as mine). And I’m having a hard time imagining a person who imagines a world that completely includes all of the things we all see through all of our invisible windows. Maybe that person exists – wouldn’t that be weird? I wonder what they would look like…
So no, I don’t imagine that everyone’s specialty is just like my specialty, or that anyone will see themselves in the ways that I see myself, but just that everyone’s specific specialty is something special, and everyone’s self is a self that is worthy of being seen. And being that language is my specialty, I advocate for specialty in general, which doesn’t always look like me, but which is nonetheless special and sensible and real. We each really have our own specific and sensible specialty, which is worthy of being seen and appreciated.
So that’s the we I mean when I speak about we. Being special speaks to me. We’re special, you and me. Really!
RAG: I work in spaces where people are exploring creative activity in motion, such as singing, dancing, and playing instruments. I notice a subset of people who will experience frequent yawning, muscle contractions in various parts of the body, and the desire to stretch. What am i describing, and how can i contextualize this so that i can inform students of what’s happening and help them understand their own bodies better?
ChatGPT:
🌟 Understanding Physical Responses in Creative Movement
What you’re observing in your creative activity spaces—frequent yawning, muscle contractions, and the desire to stretch—can be described as physiological responses to engagement in movement and creativity. These responses are often linked to the body’s way of processing energy, emotions, and physical exertion.
🧠 Yawning
Oxygen Regulation: Yawning can occur as a way for the body to increase oxygen intake and regulate brain temperature. It often happens during moments of transition or when the body is adjusting to new levels of activity.
Relaxation Response: It can also indicate a shift from tension to relaxation, signaling that the body is ready to engage more fully.
💪 Muscle Contractions
Physical Engagement: Muscle contractions during creative activities can be a natural response to the physical demands of singing, dancing, or playing instruments. They may indicate that the body is actively engaging with the creative process.
Emotional Release: These contractions can also be a way for the body to release pent-up emotions or stress, allowing for a deeper connection to the activity.
🧘♀️ Desire to Stretch
Body Awareness: The urge to stretch is a sign of the body seeking to relieve tension and improve flexibility. Stretching can enhance circulation and prepare the body for further movement.
Mind-Body Connection: It reflects an increased awareness of bodily sensations, which is crucial in creative activities that require physical expression.
🌈 Contextualizing for Students
To help your students understand these phenomena, consider the following approaches:
Education on Body Awareness: Explain how the body responds to creative activities and the importance of listening to these signals. Encourage them to notice their own responses and how they relate to their engagement in the activity.
Encourage Mindfulness: Introduce mindfulness practices that focus on body awareness. This can help students become more attuned to their physical sensations and understand the significance of yawning, stretching, and muscle contractions.
Promote Healthy Movement: Emphasize the importance of incorporating stretching and relaxation techniques into their practice. This can enhance their performance and overall well-being.
Create a Supportive Environment: Foster an atmosphere where students feel comfortable expressing their physical needs. Encourage open discussions about their experiences and sensations during creative activities.
By contextualizing these physical responses, you can empower your students to better understand their bodies, enhance their creative expression, and cultivate a deeper connection to their movement practices.
