on metaphor

 

It is often said that autistic people can’t recognise metaphors. But that isn’t true. Some autistic people struggle to grasp metaphor, just as some allistic people (that is, people who aren’t autistic) struggle to grasp metaphor. Moreover, autistic struggle to grasp metaphor might be quite different from allistic difficulty.

An example. I am perfectly aware that, when the scientific community speaks of the cloud creating a platform that enables researchers located in different parts of the world to collaborate, ‘cloud' and ‘platform’ are metaphors.

But the reason we turn to metaphors is, surely, that they convey a superfluity of meaning. And whereas other people might be able to recognise the metaphor and filter out most of the meaning, as an autistic person I need to acknowledge all the possible meanings.

Cloud coverage varies dramatically from day to day. When we speak of ‘the cloud,’ do we mean that some days the information available to us is overwhelming, or that sometimes access is unreliable? Probably not—though both these things are true, and so, if this is not what we consciously intend by the metaphor then it is an unintended benefit. Or are we drawing on a biblical image, ‘the great cloud of witnesses,’ to convey the idea that the cloud connects us to the experience of generations who have gone before us, on whose work our work builds (a platform, if you will)? Again, this might be unlikely (biblical literacy is not as high as I would like) but it fits. Or perhaps we mean that digital information surrounds us, but is invisible. This would be an imprecise metaphor, as clouds are not invisible. And yet I suspect that this self-evidently imprecise use might come closer to the choice of metaphor. Here, each piece of data might be considered a water droplet, which coalesces with others; but if so, the clouds would make more sense than the cloud.

As an autistic person, metaphor doesn’t work, for me, as a shorthand; it works as a door (metaphor alert) into a bigger world, a world I have to stop to explore, each time I come across it. The issue isn’t that I can’t recognise a metaphor, but that I can’t skim read. As it is, when I read, my brain uses measurable time and energy recalling the meaning of each and every word (to use a metaphor, I don’t have a mental dictionary that stores words in alphabetical order [itself something that escapes me] and with their meaning; let alone a ‘frequently-used words’ filing cabinet at the front of my brain) and metaphor slows things down even further. Because I love language, and precision that ‘literal’ language cannot always get to without the help of ‘poetic’ language, I am perfectly happy to move slowly and appreciate the scenery (metaphor alert).

But, no, metaphor does not elude me.

What about you?

 

mapping my brain

 

Map-making. A personal neurodivergent perspective.

Neurodiversity is a way of mapping the differences in how human brains deal with sensory processing, motor abilities, social comfort, cognition, and attention or focus. It embraces everyone. Those who fall within the average range of experience (the norm: which therefore becomes established as the default normal in behaviour and assumptions) can be described as neurotypical. Those who lie outside of that range can be described as neurodivergent. Because neurobiology and neurocognition are complex, neuro divergence can present in many ways; but those who are neurotypical and those who are neurodivergent are all equally human, all fall within the diversity of expressions of what it is to be human. However, those who are neurodivergent may experience particular challenges, in part because of their own neurobiology, and in significant disabling (and, potentially, enabling) ways due to neurotypical assumptions and structures.

One of the ways I like to think of this is as a map of England. (It is a myth/lie that autistic people cannot handle non-literal concepts. If anything, it is neurotypicals who struggle with literal concepts, such that they need to reinforce their sentences by stating ‘literally’ this or that when they describe literal accounts.) Everyone who lives in England lives somewhere on the map. The majority, the typical person, live in urban settings. Society is largely designed to serve this population, not least because numbers present needs. But those who live in small towns, villages or hamlets can feel left behind, inadequately supported by public infrastructure.

In this analogy, neurotypicals live in cities. They have easy access to transport links between different places (smooth connections between different pieces of information, or experiences). There are motorways and inter-city train links, as well as ring roads and dual carriageways. Of course, in a city there are also many side streets and back lanes, but many people who live in cities fall into habitual patterns of only using the most direct routes. They can become entirely unfamiliar with streets just a block away from their preferred regular routes. Should that route be blocked, forcing them to adjust, they may discover things they had previously been unaware of.

There are many different neuro divergences, such as autism, ADHD, dyslexia, dyscalculia, dyspraxia, or Tourettes (involuntary physical and vocal tics).

Autistics have a particular set of sensory processing and social comfort challenges. They have far more neural connections than neurotypicals, but these are also significantly weaker. (Neurotypicals have fewer, stronger connections.) In this map analogy, autistic live in rural areas. Here there is a vast network of small roads, lanes, single tracks, footpaths and bridle paths, but none of them can handle much volume. If a farmer is driving sheep along the lane, you are going to be stuck behind them for some time.

Some autistic people are hypersensitive to stimuli, while others are hyposensitive. This can be as true of emotions as of external sensory issues. Our emotions can be like mountains: very big, and majestic, but with few (and sometimes eroded) footpaths to navigate them.

Neurotypicals sometimes differentiate between high-functioning and low-functioning autism, but this is unhelpful. The demands of being an autistic person in a neurotypical landscape are untypically draining, even if some of us can navigate visits to a major city, sometimes, if not all of the time. The distinction that high/low functioning attempts to draw is between autistic people who do not have additional learning disabilities, and those who do (or whose autism is misunderstood in this way, such as selective mutism being mistaken for cognitive impairment rather than coping mechanism). Other learning disabilities can co-exist with autism, just as they can be found among the neurotypical population.

Those that are not autistic are allistic. Allistic people can be neurotypicals, or neurodivergent in ways other than autism. So, someone with ADHD is allistic, but someone with AuDHD (where autism and ADHD meet and overlap) is not.

ADHD relates to specific challenges in the areas of attention or focus, (sometimes) hyperactivity, and impulsivity. People with ADHD have more (weaker) neural connections than neurotypicals but not as many as autistic people. On our map, they live on the suburban fringe between the city and the countryside, with access to some of the larger mainstream transport (connection) routes, but arguably with choice paralysis. Those with AuDHD occupy the space between the suburb/villages and the most rural/remote communities. At times, the autistic challenges and ADHD challenges conflict, causing internal turmoil.

 

ADD

 

The Hail Mary prayer,
“Hail Mary, full of grace,
the Lord is with you.
Blessed are you among women,
and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
pray for us sinners
now and at the hour of our death.
Amen”

was surely penned by someone with Attention Deficit Disorder.

Because for someone with ADD, there is only ‘Now’ and ‘The Hour Of Our Death,’ that is, a point beyond later. Such that this thing must be attended to right now, or else it will not be turned to until the deadline is upon us and it is too late.

Without aid, there is no Setting Apart Time For This Tomorrow, or In Two Days’ Time, or Next Tuesday At 1.00 p.m. (Conversely, with aid, they can be incredibly creative.)

If you know someone with ADD, you might like to join Mary in praying for them now, which might also be one of the very frequent hours of their death...

 

Signs

 

This morning’s weather started out clement enough for me to eat breakfast outside, but is now rapidly deteriorating. I tried to say this, but also this morning my dyspraxic mouth did not possess the agility to handle six syllables in quick succession, and I got caught in a loop at -or-

deterior-or-or-ay-deterior-or-or-ay

Speech is a skill many of us take for granted, and certainly one expected of a public speaker. But speech is a provisional sign, and what it points to is not dependent on our proficiency.

Listening is also a skill; one we pay even less attention than speech. Listening is not so much the interpretation of the speech-sign, as an act of co-creation of the sign.

As all creation declares the Creator’s praise, and as we listen to the provisional voice of the wind, the gathering clouds, the rain, we become more aware of the One from whom we flow and to whom we return.

 

neurodivergent Nicodemus

 

The Gospel text set for this Sunday (John 3.1-17) recounts a conversation between Jesus and a man named Nicodemus. The name Nicodemus combines the word for ‘victory’ and the word for ‘the common people’ and can mean victory of the people, or victory over the people, or victor among the people. Perhaps Nicodemus had overcome the expectations of his society to get where he was, to achieve what he had achieved in life. In recent years we have seen growing awareness of neurodivergence, though there is a long way to go. Some people argue that autism and other examples of neurodivergence are new conditions or simply excuses for unacceptable behaviour. But neurodiversity has always existed, even if we have known it by different names, calling those who diverge from the average savant geniuses or village idiots. Nicodemus displays several characteristics that would resonate with neurodivergence (see Ann Memmott).

Firstly, he comes to Jesus at nighttime. Before the advent of electric light, people slept twice, a short sleep to rest from the activities of the day, followed by a rising to meet with friends, meditate on life, or—as in monasteries—to pray, before returning to bed. So, a nighttime conversation is not unusual, but it is more conducive to someone who withdraws from the sensory overstimulation of the daytime—its crowds and noise and smells. It is often suggested that he came at night because he was afraid of what other people might think of him, and of being rejected: I’m unsure—Jesus had supporters as well as detractors among the Pharisees—but in any case, such social anxiety is common among neurodivergent people. When you have had to work hard to belong, you do not lightly risk losing that.

Secondly, we are told that Nicodemus is preeminent in his authority, and an instructor acknowledged as possessing mastery in the field of interpretation and application of the Law. In other words, he had a special interest, which he pursued to the highest level.

Thirdly, Nicodemus thinks in very literal terms, struggling to understand Jesus’ use of metaphor and analogy.

Fourthly, we will meet Nicodemus again, when he accompanies Jospeh of Arimathea to prepare Jesus’ body for burial. Nicodemus comes bearing a ridiculous, over-the-top amount of myrrh and aloes—a hundred pounds (John 19.39); a hundred times as much as what Mary anointed Jesus with (John 12.3)—desperately wanting to get it right but getting it brilliantly wrong.

None of these things are exclusive to neurodivergent people but taken together they build a strong case. We can’t say categorically that Nicodemus was neurodivergent, but we can say that he demonstrates neurodivergent characteristics. It is important to me to see Nicodemus as possibly being neurodivergent because I am neurodivergent. It is important that we should be able to see ourselves reflected back in the scriptures: to be able to say, ah, here is Jesus reaching out to someone like me; and if someone like me, then perhaps me also.

This Sunday is Trinity Sunday. The Church affirms the Oneness and Threeness of God. The trap is to think that this is something we can break down into its parts, to understand how they fit together. As if God was a radio transistor, and we were tinkering with a screwdriver. But that would be to miss the point. Our Gospel passage illustrates this brilliantly. It starts with a Pharisee: that is, a separatist, from the action of dividing and separating, of remaining pure by being separated from sin. (There are many separatists, of one tribe or another, within the Church of England today, which I find tragically sad.) It ends with Jesus stating that God did not send the Son into the world as judge—as one who separates—but as the one who will rescue us from separation into wholeness.

Twice, Jesus calls himself the Son of Man. ‘Son’ means ‘having the same nature as,’ and ‘Man’ means ‘humankind.’ Not (here) son of Mary (family) or Son of David (ethnicity) (though he is both these things) but one with every human.

God sends the Son—who fully identifies with human nature—to reveal what God is like—the nature of God—and to draw us into the life of God—which is, to be Spirit-filled.

God is not to be understood, but, rather, to be encountered, and known.

Trinity is the best language we have for that, but it is, nonetheless, inadequate.

But in this Gospel passage Nicodemus encounters Jesus, in whom the God who sends us and who is with us (‘Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God.’) is revealed.

The nature of God, revealed to us, is that God prefers ‘kosmos’—an ordered system of life in all its wonderful diversity—over destruction, over reduction and conformity. That God both generates and sustains such life.

This Jesus is the one who unites heaven and earth—two distinct realms, indivisible—as divine nature come, in love, to us; and human nature, raised, in love, to God.

The nature of God, revealed to us, resists separation. It does not divide between flesh and sprit—between the life given us by our parents, with its unique combination of genes and culture, the colour of our eyes and skin, the fault in our heart—and the life given us by God, that can’t be analysed, only lived. Jesus says, these two go together; both are necessary. One does not rule out the other: and so, the family of God is as diverse as human beings are.

God sends the Son—who fully identifies with human nature—to reveal what God is like—the nature of God—and to draw us into the life of God—which is, to be Spirit-filled.

And Nicodemus is drawn to this beautiful light of life that shines in the darkness and is not overwhelmed. Does he understand everything that Jesus says? No (and thank you, Nicodemus, for your honesty, for giving us permission to be honest, too). But he came to Jesus, as Jesus came from God; and is sent by Jesus into the world, just as Jesus was sent into the world by God. Sent, not to be understood, but to be a sign of the Spirit. A sign that doesn’t make sense (One hundred pounds of myrrh and aloes, Nicodemus? Really!? What were you thinking?) but—like the wind—might just sweep up others (Joseph of Arimathea?) into the life of God that cannot be destroyed, that cannot perish.

I see in the Gospel—the good news—that someone like me is caught up by the life of God. And if someone like me, then, why not me too?

 

pockets

 

My trousers have impractical pockets. The purpose of these pockets is that I should stick my hands in them, to stop me from waving my hands about, because neurotypicals find neurodivergent people stimming in order to self-regulate, dis-regulating. Bless. Anyway, I put inappropriate things in my pockets, such as keys, and coins, my wallet, and my mobile phone. And these things wear holes in the cotton. And every so often, I ask my wife to stitch the holes up. (This is not sexism, but an awareness of my dyspraxic limitations).

The hole is not a thing. It is the absence of a thing (in this case, cotton). It has no ontological existence. My wife and I are only able to speak about the hole, and to have a common understanding of what we speak of, because of the cotton surrounding it.

What we call evil is a hole. An accumulated absence. An absence of trust becomes an absence of faith becomes an absence of hope becomes an absence of love, until we find ourselves killing young boys in the street. A hole created by things with sharp edges, such as fear (fear, of course, is not inappropriate in and of itself, any more than keys or phones are: it can save your life; the issue is what we do with our fear, where we put it).

We don’t have to let an absence of trust develop into an absence of faith, hope, or love. We can choose a stitch in time, and to change our habits. My wife mends the holes in my pockets with coloured threads, and the pocket is enhanced (though no-one gets to see: beauty for its own sake). I still put things, inappropriately, in my pockets.

Put your hands in your pockets. Or wave them about if you prefer or need to. But, whichever you choose, be a person of substance rather than absence.

 

World Autism Acceptance Week

 

2-8 April 2024 is World Autism Acceptance Week.

We hear more today than we used to about Autism Awareness. But the idea of Autism Awareness is somewhat problematic. The diagnostic conditions for Autism are based on how autistic people respond to stressful situations (and diagnostic interviews are incredibly stressful). These might include situational mutism, where someone finds themselves so overwhelmed that they are unable to speak, that their voice is stolen from them.

But if we take the time to reflect on it, we will recognise that for all of us, for anyone, how we operate when we are under stress is not the same as how we operate in environments where we are relaxed, where we feel well-supported. Imagine how you would feel if I were to define neurotypical people by how you operate under extreme stress! Neurotypicals don’t sleep, lack focus, have short tempers, and may be prone to violence.

And so, the unwelcome result of growing Autism Awareness is more people saying, ‘You don’t come across as autistic.’ Or even, ‘We know that you aren’t meant to say “You don’t look autistic”—see how autism-aware we are!—but you just don’t come across as autistic.’

Perhaps my autistic engagement with rest and joy doesn’t match your stress-based expectations. Perhaps I am not autistic enough for you when I am running alongside someone (who I can talk to without having to look at).

Acceptance goes beyond Awareness because acceptance opens us to the lived experience of the other. It is marked by taking a genuine interest in another person, rather than prejudice based on stereotype. It does not mean (in any context) that we must fully agree or fully affirm everything about one another; but it does require of us a commitment to everyone having what they need for their wellbeing, their wholeness, which the Bible calls shalom.

Awareness is unlikely to lead to acceptance. But Acceptance might just result in a more rounded awareness.

What will you do to take part in World Autism Acceptance Week?

 

Nicodemus

 

There have always been autistic people among us, we simply haven’t always understood or valued them. I love Ann Memmott’s take on Nicodemus, a friend of Jesus who displays autistic traits:

He is an expert in the scriptures – they are his specialist subject – and offers expert advice to his peers.

He first comes to Jesus at night when there would be less sensory stimulation and crowds of people to overwhelm him. In their conversation, Jesus offers him a metaphor, which he takes literally and therefore as impossible, so that Jesus needs to unpack the idea in a different way.

After Jesus has died, Nicodemus brings spices to embalm him, but he brings an excessive amount – wanting to help, but totally over the top.

All these things are common autistic traits, within the spectrum of lived experiences of autistic people.

I also love that as a neurodivergent, autistic vicar, who recognises myself in Nicodemus, I am Priest in Charge of St Nicholas Church. For Nicodemus and Nicholas are the same name - Victory of the Common People - in two different forms [nike demos, nike laos].

 

Blessings and curses

 

I am neurodiverse. I am diagnosed dyslexic, dyscalculic, and dyspraxic—this last meaning that I often am unable to locate information. You might be familiar with walking into a room and having to look around for where you put down your keys. I have this experience within my brain, misplacing names, for example, or the connection between a face and a name. I am also almost certainly, though without formal diagnosis, autistic.

Neurodiverse people sometimes describe their condition as a superpower. I think I understand why, the need to reframe a story of lack, but, at least in my experience, it isn't a superpower at all. I am not a superhuman, I am a (super) human (as are you). For me, my neurodiversities are both a blessing and a curse.

A blessing is the gift of God’s goodness. Blessings are the overflow of that goodness, a gift that keeps on being given, and is never retracted. Blessing is the invitation to live a particular life, that no other lifeform can live in your place. Blessings give permission, delegate authority, and say, “Go, take your place in the miracle of life.”

A curse is a limitation placed upon us, for our own good and for the good of others. Curses are always themselves limited in scope and duration, and always overcome by repentance, that is, a change of mind. Curses are the negative expression of blessing, the page to the ink. They save us from ourselves, from the misdirected desire to be independent of others, while at the same time keeping others dependent on us—from any messiah complex. They push us, willingly or unwillingly, towards interdependence—which we embrace through that repentance, or change of mind.

My neurodiversities are a blessing, to me and for others. I am super creative. I am capable of super focus—note why some people speak of super-powers—while also super-easily derailed. I see things from a different perspective, a perspective that other people value because it shines light on their neurotypical blind spots. (Though mine is not the only or only right perspective, something that immature neurodiverse people often fail to recognise.)

My neurodiversities are also a curse, to me and for others. There are ways in which I will never be independent, or dependable. To an extent there are skills I can learn and tools I should employ to manage this; but skills and tools can also be fashioned into a persona, a false projection of who I want you to see (and, often, who you want to see in me) masking those parts of me that I do not want to be seen, because I am too easily ashamed of them. That persona isn’t bad in itself, but it is false. The particular curses of my neurodiversities—the ways in which I routinely misunderstand others and am in turn misunderstood; the wifi signal inside my mind dropping out at the most unwanted moments; a host of others—the things I have so often tried to hide—are the very limits that should cause me to seek others whose blessings compliment my curses, just as my blessings compliment their curses. At 50, the persona of competence is simply too cracked to hold or hold on to.

The curse is a gift, as much as the blessing: the blessing sending me out from God further and further into the world, the curse calling me back deeper and deeper into God; my true self being found held in this creative tension.

One of the things I do is keep an eye on clergy posts being advertised. Not that I am looking for a new job, or change of role, but because I take an interest in clergy wellbeing. One of the things I notice is how many contexts are seeking, or offering opportunity for, ‘an exceptional priest.’ As a direction of travel, this causes me concern. It is, perhaps, a sometimes-necessary place to begin, but—ironically—has its own in-built limits. Being exceptional turns out to be curse, as much as blessing. If we recognise this, all well and good; there will be pain, but it will be creative, cooperative. If we fail to do so, there will be a lot of destructive pain along the way.

 

Spin cycle

 

One of the key ways I self-regulate in the face of the disorienting and emotionally exhausting combination of too much and too little information neurodiverse persons live with (for example, I have a fair degree of face blindness, which means I cannot tell apart most of the average-height white men I run with, which is really awkward as I muddle their names and the personal or family histories they have shared with me in previous conversations; see also the older women in my congregation; or the couple I met with this week to plan a baptism, whom I didn’t recognise as having done a funeral for) is to do laundry.

This means that my washing machine gets worked hard, and this in turn means that it needs repairing frequently.

On Monday gone, it died, yet again. This time was one time too many. We decided to replace it. We decided to replace it with a machine made by a small-scale, local (County Durham) manufacturer that Jo had come across, that had good eco- and quality-of-construction credentials. But this also meant a waiting time. Our new machine should be delivered on Tuesday coming.

This means that I am living for more than a week without a washing machine. With bedding and towels and everyday clothes (how many underpants do I need?) and running wear mounting up, and our daughter returning from university later today with more bedding.

This is not a so-called First World Problem, but a genuine neurodiversity challenge.

Of course, we have good, local friends who have offered use of their machines in the meantime, but I cannot bear the thought of using someone else’s machine. This is not pride or self-reliance, but, again, a neurodiversity issue.

My neurotypical wife, who does not do empathy (it is okay: I know that she loves me) asks for your thoughts and prayers for Andrew.