True peace is the busy and calloused world,
The Mysterious Seeds
Just as that seed of corn,
In dying to self is the gate to real living,
Bowing in humility, worship springs up from this Earth
Caught up in the Universal command bursting to love,
Truth emerges from the human spirit within.
How many creatures and living things there are
Hidden and seen, during the day and at night
On mountain tops, in deepest valleys
Above water, below water
All drawing life, returning to the ground again;
Yet, beyond understanding, wisdom is given,
From One Cross comes many
Many times many from One Savior
Redeemer who reaps from all sowing
Harvesting when all work has been done,
Once a baby, a child, a young man, Israel’s King
Now a sharp sickle ready in the Sovereign Hand
Swung from Heaven’s brightest cloud
When all good has been done
Something occurred to me, the other day. Namely, that alexithymia has been a huge advantage for me.
Not because it’s confused me about my feelings, but because it’s forced me — literally forcedme — to rely on logic to navigate through life.
Okay, so that might not sound like such a great thing, considering how illogical the rest of the world is about stuff. Not being “in touch with my feelings” — heck, not even realizing I’m having certain feelings — sets me apart and puts me in the minority. It makes it harder to figure out whether people are really my friends or not. It makes it harder to figure out if I want people to be my friends. And it makes it difficult to tell what other people think of me, as well as figure out what I actually think of myself.
But that difficulty has been so…
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By the window sill
It’s late into the night
Wind is sleeping
People aren’t stirring
But her eyes are open wide
She checks her watch
First customer of the night
Adjust her straps
Folds her hands
And breathes in deeply
Hoping she’ll get another chance
To say goodbye
Walking down steps
Darting glances in each room
Full of sex
But short on love
By the front door
Hoping her death
Rides on swift wings
I’ve written some about this topic before, regarding the joy I feel when I see other Autistic people moving in Autistic ways, but today I want to write about how my own movement affects and reflects my emotions. I get a little sweary at the very end when talking about getting rid of the allistic (non-autistic) mask.
I am attempting to reclaim my own movement, trying to elicit decades’-old kinesthetic memory from my body.
How did I move as a child? How did I experience and express my feelings before I learned to primarily move the way other people do?
Feelings weren’t a big thing in my childhood house. Logic was prioritized over feelings, always. With Spock and Data as my childhood idols because they didn’t fit in with human society any better than I did, the anti-emotion message from my parents was only reinforced.
But then came my…
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I know that this format is horrifically overused, and if you knew that this ridiculously emotional fangirl was writing a silly ‘letter to a dead person that I have never met’ blog post, you would probably roll your eyes.
And, actually, nothing makes me prouder than the thought of you rolling your eyes at me. So I’ll take it.
Anyway, it’s now been one year and two days since you were taken away from us. It doesn’t feel like it’s been that long – it feels like it was only recently, a fresh wound, so raw that I still can’t watch you or look at a picture of you without bursting into tears. I was given The Princess Diarist for my birthday (in mid-January), and I only gathered the strength to read it in November – because hearing your narrative voice for the last time was just too…
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