I just returned a few days ago from a four day conference in Houston. It was on Relationship Development Intervention (RDI), an approach for helping remediate the effects of autism. Within the RDI model, there is a big emphasis on repairing something called the "intersubjective relationship" (IR) between the autistic child and their parents.
In essence, the IR is a relationship wherein the parent and child share subjective states with each other -- common points of reference, ways of understanding, etc. This state is fairly natural for typically developing children, but often breaks down with autistic children because the children don't provide the normal social feedback to parents.
Anyway, within RDI, there's this big emphasis on re-establishing the IR, and on creating a "Master-Apprentice" relationship with the child, where the child is willing to give up behaviors they use to stay in control -- in order to be an apprentice to the parents so they can learn mastery of some area.
So all of this got me thinking about spirituality, about what it means to have an authentic relationship with the divine. It is difficult, it seems to me, to sustain an "intersubjective relationship" with a being beyond all comprehension. For one thing, I don't think this kind of relationship can be established simply by reading the Bible. It requires something more experiential than that. The demands, then, become ones of real listening, of quiet contemplation, of seeking guidance. Trying to catch those moments of connection, of inspiration, that cause us to grow in love, compassion, and understanding.
I also began thinking about the importance of giving up the notion that we have all the answers (a sort of false competence) -- so that we can assume an "apprentice" role, a learning role. There's a certain humility that becomes involved, it seems to me. But in assuming an apprentice role, we gain the capacity to learn, to grow, to love more authentically and deeply.
I'd love to hear any thoughts.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
autism, allergies, diet
So I have two sons (ages 4 and 6) who have both been diagnosed in the autism spectrum. And a couple of years ago, my wife and I started using a program called Relationship Development Intervention (RDI) to help them. Long story short, my four year old has done amazingly well on the program, while my six year old seems "stuck" in some of the earlier stages. Actually, we're going back now to make sure he has some of the really basic skills down before we try some of the more advanced stuff again, but that's a story for another post.
Anyway, my wife had been doing this research, looking into the role of toxins and allergies on autistic children. There seems to be a movement (I believe it's called Defeat Autism Now or "DAN") that believes that autism is entirely caused by this kind of stuff. So we take our sons to have them tested -- to see if they have any of these allergies or unusual toxins in their system. And it turns out that they do. In fact, they have a large number of reactions to a wide variety of foods -- including wheat (gluten), milk (casein), soy, corn, chicken, eggs, and a long list of other substances. Plus there are these vitamin supplements he wants us to give them (like 22 of them), some "probiotic" pill to create a healthier balance between healthy bacteria and yeast in their system, etc.
OK, so here's my struggle with all of this. First of all, I'm not sure I really believe there is any link between these "allergies" (none of which have ever caused any noticeable reaction in our children before) and their autistic symptoms. Second, the kinds of intervention being requested (particularly the dietary ones) would require drastic and expensive lifestyle changes. And third, how in the heck are we supposed to get 22 pills down the throats of young boys who won't swallow pills?
Or (to pose the more difficult questions), to what extent is my reluctance selfish? To what extent is my hesitance because I don't want to have to change my diet, or to put up with their tantrums when they can't have their favorite foods anymore? I'd be dishonest if I didn't admit these issues play some role in my thinking.
But of course what I ultimately want is just what is best for my kids. I worry, though, about making all of these changes for naught. I worry about falsely believing that the dietary stuff is causing them to get better, when in fact it could simply be from normal maturation (or the other interventions we're doing). I worry about the stress. I worry about the added financial burden. And I worry about constantly having to check, to be always thinking about whether some food at a restaurant has wheat, corn, chicken, or sugar. Or perhaps better, I worry about having to find foods that actually DON'T have any of these things.
And I worry that somehow not doing these things would make me a bad parent. And there's the brutal, terrible rub.
Anyway, my wife had been doing this research, looking into the role of toxins and allergies on autistic children. There seems to be a movement (I believe it's called Defeat Autism Now or "DAN") that believes that autism is entirely caused by this kind of stuff. So we take our sons to have them tested -- to see if they have any of these allergies or unusual toxins in their system. And it turns out that they do. In fact, they have a large number of reactions to a wide variety of foods -- including wheat (gluten), milk (casein), soy, corn, chicken, eggs, and a long list of other substances. Plus there are these vitamin supplements he wants us to give them (like 22 of them), some "probiotic" pill to create a healthier balance between healthy bacteria and yeast in their system, etc.
OK, so here's my struggle with all of this. First of all, I'm not sure I really believe there is any link between these "allergies" (none of which have ever caused any noticeable reaction in our children before) and their autistic symptoms. Second, the kinds of intervention being requested (particularly the dietary ones) would require drastic and expensive lifestyle changes. And third, how in the heck are we supposed to get 22 pills down the throats of young boys who won't swallow pills?
Or (to pose the more difficult questions), to what extent is my reluctance selfish? To what extent is my hesitance because I don't want to have to change my diet, or to put up with their tantrums when they can't have their favorite foods anymore? I'd be dishonest if I didn't admit these issues play some role in my thinking.
But of course what I ultimately want is just what is best for my kids. I worry, though, about making all of these changes for naught. I worry about falsely believing that the dietary stuff is causing them to get better, when in fact it could simply be from normal maturation (or the other interventions we're doing). I worry about the stress. I worry about the added financial burden. And I worry about constantly having to check, to be always thinking about whether some food at a restaurant has wheat, corn, chicken, or sugar. Or perhaps better, I worry about having to find foods that actually DON'T have any of these things.
And I worry that somehow not doing these things would make me a bad parent. And there's the brutal, terrible rub.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
quandry
I was asked to complete one of those online surveys today. One of those with lengthy questions about whether you think the country is going in the "right direction," whether you shop at Wal Mart, whether you have a favorable opinion of Lindsay Lohan. You get the idea.
Anyway, one of the questions was about whether I felt religion played a "major role" in my life. Which stumped me a little. I mean, I've always thought of myself as Catholic. I was raised in the church, had my own version of a "religious experience" during a retreat my senior year of high school, went to a Catholic university, and even received a theology minor.
But now I very rarely go to church.
I guess mostly what I find so disturbing is that the things I learned to love about religion from my theological studies and earlier experiences are so foriegn to what I see from the institutional church now. In school, I learned about the church's teachings on issues of social justice, learned that the church actually REQUIRES you to disagree with formal doctrine if you've met the requirements of an "informed conscience," learned about how gratitude is one of the deepest forms of prayer, learned about a kind of ecumenism that was broad enough to grant validity to other religious traditions.
I loved learning that stuff.
What I see largely now is a church that is politically and institutionally "in bed" with the Republican party. One that is more interested in preventing condom use than stopping thousands of deaths in Africa from AIDS, one that viciously discriminates against homosexuals, one that continually degrades the value of women (while spouting doctinal nonsense about how it isn't), one that seeks to have moral certainty at the expense of compassion or understanding. Ah, but don't even get me started on issues like married priests, women priests, altar girls, or the desperate, rabid clinging to tradition that so pervades the more conservative elements of Catholicism.
In short, going to church has become nothing that I find nourishing, spiritually or emotionally. I do so wish it were different.
Faced with these issues, my wife chose not long ago to simply join another church tradition. I simply stopped going to church. Lacking any desire to go to church, yet unwilling to give up my sense of myself as somehow still being "Catholic." Who was right? Does it even matter?
Suffice it to say that, at this point, I find that I no longer believe in hell, no longer believe that God had such a vendetta against humanity that he prevented access into heaven until Jesus hung on a cross (I don't define "salvation" in those terms anymore), don't believe that some doctrinal litmus test is what is necessary to gain communion with God after death. I explained some of this to my wife not too long ago. I think she's not sure if I'm even "Christian" by her definition of the term. I found that comment funny.
Anyway, one of the questions was about whether I felt religion played a "major role" in my life. Which stumped me a little. I mean, I've always thought of myself as Catholic. I was raised in the church, had my own version of a "religious experience" during a retreat my senior year of high school, went to a Catholic university, and even received a theology minor.
But now I very rarely go to church.
I guess mostly what I find so disturbing is that the things I learned to love about religion from my theological studies and earlier experiences are so foriegn to what I see from the institutional church now. In school, I learned about the church's teachings on issues of social justice, learned that the church actually REQUIRES you to disagree with formal doctrine if you've met the requirements of an "informed conscience," learned about how gratitude is one of the deepest forms of prayer, learned about a kind of ecumenism that was broad enough to grant validity to other religious traditions.
I loved learning that stuff.
What I see largely now is a church that is politically and institutionally "in bed" with the Republican party. One that is more interested in preventing condom use than stopping thousands of deaths in Africa from AIDS, one that viciously discriminates against homosexuals, one that continually degrades the value of women (while spouting doctinal nonsense about how it isn't), one that seeks to have moral certainty at the expense of compassion or understanding. Ah, but don't even get me started on issues like married priests, women priests, altar girls, or the desperate, rabid clinging to tradition that so pervades the more conservative elements of Catholicism.
In short, going to church has become nothing that I find nourishing, spiritually or emotionally. I do so wish it were different.
Faced with these issues, my wife chose not long ago to simply join another church tradition. I simply stopped going to church. Lacking any desire to go to church, yet unwilling to give up my sense of myself as somehow still being "Catholic." Who was right? Does it even matter?
Suffice it to say that, at this point, I find that I no longer believe in hell, no longer believe that God had such a vendetta against humanity that he prevented access into heaven until Jesus hung on a cross (I don't define "salvation" in those terms anymore), don't believe that some doctrinal litmus test is what is necessary to gain communion with God after death. I explained some of this to my wife not too long ago. I think she's not sure if I'm even "Christian" by her definition of the term. I found that comment funny.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Mortal
My wife had one of her favorite aunts (Susan) die just a couple of days ago from breast cancer. Vicious disease, really. My thoughts are prayers are with Susan's husband, children, family, and friends.
Sadly, I cannot claim to have known Susan that well. But I can see the pain in my wife's face, hear the sadness in her voice as she tells some of her favorite stories from family reunions, and know that the world is lessened without Susan's presence.
There's that helpless feeling that comes across when someone you love is in great pain. There's not much that can be said other than "I'm so sorry for your loss" or "just tell me if there's anything I can do." And in the case of my wife, I could simply hold her until the tears stopped.
I remember when my father died about a year and a half ago now that I was thinking how little there is to say in the face of death. And yet how much it meant to be able to reach out to all those I love, to just hear their voices, to know that they were with me amidst the loss. To know that I was not alone.
Reflecting on things now, we all seem so fragile. Some small thing can happen that ends our lives, and it all just seems so soon, so random and arbitrary. And yet in our fragile hold on life, we can be strengthened by our connections to each other. We were created to be social creatures, and in accepting that need we are strengthened. Which, paradoxically, requires the willingness to be vulnerable, to be genuine. Banding together with our shattered hearts, we find strength, compassion, and even hope.
How much better life would be, I think, if we could huddle together in our brokenness more often.
Sadly, I cannot claim to have known Susan that well. But I can see the pain in my wife's face, hear the sadness in her voice as she tells some of her favorite stories from family reunions, and know that the world is lessened without Susan's presence.
There's that helpless feeling that comes across when someone you love is in great pain. There's not much that can be said other than "I'm so sorry for your loss" or "just tell me if there's anything I can do." And in the case of my wife, I could simply hold her until the tears stopped.
I remember when my father died about a year and a half ago now that I was thinking how little there is to say in the face of death. And yet how much it meant to be able to reach out to all those I love, to just hear their voices, to know that they were with me amidst the loss. To know that I was not alone.
Reflecting on things now, we all seem so fragile. Some small thing can happen that ends our lives, and it all just seems so soon, so random and arbitrary. And yet in our fragile hold on life, we can be strengthened by our connections to each other. We were created to be social creatures, and in accepting that need we are strengthened. Which, paradoxically, requires the willingness to be vulnerable, to be genuine. Banding together with our shattered hearts, we find strength, compassion, and even hope.
How much better life would be, I think, if we could huddle together in our brokenness more often.
Friday, August 11, 2006
Filters
Alright. So the initial, welcoming post is out of the way. Now for that first attempt at a substantive post.
I was thinking it would be funny to do something off the wall. Some sort of Stephen Colbert homage, perhaps. But that will have to wait for another time. Because when you're someone who thinks too much (like me), the first instinct is to become philosophical.
Which, in a sense, is what this post is about. Thinking too much, that is. To some extent, our thoughts can interfere with simply living, being fully aware of life. Thinking (oddly enought) prohibits mindfulness, in its deepest sense. What's more, thinking tends to engage all of our mental filters -- ways that we process experience. Call 'em what you want -- cognitive distortions, negative/maladaptive schemas, etc. Basically they boil down to a way that we filter sensory input. And in my experience, these filters tend to be rather egocentric. I don't mean that in an entirely negative or critical sense.
Let me see if I can explain that better. Our filters tend to reflect our pains, whether from a sense of defectiveness, a painful mistrust of others, etc. And out of our pain, we become focused on ourselves -- whether we are being accepted or rejected, whether others are out to harm us, whether we are OK, etc. All of which leads me to wonder: to what extent is it possible to truly love when we are stuck in such patterns? At the very least, it seems to me that our ability to love is suppressed by such filters, such unresolved pains -- because inevitably we are focused on ourselves rather than those around us.
I was thinking it would be funny to do something off the wall. Some sort of Stephen Colbert homage, perhaps. But that will have to wait for another time. Because when you're someone who thinks too much (like me), the first instinct is to become philosophical.
Which, in a sense, is what this post is about. Thinking too much, that is. To some extent, our thoughts can interfere with simply living, being fully aware of life. Thinking (oddly enought) prohibits mindfulness, in its deepest sense. What's more, thinking tends to engage all of our mental filters -- ways that we process experience. Call 'em what you want -- cognitive distortions, negative/maladaptive schemas, etc. Basically they boil down to a way that we filter sensory input. And in my experience, these filters tend to be rather egocentric. I don't mean that in an entirely negative or critical sense.
Let me see if I can explain that better. Our filters tend to reflect our pains, whether from a sense of defectiveness, a painful mistrust of others, etc. And out of our pain, we become focused on ourselves -- whether we are being accepted or rejected, whether others are out to harm us, whether we are OK, etc. All of which leads me to wonder: to what extent is it possible to truly love when we are stuck in such patterns? At the very least, it seems to me that our ability to love is suppressed by such filters, such unresolved pains -- because inevitably we are focused on ourselves rather than those around us.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Welcome!
Greetings! This is my first attempt at creating my own blog, so I apologize if there are any errors early on. I hope to iron things out as I learn the format.
My thoughts for the direction of this blog are somewhat amorphous right now. I hope to discuss my thoughts on a number of topics -- politics, spirituality, psychology, buddhism, movies, music, parenthood, etc. But the "common thread" I hope to shoot for is to delve deeper into these topics, to go "beyond assumptions" as it were. If that intrigues you, I invite you to participate in the discussions.
My thoughts for the direction of this blog are somewhat amorphous right now. I hope to discuss my thoughts on a number of topics -- politics, spirituality, psychology, buddhism, movies, music, parenthood, etc. But the "common thread" I hope to shoot for is to delve deeper into these topics, to go "beyond assumptions" as it were. If that intrigues you, I invite you to participate in the discussions.
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