Leisa A. Hammett

Artrageous Redeux

Our book designer Mary Sweeney; publisher Tim Fields; Trickett Honda's Reed Trickett, ASMT Director Amanda Peltz, project originator, coordinator and author--moi.

Clever copy was intended. Virtual stacks of posts are ready to be published. Only, they ain't about Art. And I didn't do my homework. Waited until the last minute. And this post is supposed to be about Artrageous. Thursday found me flittering about town to half of the galleries that will be featured on this year's Artrageous. Friday I'll take the other half on. And then Saturday night The Fiance and I'll dress up in some Willy Wonka-ish garb and we'll attend the real shindig. Thursday and Friday featured gallery visits were to deliver postcard publicizing our book and our upcoming signings and exhibits, starting with Our Book Launch, Sunday, Nov. 15, 3-5 p.m., L. Greer Gallery, Edge Hill Village. (You're invited.) At 10, Thursday, part of our book team gripped and grinned with Reed Trickett, owner of Trickett Honda in Rivergate who made a generous gift to our book project to help with expenses incurred and to purchase one book per family featured in it. One badly needed manicure later (afterall, I will be signing books Sunday,) plus a sit-down interview with The Tennessean AND a evening speaking engagement and here I am....(We also scored an absolutely fab review in The Nashville Scene today.Not available online, apparently.)

So, I'm resurrecting this from LAST YEAR. Bone tired and behind, I'm calling it quits. For Thursday night and launching Friday's post. Ciao!

Last year's blog Artrageous coverage:

Art-rage-ous. Think about it, said Jeff Rymer of the self-named gallery. When the Nashville CARES Middle Tennessee Aids support and education charity benefit was birthed 21 years ago, there was rage against the plight of the disease swiping precious lives. Now, it's more like Out-rage-ous Good Time while drinkin' Absolut and viewing Fine Art. And a grand, good time it was. It's the one time that this straight gal sees gays so outwardly celebrating in such great numbers within the mainstream of this city. Tasseled dragqueen flappers. Pinstriped fadora-ed gangstas. The theme at this year's was the Roaring 20's. It roared. And the art. The art's all still up there and out there for those who didn't catch the event's Van Gogh busses. And it's worth seeing. Some of my night's faves:

...The rest here.

Plus my City Paper coverage.

More to come.But, first I'll leave you with a taste of this year's Artrageous with the Steven Frenkel's "Relocation Specialist," showing at the uber cool Finer Things Gallery on Nolensville Road. I'd say Frenkel's work, below, is a little bit like my Thursday! And maybe all of my life right now.

Joy&Pain (5-Part Mini-Grieving Series)

The call came. About six days early. Our publisher left the message on my cell phone at noon: "They're here." They're HERE! Our labor of love had come home from NICU--the printer. After nine months of active gestation, in September our team sent our babe to the printer. And now our baby was coming home from the hospital.

It was four hours before I could complete my meetings and commitments in another part of town and arrive at our publisher's office. As I made the drive across town what I did feel was not Joy. I was confused at my "lack" and began to examine my feelings. What I did feel was Pain. My daughter's psychiatrist again had seen the abnormal activity during her neurofeedback session that afternoon. He urged me to call our neurologist and schedule an EEG. This after learning that our health insurance might end early spring after an audit. If we get the boot in March, then we are responsible for paying for all expenses incurred in January and February. (And people DON'T want Healthcare Reform?!) When I called the neurologist's office the soonest appointment I could get was late December and I must see him before an EEG is ordered. And those things aren't scheduled quickly. Sigh. Worry. Fret. Wring hands. That was what I was doing as I made the trek across town. Only, instead of wringing my hands, they clenched the steering wheel.

Once I examined and diagnosed the feelings, giving them names, I traveled a couple more miles. I had put the top down. It was a gorgeous 70 degrees back dropped by lushness of yellow and orange maples. I switched off NPR. I just could not deal with injustices in Iraq right now. I decided to wrap my feelings. I envisioned centering them in a square of thick, silk Japanese cloth, wrapping them up, one side at a time, overlapping the corners over the bundle. Then I envisioned putting that bundle of wrinkled-brow worry on a shelf. This allowed me to tap into the excitement that my first book was hot off the press.

Ironically, I thought later, I had written a book about 18 families living with autism and all the while, I, too, was living with autism. I'd been in this place before.  Knowing that Grace has seizures is not new. We've just been able to not have to treat them until last year and then with a very mild drug. But things appear to have changed. And I thought about my philosophy and what I know is true: It. Will. Be. Okay.  Five years ago, fresh from my divorce, I learned that Grace was experiencing benign myoclonic seizures. I told a friend who had raised a son with autism and had endured way more than I will ever experience on many fronts. She told me this simple truth: "Oh, well. You'll deal." To some that might sound like an unsympathetic response. But D. and I laughed. We both knew she was right. I will deal. And I did. And I will continue.

So. Back to Joy. Our book is beautiful. After months of arduous labor, our photographer-designer-author/project originator & coordinator (that's me) and our publisher had pulled it off. I took it with me to the salon where I purchased hair goo. To the office supply store where I bought felt tip pens to sign it, meanwhile showing it to the tech help who'd rescue my laptop that had survived a summer of writing only to crash two weeks after we sent the book to bed. I enjoyed the oohs and the ahhs, the stunned and admiring looks as I shared it with the staff I knew at both locations....Okay. Yeah. I can do this. I can do Joy. I can. And, isn't that Life after all? A mixture of Pain...but redeemed...by Joy. And that part about the health insurance...it may not happen. It is a possibility, but my thoughts had leaped, soared and astroplaned to a place in the future. A place. That. Does. Not. Exist. And may never. So, I'm going back to the present. And feeling...Joy.

Our book is out. WOOT!

Join us at our Book Launch--a photography exhibit and book signing--Sunday, November 15, 3-5 p.m., L. Greer Gallery, Edgehill Village. More events to follow!

In the Community of Motherhood

Photo: Rory Hamilton

The act of becoming a mother means that some invisible hand of life-emotions reaches down into the very pit of your heart and takes a wrench hold.

You will never be the same.

You have joined the universal community of motherhood and. there. is. no. going. back.

If one is alive, human and fully emotionally formed, there is a deep level of compassion that is permanently implanted in you that elicits tears of compassion at the thought of a child being hurt, another mother losing her babe, another's joyous occasion of giving birth to life just as you have, etc.

You're stuck.

You will be this way forever.

It is a good thing.

I believe this is why women are less prone to violence than men. We have literally given Life. And, it is our innate beings to preserve Life and to care for and nurture it. I love being a woman and a mother.

It is a true gift to be one and to have inside of me this well-spring of emotions shared by mothers around the world. Early into my own motherhood journey, I recall being in awe upon arriving at this shared destination. I can also remember first feeling this fullness of compassion and magical connection to all mothers everywhere. I knew that I had arrived and tapped into something deep, bonding and sacred and that is was a blessed gift not to hold lightly but to honor and to cherish.

Here's to the beauty, the fullness, the decadent brimming heart richness, the lush yummy-ness of Motherhood. And to All Mothers Everywhere....

They Really Do Come with Instructions

*Photo: Rebekah Pope, From Heartache to Hope series

We're told a lie when our babies are born. It's a lie the doctors tell us. Our grandmothers and mothers tell us. Our neighbors and strangers tell us. They tell us that our "babies don't come with instructions."

I beg to differ.

I think they do.

The instructions are not in a manual. No baby book. They are internal. It's something within us all, male and female. And it's called, simply, intuition.

The problem is that we often can't hear this simple wisdom from within. We can't hear it because we've been taught by our parents, by our culture, by ourselves. Not. To. Listen.

I decided to listen. I thank La Leche League and Attachment Parenting advocates that encouraged me to do so. And I listened again when my toddler was diagnosed with autism.  I had to drown out the noise of the cure du jour. Those that accused me of bad parenting because I chose not to strap my child in a chair at a miniature table in the kitchen and drill her in Skinneristic routines. It was hard. But I'd already learned the value of listening. I was rewarded with a knowing that I was doing what was right for my family. My child.

My child came with instructions. I only had to listen. To her. To my heart. To follow it's message has not always been easy. But by getting still. By listening again and again, I've come home. To my center. And to her heart.

Absolutely. No. Regrets.

*I find it amusing and a bit bewildering when I'm often asked if our book, From Heartache to Hope: Middle Tennessee Families Living with Autism--due from the printer in less than one week--has pictures of Grace and myself. The answer is yes and no. A similar version of this photo, above, but with our eyes open, accompanies the inside and cover bio blubs. Otherwise, I am simply the author (and originator and organizer) of the book project. I am the journalist/storyteller for 18 special families. And their pictures, not ours, capture the reader's eye page after page, their stories, not mine tell of the heartache. The hope. And though it is their stories and not mine, it's our story. Together, these 18 families shared pieces of the autism puzzle. It is their pictures and their words that tell the universal autism story.

From the Presses: No Tricks And All Treats!

The creative team of From Heartache to Hope: Middle Tennessee Families Living with Autism didn't get dressed up to go to the printer this week of Halloween, 2009. Yet, hurriedly when we got "the call"-- "come now, quick!" we descended from our respective computer desks, west and north, slogging through messy, gray rain and into downtown. A little anxious we were. But like good chocolate clutched in eager hands, our fears melted quickly when we saw that our talented designer Mary Sweeney and her printing consultant, Scott Gerber, and the printers at Pollock Printing had worked just the right magic.

Relieved, a bit teary-eyed and ready to jump for joy at the site of our stash, from left, that's me, Curly; Mary's son, little Super Hero Patrick; standing behind him be-hatted, Mary; draped in her knit cape, Rebekah Pope, our talented photographer and Tim Fields, as himself, always our gracious publisher.

Our goods approved, we nodded to our printer and the presses--they hummed, they buzzed and they ran. No scares a'tal for our happy creative clan:

WOO-HOO and No BOO! Stayed tuned! We're running fast. And hard. Pant. Pant. Can barely keep up.  Don't make us knock on your door, come share in our treat at our Book Launch, Sunday, Nov. 15, 3-5, L. Greer Gallery, Edgehill Village. More events to come and details too. Pull back the drapes, turn on the porch light and keep a watch.

Happy Halloween, Ya'll! And, remember, for Christmas, ho-ho-ho, with our coffee table-style book chock full of stunning black-and-white photography and the moving stories of 18 area families living with autism--with From Heartache to Hope--we've got the goods for all those on your lists so very long!

(Our website is under construction as you read!) Pant. Pant.

Sounding Off. Again.

Thanks to Google Alert, I was reminded that I was quoted for an article in Saturday's Tennessean about the state's inadequate counting system for autism incidence. By the time I landed back at my desk and replied to the just discovered email 24 hours after the Tennessean reporter sent it to me, she'd wrapped the story. However, she called me anyway and then, evidently because I didn't let that deter me from colorfully asserting my opinion about the "hideous" state of being next to last in the U.S. in terms of disAbility service offerings--only above Arkansas--she decided to quote and plug me into the story. Thank goodness my daughter's disAbility gave me the largest flag I've ever had and the life-time job of waving it. The issues serves to help me channel my talents and be more focused in my energies.

Here, the story.

From There to Here

*Fall break, 2009, The Beach with her father.

The Mother's Day Out director predicted that when I left my two-year-old on the first day I'd run to my car with tears streaming. Ummm, more like I ran out into the parking lot, jumped in the air and clicked my heels. Okay. Well, that sentiment was certainly there. I've always reveled in Mommy Independence but I did have a moment of tears welling as I peeked through the open window and saw and heard my tiny toddler happily playing in the miniature kitchen. But, soon thereafter, all hell broke loose. By noon on my first day of twice-a-week six-hour-block Independence, I got a call from the director. Finally. Someone acknowledged that things were not right.

Lodged deep within my intuitive spirit, I knew something was different about Grace at six weeks. She was just too independent and happily self-entertained for an infant. At eight months, I questioned if she might have autism. But, this was 1995. All I and most people knew about autism was head banging, rocking in corners, and Rainman. That wasn't Grace. But the behaviors of isolation, repetition, oddity in movement, sensory seeking began to emerge. By 18 months the social disconnect was so strong I knew for certain something was wrong. But typical of the times, no one listened to parents like myself. Another year passed until the Mother's Day Out director phoned me at noon of that first day. My six hours of Independence ended abruptly. She asked me to come to her office then. Grace was not going to make it an entire day, she said. By the time I had gotten in my car and driven from the parking lot earlier that morning, Grace had turned around and noticed I was gone. A separation anxiety tantrum like none other ensued and persisted. And continued. Followed by characteristics of autistic oddity that the director could not name but knew were off. That day I was referred to Tennessee's Early Intervention Services and began to receive play therapy and then waited. For six l-o-n-g months as the clock for precious early intervention tick tocked. And then, at age 32 months, Vanderbilt Center for Child Development gave us the diagnosis of autism.

Flash forward two years post half-day preschool pasted to a hodge-podge, mish-mashed number of afternoon interventions, and we began Kindergarten. As I drove from the elementary school the first morning a panic overcame me. What was I doing? I'd entrusted my child's safety in the care of strangers. What if a gunman came off the nearby interstate and into the playground? Luckily, I dismissed the thought, not being one much prone to Fear.

We left the nurturing environs two Kindergarten years (one repeat) plus four grades later. And then the hurdle of Middle School came and went. We made that transition with such well executed finesse that High School transition did not illicit any nail biting. There are inconvenient details and typical systemic hassles, but I'm now setting my sights on the horizon of adulthood employment and Grace's own Independence.

But today, I drove the cool car, top down, parked, met her assistant. Grace walked far ahead of us by herself toward her the high school we'd visited weekly all late winter and spring. Parents were forbidden on for this special Freshman Orientation. So, I turned, went back down the steps and swallowed a lump of visceral emotion that was gurgling up from from my core.

On the phone last night, thinking of the week ahead, when school would actually begin, I sighed to The Fiance: "I Hope...They are kind. To her."

And then, as I cradled the phone between my shoulder and ear, I continued folding the perpetual Mount Everest of laundry that resides in my great room corner chair. And I chose to believe that they would.

Searching for unpublished posts, I unearthed this, written about two months back. And now I can say: they have been kind. Far exceeding anything I could have dreamed. And. I am Grateful. Very much so.

*Though grateful for the photo, too, I would not chop off my child's feet....;-)

Journal Snippets

Photo: lyssabee_baby

I'm a Believer. I'm back on the wagon. After a waaayyy too long of a hiatus while trying to figure out how to do this high school thing: get up at 5:30 and out the door at 6:30. An hour round trip commute and then repeat at 1:30. Woo! My practices went out the window. I shoved them back in this week. Damnit! Not to mention that it's been book-book-ALL-ABOUT-THE- BOOK ALL MONTH LONG!

...I'm back to Journaling, Yoga, Affirmations/Visualizations, Gratitude List and maybe a quick hand weights routine thrown in. The walking has to be fit in somewhere and it's being fit in. Reduced, but never stopped. Twice I canceled the 30 minutes with the gym trainer. Going to the gym was going to replace my practices and I decided keeping balance was more important than a tauter bod--and all the other benefits of weight training. I had to weigh (no pun intended) benefits against benefits. (Thank you, Anna.)

In the meanstime (sic) I've been reading one of my favorite blogs and one of her favorite blogs, which is also becoming mine. They're also writing about journaling and giving me, though I've done this since I was 17, some great tips.

So, this morning, I saw how the last two of my three pages became a stream of conscious list that dissolved into one word per line that I thought I'd share:

"I do not have to live with these feelings -- they are lies I am telling myself!
THAT just helped me disconnect just then...
Sabotage
Saboteur
Salad" (I listed my vision for eating well today)
"PB & cranberries
pain-Dee-talk
cereal
kefir
Ruth-concerned
to-do
yoga
Believe
What's next.
Know.
Confidence
Hope.
love
Compassion.
Self nuture
love
Patience." (I'm talking about myself here...again)
Time.
Beauty.
What this day will look like."

Autistic-Like? And the Numbers

Special Post: I was invited by The Atlantic to comment on their article, "Behind the Autism Statistics":

While a three-ring circus of journalists led by the blogosphere, a conglomeration of government, and medical agencies and the autism community wrestled with unofficially announced CDC numbers indicating an increase in autism, a quiet revolution was taking place. A revolution led by a filmmaker-dad and an increasing number of empowered parents pushing back at labels that they claim should not and do not blanket their children.

Erik Linthorst is a soft-spoken, talented man impassioned by his family's traumatic experience of having their son sucked into a vortex beneath the autism umbrella and later finding their way out from under that broad label and bonding with a growing community of others who claim they are only "autistic-like." 

I first wrote about Linthorst here in April, including my review of his film, Autistic-Like, preceding its Nashville Film Festival showing. Eight film festival showings and a Health and Media Award increased the momentum of Erik's message. This weekend, 90 venues worldwide are showing the film--in Asia, Australia, Africa, Europe, South America, the United States and Canada.

What's not clear, because the CDC's embargoed report on an increase of autism incidence will not be released until later this year, is how children, like Erik's son, will be affected by the new numbers and also by the new Diagnostic and Statistical Manual to be updated soon as well.

Last week, The Atlantic covered the controversy of families who received an autism label that didn't fit their still differently abled child. My review of Autistic-Like is candid. And, I admit here that the three of us in our local ASMT--a Middle Tennessee autism support organization--who viewed it had mixed feelings about recommending that the Nashville Film Festival show it. (The Festival graciously gave us the option of reviewing it and recommending it be included or not.)

While we winced that the film's interviewees questioned autism incidence numbers, what we also recognized was an important message--and one that we already knew: that some children present some of the characteristics but not even enough to be diagnosed with autism, yet still maddeningly "autistic-like." What the Linthorst family unearthed in their son's profile and that of many others, and hence the ground swelling of support of the film's message, is instead a rather involved or severe sensory integration disorder (which, is also almost always a part of autism). 

Further, the scary thing to me after spending an hour over coffee with Linthorst, while he was in Nashville for the showing, is that he believes had his family not intervened so early and vigorously with their son, he would have spiraled into a valid, full blown diagnosis of autism. Which opens yet another can of worms: that of the children being diagnosed increasingly early (which is good!) but that because of early detection and thorough intervention, and by grace the right--yet unknown--combination of genes, loose that label. YET: these children are shown in studies to still manifest some sort of disorder, such as speech difficulties or learning disabilities.

What Linthorst has probably done in his personal crusade is gotten ahead of scientists in helping to parcel out a subset of autism. Or, rather of autisms (sic). (Plural.)

Regardless of what you call it...Families. Need. Help. From their state governments. From schools....And, "mild" is a misnomer. 

To Erik Linthorst, your experience may not be mine, exactly, but carry on. Carry on families of children "autistic-like." Even if it makes me and others in the autism community uncomfortable. Your voice needs to be heard. And...more Power to the Parents!

On the homefront, our book team wrestled with the situation of the confusing media reports, early week, indicating increased autism incidence figures. We went to press a week ago with our book, From Heartache to Hope: Middle Tennessee Families Living with Autism, stating that at press time the CDC's figures, as of 2007, were 1 in 150. We knew, because of the autism advocacy community that higher figures were to be released, but CDC would not state to me as a journalist and the book's author, before we went to press, what the new figures were or an exact date of their release. Our medical university advisers and ASMT, the beneficiary of our book and our team agreed we weren't going public with the information until...ahem, the fat lady in the CDC press room sang.

Snapshots of Life with Autism

"We're interrupting our regularly scheduled programming"...a bit here this week. I'm taking a mini-break from blogging this week. As you see, I'm still posting M-W-F, only more emphasis on photos than words this week. Trying to be better about generating my own photos here and also still catching the proverbial breath from our month of booking it to the printer with our forthcoming book: From Heartache to Hope: Middle Tennessee Families Living with Autism. One of the things I'm trying to do, besides launching our marketing plan, is get all the "stuff" to new my web designer who's fixing up www.GraceGoad.com and sprucing up this site for a new "do." 

Meanwhile, here's some snap shots of how our little family is living with autism. Life is Good.

Grace picked out NEON PINK! for her manicure in her cosmetology class where she's learning lifeskills: sorting towels, rollers and enjoying all the perks. She also has a peer mentor there her teacher appointed. I. Am. Blown. Away. At the inclusitivity of our new school!!!

While it was The handsome Fiance's idea to pose for this picture just so, he did surprise me with one testosterone outburst for the team as they made a successful play during Grace's first football game ever and the night of homecoming. It's been 31 years since I'd gone to a high school football game. (I took my camera and edited pictures while my buns got cold and sore. Still not wild about spectator sports after all these years.) Also recollected my first football game ever: neighbor and sister student Cindy Turner had just gotten a home perm. (This was 1974.) It absolutely reeked! From about a 4-foot radius. And, being freshman, we let her know. And yeah, Grace's purple highlights are history. Down the drain with the dollars that paid for them. They lasted about two weeks. Even when reapplied for free. I'm scheming to find ways to do it myself. A little scared. And short on time....

Communicated nonverbally: "Thanks, Mom. I *heart* you. Just because I have autism doesn't mean I don't want to be a part of the real world and do things my peers do." No really. Isn't the joy and excitement evident. At some point she smothered and nuzzled my neck in the way that Grace parcels out love and affection. (Also done when she wants something to which she knows I'm likely to say: "Ain't no way, baby.")