Autism Calming: Why I Preferred Time With Adults When A Child
by Eric E. Cane
As a child, adults offered me a structure that rambunctious kids with all their hierarchical posturing couldn’t. Kids my age or even a couple of years older were constantly finding themselves by stepping on each other, making fun of each other etc.
Adults, for the most part, were structured. Thoughtful. They weren’t explosively loud and randomly figuring themselves out at your expense. Generally.
I liked the quiet many of them exuded as they worked on some problem, their thoughts driving strong hands to affect change of their environment. Or where curious expressions and questions gave pause for my answers, making me feel heard. Even at 6 years old, I recall asking questions and putting forth my observations about why the windshield wipers on the car in rain changed speed at times. Clearly, my child mind suggested it was somehow tied in with how fast the car was moving and that it was connected to the engine somehow. My dad laughed, saying politely “no.” But he wasn’t forthcoming with an answer, which I would have absorbed readily. With nine children, he was probably out of words for that day.
My grandmother on my Mom’s side was someone who could stop other adults from talking. She wasn’t prone to interrupting, greater volume in sound, or frequency of speech. This is perhaps why people listened to her more.
Even as a child, I was moved to stillness at the tone, pacing, and content of her words. It was as though there were some mystery or revelation just around the corner of her next sentence and you’d better listen or you’d miss it. But there was also a depth and history to her speech. She had experiences that refined her language to just what was necessary. Having seven children of her own, she had no doubt crafted speech on the ears of resisting and amiable children all her years. What I got was the refined version that made me think I was in the presence of someone with a certain power: a genuine skillset of authenticity and thoughtfulness.
Her other children present, my aunts and uncles, would be silent as well. I found this peaceful calm of letting my grandmother speak fully, absorb what was said, and then wait until she was done, so valuable to the formation of my attention to words and everything carried with them. To the subtle qualities in voice and body language that was similar to her children, yet commanded to listen — even if they weren’t naturally taken to such things.
I would usually stand next to my Mom, arm on her leg, as the family gathered in the living room. The other grandkids would be outside rushing around and otherwise making good use of their bodies and exploring the limits of each other’s patience. My aunts and uncles would take up standing or sitting positions with coffees and/or cherry tortes on rapidly emptying plates. Grandma made the best desserts.
Conversations would take place about the lives of each of them, their children, neighbors, and so on. The words flowed over me, into me, and shaped images in my mind directly related to what they were saying. I visualized all of it. That was, and is, the only way I think. More than taking in the words and all the subtleties of the voices, I would also take in their postures, how they smiled and eyes crinkled at the corners, their shoes, jeans and flannel shirts, the scent of each of them, the picture on the wall of Mary in the clouds, the 1970s carpet smell and that of the food we had just eaten still coming from the kitchen with that of the dishwashing soap used to clean the dishes afterward.
Then Grandma talked. Everyone else was quiet. I was able to focus on just her; the shape her mouth made as she spoke — usually including the word “well,” — her gentle shift in her posture and the observational quality of her telling. She observed well, and often had a humorous quality to her words that made her kids smile or chuckle or eventually start on their own version of similar events. I didn’t understand it all then, but I understood the mood and smiled, too.
In it all, there was no demand I should do anything. I could listen as I chose, and none demanded I leave or request I go out and play with the other kids. They were fine with my standing or sitting and listening. Observing. I was also comforted by being next to Mom, it was as if she were a safety net that, to this day, I find in my closest friends whenever I am out in places when my resources are low and auditory, visual, or tactile stimuli are heightened and pushing my capacity.
I have many of those “grandma” moments, the times when people allow others to finish their thoughts no matter how long it take to get them out. I surround myself with close friends who do just that. We are a microcosm of hearing, observing, and valuing what the other person says. It is our pathway to new perspectives and opportunities. I don’t always get my words out accurately — the translation of images to words is often fraught with humor or the need for one of my friends to translate what I just said. I don’t need scripts with them as I do with others, and thus the interesting speech that gives each of us a look into how the other person is actually thinking, or at least a close approximation.
I think that’s special.
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