My oldest son is on the autism spectrum which brings him both challenges and unique skills, such as perfect pitch and encyclopedic memory. One of his gifts is an ability to see patterns that most of us miss. At least I do.
When my son is not doing homework, I often find him with a calculator and his red notebook. He experiments with graphs that create visual representations of words or names. This began with a simple formula he learned at school, but then he started to experiment with colors, rhythms, musical notes, random numbers and equations tapped out on the calculator. Continue reading
You may have seen him—the man on the commuter train to Los Angeles—leaning over his laptop, glasses slipping down his nose, wired in, absorbed, on deadline, not to be disturbed. Because he wears a suit and tie, you may assume he calculates quarterly sales results due on arrival downtown. It would be easy to make this mistake. The truth is he’s two thousand miles and forty years away.
It’s 1978 near the Guatemala-Honduras border. A stranger, who appeared out of nowhere, has been severely beaten and a 19-year-old Peter Nielsen—the man you saw on the train—carries the wounded stranger to a remote village clinic, his clothes wet with the stranger’s blood. Later that night, the beaten man dies. On another night in Gualan, Guatemala, the Mayan villagers watch the World Cup on black and white TVs, giving the deserted streets a bluish glow. When Argentina scores the winning goal, the village erupts in “one full-throated cry of joy.” Continue reading
Consider for a moment the sorrows of Max Planck, the theoretical physicist who originated quantum theory. In 1909, his wife, Marie Merck, died of tuberculosis. In 1914, his son, Erwin, was taken prisoner by the French during the First World War. Then his eldest son, Karl, was killed in 1916 at the Battle of Verdun.
Planck had twin daughters he adored—Emma and Grete. In 1917, Grete died in childbirth. Her twin sister Emma went to care for the surviving baby and soon fell in love with her sister’s husband. Soon after this, in 1918, Planck received the Nobel Prize for physics. The next year, 1919, his daughter Emma also died giving birth to her first child. Continue reading
At a recent library sale, I paid twenty-five cents for a new paperback copy of Milan Kundera’s novel, The Unbearable Lightness of Being to replace the dog-eared, yellowing copy I’ve had for 35 years. Still, I find it hard to part with the old artifact. Continue reading
Posted in From the Notebooks
Tagged "autism" "parenting" "ways of knowing", being single, children, growing up, love, marriage, Milan Kundera, parenting, St. Augustine, the joy of love, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, the weight of love
On November 4, 1979 radical Iranian students stormed the U.S. Embassy in Tehran, capturing 66 hostages who would not be free for 444 days. I was a Mormon missionary in New Mexico at the time. Twenty years old. This ominous event added to my list of reasons to expect to be drafted after my return home. The next spring, many missionaries were required to register for the draft. I missed the deadline by only a month. Life went on. Continue reading
To calm myself, I need only two words: night sky. If I could, I would drink in the sky. I would breathe in the moon and stars. Continue reading
We shared a birthday, my father and I, July twenty-fifth (1933 and 1959 respectively), and often celebrated with a trip to the Oregon coast. Just the two of us. We’d drive out from Portland on a Friday evening after dad finished work and spend a weekend. “We’re a couple of bums. That’s what we are,” dad would say. We slept in the roomy ’65 Chrysler and lived on cheese, saltines, apples, plums and summer sausage—the kind of food you can slice with a pocketknife and eat with your hands.
On one of these ‘bumming it’ weekends in July 1969 we had built a driftwood fire on a deserted beach near Manzanita, then strolled out toward the surf and south until our fire was no more than a distant star. When a night fog rolled in with the incoming tide, we were all but blind and turned back north hoping we would eventually see the light from our fire and find our way to the gravel road where our car waited. Continue reading