My Autism Mountain

April is Autism Awareness month, and I have been reflecting on ten years ago when our family tentatively, reluctantly entered a new world--a place where we live with autism every day with our beloved son. Elias is 13 now, a full fledged teenager. Our family has traversed some rushing, muddy waters and many bridges in that decade. We have learned to construct bridges to cross, but some have been built for us--at times almost magically appearing to rescue us when the waters got really deep.   However, thankfully every year autism awareness increases around the globe, and more people are more perceptive to children and their families who struggle with this puzzling socialization and language disorder.

Since I have older children, I noticed a few indications in his delayed speech development when he was about two and a half, but did not fret or worry about the differences. He was working with a speech therapist at home, and I just assumed everything would smooth over. I painfully noticed that he stayed on the sidelines when he was around other children; he didn't seem to know how to navigate the playground with them.  Play dates were always a disaster. As he turned three and the difficulties did not dissipate, I began to have a feeling in my gut that perhaps he had more severe things to surmount than a speech delay. Hearing tests and other therapies were administered, and eventually a pediatric neurologist diagnosed him with being on the autism spectrum.

My husband, also a physician, was not able to be with me on that definitive day. I remember vividly walking out of the office dazed and heartbroken. I cried in my car as I sat in the parking lot, feeling very much alone.  The doctor was clinically precise, but there was no prescription, treatment, or medication to repair this disorder. I had always known how to proceed before in my life, but autism had me stumped. I felt like I was in a trench, a very large chasm, and did not know how to climb out.

For several months I woke up in the morning,  and I hoped his diagnosis was all a terrible dream. His behavior, learning style, and struggles mystified and confounded me. Since he did not know how to communicate and was so achingly frustrated, there were many parallel breakdowns-- both his and mine. I would run to the mudroom if I felt a sting of tears coming. I desperately wanted to help him, but did not know how. My naturally cheery disposition had taken a major dunking.

Therapists were kind and attentive to our needs, and we tried to jump into every interventional therapy that was available. We studied, read, and reached out to others who were struggling with our battle. I tried to be emotionally stable for my family (my blind father-in-law was living with us in those years too), but I was crestfallen--realizing my own inadequacies of how to teach him. I think, most of all, I struggled with a grief and guilt that would not dissolve--no matter how much I tried to heal. Simply, it was hard for me to accept that he would live with this disorder for the rest of his life, and I did not know how to proceed.

Climbing in the mountains with his brother and dad.

It was at this time that a dear friend asked me to help mentor at a Girl's Ranch for two weeks. My family urged me to exit all my responsibilities at home so that I could help at this ranch for girls--teaching guitar, hiking, kayaking, and helping the girls with woodworking and pottery. It is a valley that has filled my reservoir for a long time so I accepted the offer to assist the girls, not ever calculating that I would be the real recipient in the offer.

The Tetons, where the ascending to the peaks began....

One morning our leader had planned an early morning hike, before dawn, up to the top of a nearby mountain. We were instructed to walk in the dim light up the path, thinking about a nature analogy that resonated with us as we hiked. Starting out in the dark valley below, the teenage girls and I began to summit the mountain. It was early morning, and the girls were tired so we walked in silence. A few hours later, after getting to the top, we gathered together to share the analogy that we had been reflecting about on our ascent.

I don't remember what anybody said that day on the crest of the mountain except for Dick, our leader. It was simple and heartfelt, but his words resounded in my heart very loudly, counterpointing the early quiet morning on the ridge. He simply said, "Sometimes it is dark and dim in the valley when you start your journey, but as you climb step by step, the light will come until you see the amazing panoramic view." As we all sat on top of the mountain gazing at the newly lit valley, his analogy jolted my heart as I likened it to what we had just experienced. With the light streaming into every crevice and corner below me, I vowed that I would begin to scale my own autism mountain. It was time to climb and see some higher elevation.

 In the last ten years, Elias's steps forward have provided immense joy, and sometimes the backward steps can baffle me. I admit at times I have longed for more normal, free flowing conversations that I experienced with my other children. I missed talking about books and ideas, with concepts ricocheting like lightening streaks all over the room of exciting things to think and experience. But now I realize the lightening streaks were there all along with Elias and our family. Autism has given us a precious gift, a journey, that I would not trade for all the money in the world. I continue to marvel at Elias's strides and advancements--his ability to read, do math, paint pictures, sing in a choir, play on teams.  At his new school in Qatar, he can shoot more baskets than anybody else, and kids respect him for it. Observing his improvements has truly brought much joy that I previously could not have ever imagined.

Graduating from elementary school where he gave a talk, like everyone else. We practiced for a few weeks, and many people said he spoke just like any typical kid. I was a little surprised how confident he was up on the stage for his one minute talk. Since that time, he takes any opportunities to be on stage, whether he is talking, singing, or performing.

As I watch people interact with him outside our family, I can see he brings a light-hearted, compassionate approach to those around him. Coaches have told me they instruct the kids differently when Elias is on the team. When there are practices, drills, and games, there is more camaraderie and support to each other--even when he shoots a basket in the other team's hoop. The simple values and principles that we all want to live by he already inherently knows; he is always kind, encouraging, and honest. He brings a smile to everyone's face when they meet him or talk with him. Perhaps it is because as he always says, "I want to always be around people, Mom. I just love people."

Enjoying his uncle....

I will admit that Elias's autism has "protected me from myself"--meaning my more selfish, willful self. Time, money, and resources go to him freely. Our patience levels have increased--to be able to wait for all the strokes of the paintbrush to make a beautiful painting. My husband and I don't expect the canvas to have every color, shape, form, and texture in a short amount of time. Many things that used to seem looming, important, and significant are not anymore.

Hiking in Central Park on a trip. We walked 17 miles that day. No lie.

When he doesn't get invited to a party or other gathering. I am not offended. I am more willing to help others understand about autism if we are in a theatre, restaurant, or other public place. Initially, it was difficult for me to explain, but I have found people are very understanding almost all of the time. Believe me, I have had to explain autism to people from all over the world now that I live in Qatar.... And I am not too dense to realize that our other children are also "saved from themselves" also. At a time in adolescence when it is natural to think more inwardly, their vision had to be more outward in order to survive in our family. As I have watched from afar and viewed their nurturing natures develop, I am continually grateful for all the tutoring Elias gives us. 

Enjoying some Christmas spirit with our English crowns on.

In the last decade, step by step I have reached some high, beautiful ascents on my autism mountains. I have seen glorious views--where  Elias and I have skied and hiked together. Last week in a sailing camp in Qatar (where we now live), he even steered us both on a little sail boat to an island (the wind was light that day, but hey, we were gliding to an island together).  Two weeks ago we went to a the Modern Arab Museum here in Qatar where he has four of his paintings being shown in a student exhibition. Elias has taught us all how to climb a little higher in our family--to summits and views we never would have otherwise been so blessed to see.

For about the first two or maybe even three years, I could not say the word autism without a lump in my throat or a stray tear. Of course, I would change his diagnosis for him if I could, but not for me--nor for our family. I have accepted there will always be an autism peak to climb. But I have also seen breathtaking views, light filled valleys, countless bridges, and maybe even some northern lights on this autism journey. Undoubtedly, there will be some exhausting crests ahead, but the rugged cliffs are worth surmounting and scaling. Every time the view transforms me, and makes me want to keep climbing.

Elias has amazing endurance, and can climb for hours. He is a great hiking companion, ready to tackle or surmount any ravine or path. Often times he leads the way, and we follow him up the mountain. 

Italy is Eatily

I loved the enthusiasm of these chefs in the Mercado as they worked. They were singing together as they mixed the pizza dough when I took this picture. It sounded like an Italian opera to me, and I think they loved that I was amused at their gleeful enthusiasm as they entertained their hopeful customers. I mean who doesn't want to be serenaded in Italian? What a great way to lure the customers.....

On a recent trip to Florence, Italy, I was reminded of the tremendous influence of Italian architecture, art, music, fashion, cars, science, and yes, how Italian food has enhanced our lives. Even if we never enter the kitchen to stir a pot of spagetti sauce, Italy resides in all of us. Can anyone imagine life without pizza or pasta?

Since I believe making a sumptuous meal can be a tremendously creative endeavor, I sought out some Italian cooks/food artists in markets, restaurants, and street venders. I wanted any expert secrets about how to make food more flavorful and nutritious from these Tuscan artisans. It was a delightful search for a few days to hear their experiences and feel the pulse of their excitement for their native Tuscany food. Without a doubt, a few kindred spirits were found on the streets of Florence.

In my opinion, the real indicator of a great cook is how they they use herbs and spices to make the ordinary become extraordinary.The people I met were tremendously eager to share their honed recipes and tips. With no exception, they were all people who joy in creating good, healthy food.  I had wonderful conversations about what makes a good olive oil, and the seemingly divine soul in Tuscany that grows tantalizing food. If any of my new friends thought you were even slightly interested in their food affectionado, their expressions literally lit up; they grinned and started talking with their hands to explain their passions about their own culinary experiences. An infectious, joyous spirit permeated their stories and anecdotes. I was elated to be their audience, and insert a few questions while they peppered their opinions and advice.

I have always been of the opinion that since you have to nourish your body every day, you might as well be a little bit interested in learning how to make those meals more tasty and nutritious. When I moved to the Middle East, one of the first things I did was to plant my herb garden so I am always interested in learning how to make a simple vegetable more delectable. Here are just a few tips I received from my new Italian friends:

--to add flavor to grilled steak or fish, use a gremolata, instead of a creamy or oily sauce. A gremolata is an Italian garnish of raw, finely chopped garlic, fresh parsley and lemon zest. 
--oregano, an herb that is both sweet and spicy, is perfect for Italian sauces.
--instead of using a slice of lemon, lime, or even orange to flavor your water, try a sweet basil leaf .
--Roast beets with thyme, olive oil and balsamic vinegar.
--Roast acorn or butternut squash with cinnamon, coriander, rosemary, olive oil, and garlic. The same blend can be made for carrots and parsnips. Roasted vegetables with herbs and spices are tasty over polenta.
--layer your pizza next time with basil leafs, depending on how much flavor you desire.
--drizzle some "good" olive oil on your soup, with some croutons. Use olive oil as much as you can, instead of butter.
--add whole peppered corns to sauces over meat. No need to grind them.
--Add fresh, minced rosemary leaves to mashed potatoes or cut up red potatoes that are baked with about a tsp. or two of olive oil.
--Learn more about your heritage on how to cook old recipes, especially those from holidays. It will bond you with your family and ancestors in an interesting way. You will understand them more when you know what they ate. Designate a few days of the year when you can prepare what they ate, usually at holidays or special family occasions.
--Fruit for dessert, both dried or fresh is delectable.
--Grow an herb garden to flavor your food. Make your pestos, marinades, salad dressings from scratch.
--anise is an interesting, unique flavor for pastries and bread.

This man was waving with a happy grin at the passerbyers in the market. The colorful fruit and vegetables, and his ebullient spirit, even for a glimpse, made me even happier to be in Italy.

This man could not speak much English. But  since we both love herbs, we were able to communicate. He gave me some fresh new ideas to bring more piquant flavors to vegetables.  Brief exchanges can have lasting influence...for good.

A baker who was getting ready for Easter with his pies, breads, and pastries. He made a great effort to tell me about the pastries he was making for Easter in his minimal English. I could tell he was proud of his work, to bring his Italian heritage to people through food.1427393708http://www.wsj.com/articles/pastiera-a-traditional-italian-easter-dessert-1427393708

Some jolly, playful pizza makers. Making food for them was not a chore.

Getting the pizza dough ready to throw. Lots of smiles and laughter to show us how they created their pizza.

Every pizza seemed to be made with so much care in the Mercado, just like it was for a family member.

The Pete receiving his pizza that was so lovingly, personally prepared for him.

Soups's on! Meet Katrin who was a kindred spirit because we both love to make a hearty, rustic soup. It is always my quest to find a sumptuous  soup; I can say soup in about twelve languages to prove my point. Beethoven apparently said, "Only the pure and heart can make a good soup."  I will try to live up to his declaration.  But it is always delightful for me to find people throughout the world who have my passion to stir and simmer a delectable soup. 

Soup just seems to have soul. Katrin was indeed a soup wizard,. Here is a a picture of her cauliflower and broccoli soup (no cream). She drizzles the famous Tuscany olive oil on the soup, with some homemade croutons. Her other soup (carrot curry) was immersioned with rice. There was a line serpentining around the stall to buy her delicious  soups. For lunch that day, I had two bowls. Better than dessert for me....

There were many gelato stores, seemingly on each street. The picture below is of their family who started this store in the 1920's on the street. Impressive.

Elias enjoying his daily gelato.

The first night in Florence found us in a small cafe. The cooks behind the counter were thrilled to share about their collections of cheese, cut meats, and bread.

The first night in the cafe I had what else....some soup. The people of Italy often have white beans to accompany a meal, but the soup was perfect that night. Here is the recipe, give or take:http://www.food.com/recipe/terrific-tuscan-vegetable-soup-475171http://www.food.com/recipe/terrific-tuscan-vegetable-soup-ellie-krieger-475171

Two Italian proverbs about food that I wholeheartedly agree:

At the table with good friends and family, you do not become old.

A small kitchen makes the house big (and I would definitely order an herb garden, and if I were lucky, an olive tree).
                                                      One more story:  

One of the extraordinary happenings of our Italian trip ( five days) was meeting the same taxi driver in Florence twice. We only took three taxis in Florence, and the first night was after dancing in one of the plazas, Paulo took us back to our hotel. We had a delightful conversation that night in his Italian, some English, and my mediocre Spanish. Two days later, we were out flagging another taxi, and here Paulo comes again. I said, "What are the chances to meet you again?" He replied, " There are 700 taxis and 1,000 taxi drivers in Florence." I have always taught my children that you never know when you will see someone again so be kind. It was particularly interesting because the first time we met him, we all instantly became friends. To meet him again, well, it was marvelous, just like seeing a long time friend--especially when you are far from home. 

To all my new friends I met in Italy:

addio , il mio amico. e io vi vedrò di nuovo

Translation: good bye, my friend, and I will meet you again.

Sandstorms, instead of snowstorms....

In a few days it is going to be 102 degrees here in Doha, Qatar. Yikes, wait! It is only the beginning of April, and the sun is heating up, causing the ground water to form puffy clouds. With no water to hold the dirt and sand in place, the Arabian winds have been kicking up the sand for hundreds of miles. Everywhere there is a dusting of a coarse, beige film. One friend comically said a few days ago, "I thought I already knew brown, taupe, but the world just got a lot more beige around here." There was no shield or protection from the grainy, gritty billows moving into the Middle East this week. The sand funneled into every crevice, window, and eyelash.

Although there was much cleaning up to do after the snowstorm, my sons both agreed it was worth it to have a day off from school--almost like snow closings in St. Louis.

In the seven months I have lived here, I have seen spiraling sand many times, but never like the storm we had last week--even enough to get school cancelled. Yep, as we enviously watched the news this winter with the snow closings from our old schools in St. Louis, Missouri, we were missing our celebratory snow days (such great memories of having your entire day shifted from a rushing routine to a sledding/movie day). But instead we got to experience "a sand closing"--with a dark, bleak fog surrounding you in every direction. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sdtpkYZeV00

Everyone had masks and scarves to try to cover up a little from the sandstorm.

The only bother I have with sandstorms vs snowstorms is that sand drifts in your house; snowflakes do not pile in your kitchen and living room. I have heard from expats who have lived here over a decade that this is the first time school has ever closed because of a sand storm. I guess there is one consolation for any sand in our ears and eyes: we got to experience a little Qatar history this week.

Time to go sledding on the sand dunes again....

Happy Easter from Italy! (part 2)

When I was 20 years old, I carried a beloved and tattered copy of The Agony and the Ecstasy by Irving Stone to Rome so that I could prepare to enter the Sistine Chapel as I traveled around Europe with my Eur-rail pass. I could never have predicted how much Michelangelo's ceiling and sculptures would change me that day. I was washed away with awe and rapture; my neck had a serious kink in it by looking above for hours. I wondered how he managed to paint the larger than life prophets and people on the ceiling--even on ladders in his 70's. I continued to read everything I could about him, even his poetry.

Since that day, I have looked to art many times to fill my soul, to cascade it with light and beauty. I have been blessed to enter many beautiful galleries, cathedrals, and homes to view art that have taught me more goodness and understanding than I would have known otherwise. I have strolled, walked, guided my children around art museums since they were weeks old, and frankly, now we guide each other. One of the reasons I fell in love with my husband is because he also can spend hours and days in art museums; we have stood in front of a few paintings and sculptures with some tears. Although I am not an artist, I am grateful to those who bring sparks of light and luminosity to us, across the span of millennia. 

With the Easter weekend before us, I have been reflecting on the many experiences that we can have with art and music to prepare for this season--to ready our souls to be open to the redemptive words at this special time. I am grateful for new wells or enthusiasms that give me replenishment, that stir and awake chords of memory and discovery. 

With our recent trip to Switzerland and Italy, I was again awestruck at the grandeur of these artisans who created with great force and finesse--seemingly unfatigued and relentless. Caravaggio, the great Italian artist of the 17th century has been a favorite artist for many years, but I discovered at the Uffizi Gallery in Florence another artist this trip that made my tears drop. The Dutch painter, Gerrit von Honthorst, painted some superbly intimate moments in Christ's life. http://www.gerrit-van-honthorst.org/ 

One of my favorite books, Crossing to Safety by Wallace Stegner describes two couples on their sabbaticals, lapping up art and culture in Italy when their children are grown. One of them reflectively says, "I know many people have read Milton's Paradise Lost, but have they read Paradise Regained?" I have to say heaven was found again in these places. I know I don't have to travel to find paradise; there are wells all around us to renew, refresh us when our souls become tired. Sometimes heaven or paradise is lost, and we have to regain it again. We have to go find it. 

Lessons Learned this Easter: 

1) Remember the whispers that resonated with you a long time ago, and try to discover them again. There are always old and new wells of replenishment to uncover and locate. 

2) Songs, words, artwork can breathe new meaning--even if you have heard or seen them countless times.

3) The soul needs to be constantly filled. Finding out what nourishes you, makes you more alive, is so very important. I am grateful I found out a long time ago on a ceiling in Rome one of the ways to fill my soul--drop by drop. 

On the second floor of the Mercado in Florence where there are many cafes and small restaurants. There were decorated Easter decorations in Italy and Switzerland ( See Blogpost about Easter, part 1) if you want to see all the Easter decorations), but the religious artwork this time of year washed our souls with breathtaking beauty and awe. 

In the Bern, Switzerland Cathedral

This is a carved sculpture on the outside of a cathedral in Basal, Switzerland.

This is a special stained glass window at a remote village, way up in the Swiss Alps, called Innerkerken. My dear friend, Annagreth, grew up in this valley, a short distance walk from this church. 

Botticelli in Uffizi

A painting by Gerrit von Honthorst, Christ Before the High Priest

One of my very favorite artists, Carrevagio, painted this painting of Thomas when he saw the Lord--insisting that he touch His wounds.

The Duomo in Florence

This scene was to represent the empty tomb in The Basilica of the Nativity in Florence. Close to this tomb is the inscription in Latin that states, "Where you are I once was, and where I am now, you will soon be." 

The Duomo Dome, with its layers of people at The Final Judgment. We climbed 473 stairs (two cupolas) to the top so that you could look face to face with the frescoes. 

The dome at the Baptistry, next to The Duomo in Florence

At the Medici Chapel next to San Lorenzo Cathedral, 

Michelangelo's sculpture of "The Day"that he created for a Medici tomb. Interestingly enough, Michelangelo purposefully did not carve his face, showing that when death comes, none of us ever finish everything we intend and desire to do on earth. 

Michelangelo's St.Matthew in the Academy

The Pieta that was supposedly done at the end of Michelangelo's life. Some scholars dispute if it was done by him or not because of the disproportionate body of Jesus.

Michelangelo's Pieta at the Academy

Bronze reliefs of Bible stories at the Duomo in Milan, Italy

At the Milan Duomo, with the Bible scenes cast in bronze

Some Easter music:

Today in Doha Qatar, I heard two brothers who are in the Vienna Boys Choir sing this song. They are here for a week with their family, as a break from their choir and school in Vienna. I had never heard this song before. The hope and love that Easter brings, along with the earth that is changing around us is so beautifully articulated in this song:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=27p98aLPZPI

Now the Green Blades Riseth, French melody, lyrics my John M. C. Crum

Now the green blade rises from the buried grain,
Wheat that in the dark earth many years has lain;
Love lives again, that with the dead has been:
Love is come again, like wheat that springs up green.

In the grave they laid Him, Love Whom we had slain,
Thinking that He’d never wake to life again,
Laid in the earth like grain that sleeps unseen:
Love is come again, like wheat that springs up green.

Up He sprang at Easter, like the risen grain,
He that for three days in the grave had lain;
Up from the dead my risen Lord is seen:
Love is come again, like wheat that springs up green.

When our hearts are saddened, grieving or in pain,
By Your touch You call us back to life again;
Fields of our hearts that dead and bare have been:
Love is come again, like wheat that springs up green.

I was also able to hear excerpts from the St. Matthew Passion Oratorio by Bach this week at a musical
soiree at my cello teacher's home. http://www.wsj.com/articles/bachs-st-matthew-passion-1412376095

Perhaps it is because I live in the Middle East and needed to find some new wells this year to fill my cup,
but I feel so grateful for artists and composers, known and unknown. It is always wondrous to  encounter
some new wells, wherever they are in the world.

My Tennis Team

Today it is 97 degrees in Doha, Qatar, and the long time expats are warning me the summer heat is beginning to escalate. But it hasn't stopped my little crew of tennis students from practicing on the court. Today about 20 girls turned up to learn how to play with me (usually there are a few boys, but they were playing soccer in the neighborhood). There are always a few younger siblings who function as ball girls when we don't have enough rackets. They are all in my compound, a few live next door or a few doors down. Many times during the week, they approach me, and ask, "We are having tennis lessons this week, right?" I tell them I wouldn't miss it.

When I moved to Doha last September, one girl revealed to me she wanted to learn how to play tennis. I offered to teach her since we have a tennis court on top of our club house roof, and the word spread. Of course, the lessons are free; I am no professional. Some of the kids have been playing weekly with me for months, and now that the sandstorms have abated somewhat, more kids are turning out to play. As I watched one 13 year old girl serve perfectly today into the diagonal court, I was so proud to see her progress. She is the one who fasts when she really doesn't have to--just to get the extra blessings she says she needs--even when it is very hot.

Most of the kids who want to play are girls from about age 10-13. They have instructed me on what it is like to be Muslim: how they fast at Ramadan, when they start wearing their abayas, teaching me about their prayer schedule. Sometimes they want to talk about school and friends, and their old lives in the U.S., Jordan, Lebanon, or Egypt. One of them gave me one of highest compliments of my life when she asked me if I had played tennis on TV, like I was a Wimbledon star. Ha! I tried hard not to chuckle too loud. No, just a high school player, someone who was taught by my mom when I was about their age.

Sometimes when I go to their school where my boy also attends, they smile and wave to me, inviting me to sit down at lunch with them. Frequently, they knock on my door to talk or tell me some impending news. Often I will open the front door to one of them holding a dinner or sweet Arabic dessert for my family to eat that evening--sent from their mom. One mother had me "consult" with her daughter when she did not receive high enough marks on her report card. The ball girl who has been with us for six months now, a younger sibling that is six years old, calls out to me often in the schoolyard or in the neighborhood street, "I love you." I teach them for free, but they give me so much more in return for my meager efforts.

I love these girls who have allowed me into their lives and dreams. I am honored by their trust in me, a middle-aged woman, with such a different background than their own. They are kind to my son with autism, as he hits the tennis ball with them. We are a team, a community, who are trying to help one another. As I watch and teach them every week on the tennis court, I often reflect on my luck to land in the best neighborhood in the entire world.