Feeling very Aspergerish this morning, not wanting to leave the house, but committed to volunteering at the Surrey International Writers’ Conference.
In addition, there is church sometime today, my great meditational calm in the midst of the chaos of having the landlord’s stuff arrive at noon three days before we are slated to move out and five days before our tenancy officially ends.
And the finalization tomorrow of moving–packing all the very last things, picking a daughter up at the ferry, making sure there’s enough linens for her bed, I put on a cheerful face each morning but confess to momentary flashes of crawling in a hole and hiding.
Years ago I was a park caretaker at William’s Park in Langley. It was quite isolated, which I’m not sure I appreciated at the time.
And I remember when things got too hectic, after the crowds had gone, on sunny afternoons, I would take a quilt and slip down the hill. I’d cross the first bridge and take a left along the creek to where a great copper beech tree stood, past it and behind a bank of pine trees.
I’d spread my quilt on the green grass, the burbling of the brook soothing, behind me. Lie down and let the warm sun wash over me.
I’d let go of the whole world, and slide down into sleep.
Mmmm, that memory soothes me now.
But the day awaits. And Asperger’s or no, I must get up and get going.
No one knew about Asperger’s when I was growing up, so for sure no-one could have ever diagnosed my Grandmother. I reminisce about both of us in “Unforgiving: Memoir of an Asperger Teen”.
I have my Grandmother’s diaries. They play a crucial part in my memoir. Grandma’s diaries helped me with the timeline, because she used the 5 year kind.
Recently my daughter who is also an Aspie, was working on a project for her photography class. She asked for certain old photos and any old diary content that I thought might be relevant.
I gave her photocopies of some entries, and also some diaries.
When she returned them to me she pulled out a little notebook and said, “Whose writing is this?”
I told her it was my grandmother’s, my father’s mother, her great-grandmother, Maude Esme Adam.
“It’s like seeing my brain spread on the page,” she told me. “I have always thought just like this, always been fascinated by certain scientific articles and trivia. When I started reading this, I felt like I knew this person. I knew how their mind worked.”
Amazing the way we discover connections with our past!
Margaret Jean 