Autism Answer: He Smiles in his Sleep

the sun rising, reflecting on the river, across the street from our house

 

“Snuggle bug, Shay Shay, you awake?” I ask quietly, crouched on my haunches beside him where he sleeps on the floor in our basement. My twenty-six year old son makes a small sound in response. I lean in closer to rub his shoulder and see his face. His eyes are closed and the softness of sleep is settled on him like fairy dust. 

 

I see a comfortable smile settled on his lips. 

 

My second youngest son is smiling in his sleep.

 

Rubbing his shoulder I speak again, a little louder this time, “It’s 6:45, you gotta get up for work.”

 

“Rugga bugga, baby boops,” he replies. This is a common reply from him. It most closely translates to, “I heard you.” 

 

There is movement now, he shuffles a little under his weighted blanket, his eyes remain closed and the smile does not fade. 

 

“I’m going to go upstairs and make coffee. See you in a few minutes Shay Riley Bones,” I straighten up carefully, trying to use my muscles purposely and to take advantage of every movement. I like to use life as my exercise room and every movement is an opportunity to stretch, strengthen, or simply care about my body. Also, I don’t want to hurt what I have always called my “old lady knees”. I am pretty much fifty years old now, but these have been my old lady knees since my elementary school track and field days.

 

“I like coffee,” Shay says as I slowly walk away toward the stairs that will lead up to our kitchen where organic shade grown fair trade coffee beans await to be ground and brewed. 

 

I love these mornings. I love making coffee while beneath me my second youngest son unfolds his giant body, stretches out of his bed on the floor (his preferred place to sleep) and gets ready for a job he feels competent and appreciated in. Meanwhile, above me, my soul mate showers in preparation for a day working at home, sitting focused at a computer that is next to mine, accepting a slightly annoying onslaught of obsessive touches, squeezes, and smooches from me. I love standing in the kitchen, lights off surrounded by shadow, while my gaze easily consumes the sunrise kissing the river outside our front room window and the cats meow for their specially made milk and morning affection. I love this spot where I can be in shadow while watching and feeling the world unfold via its morning routine. The house is big, but each room offers such specialness I don’t mind the size. 

 

The coffee beans have been ground and are steeping in the French Press. I set my adorable cube timer to the perfect four minutes (this timer is one of my favourite gifts given to me by Ian, the soul mate I moved in with only a few years ago) and take myself to the front room to stretch a little. Four minutes of random stretches in front of a window facing the river. Lovely. 

 

The timer beeps, upstairs I hear the shower turn off and imagine my soul mate toweling himself in our en-suite bathroom, I stand straight and smile. 

 

I remember seeing my son smile in his sleep, and I am overcome with a sense of gratitude. 

 

This home, this life, this morning routine that brings me such joy, is a gift. 

 

Another favourite gift given by my soul mate. 

 

A gift given to us. 

 

Invited into his home we – my second youngest son and I – have carved our space in it. The basement is my son’s domain, where there is a kitchen, a bathroom, washer and dryer, a pool table, a bar, a sauna. He is not dwelling in darkness and brooding, though he could if he chose. Some days I’m sure he does. But for the most part, he works, he plays his games and watches his shows, he listens to music and bounces around, smiling easily. 

 

My domain is sort of everywhere. I have a dance room where I can turn the music up, close my eyes, rock out and imagine myself alone in but also at one with the universe. I have roller skates and headphones for summers outside around and around the pool. I can spend hours listening, singing, and skating in circles. There is the car where I take people places and go to the grocery store, where I listen to French radio stations and practice saying and singing the words. But mostly, my domain is beside Ian. My soul mate. I follow him around unnecessarily. This is a big house and there are many rooms, the outside is sizable too and there are many delicious spots to sit and read, think, and write. But mostly I follow him around, often with a coffee in my hand, and mostly he doesn’t mind. 

 

We – my second youngest son and I – love living with Ian. 

 

We miss the ease with which we used to have access to the rest of our family, now that we are here in Quebec and they are still there, mostly in California. We have feelings and challenges that are hard, that hurt, that we must deal with. We work to be our best selves and to discover how we can best pitch in, how we can best take part in creating an environment that includes our influence, insights, and work. We struggle to know how we can be helpful without being underfoot or overstepping. 

 

But we are graced with a man who opens his home and requires very little from us. I do the driving (though I don’t pay for the fuel). My son pays rent (enough to feel good about pitching in while still paying far less than he would elsewhere). We are living in a situation where we play a part and ask for responsibilities yet are asked to do little beyond taking care of ourselves. So though we are human and have human hardships, we are also humans with less hardships. 

 

I sometimes wonder, should we work harder? Worry harder? Are we wrong for finding joy in this easy life gifted to us? Should we be more? Are we missing something and burdening others without knowing? Are we unfairly happy?

 

Maybe so. Maybe so. 

 

But I will not deny the perk of this place we are in.

 

My second youngest son smiles in his sleep. 

 

Hugs, smiles, and love!

Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)

Autism Answer: And Then There Were Slippers

 

My slippers on the stairs at our front door.

Slowly I slip my naked foot into the soft comfort of these slippers. My skin is embraced and caressed, my sole cushioned. Sometimes I will start with my right foot, sometimes my left, but always I offer the pleasure of these slippers equally. 

 

I don't always choose the slow embrace of this soft home for my feet. Sometime I jump into them with speed and vigor. We hop our way into those cushion-y cuddles of a slipper. We bounce noisily throughout the house - up and down the stairs, dancing in my dance room (no more cold floor on my feet!), stepping out onto the front step to sip coffee outside.

 

But these are indoor slippers, purchased for me by my love and intended to last. So I do not step down the stairs in these sweet soled snuggly slippers, and instead stand only on the top step while avoiding the snow and ice. Avoiding the small rocks and dirt that live outside and migrate toward our front door. 

 

Avoiding. 

 

This is what I also notice about these slippers. That I am avoiding a few things for the sake of them. 

 

Most notably is outside. I am nurtured and brought home to myself by spending time outside. In all seasons, winter being one of my favourites. I love the acoustics of a snow covered world, and the feel of cold air on my skin. I feel myself become more ME when I close my eyes to feel the touch of nature. 

 

But these are indoor slippers, and I adore them, and I want them to last. 

 

So I notice myself making the choice to stay on the top step, to take the trash out later so I don't have to take them off, to wear them in the car when picking my son up from work and then avoid the fun of going into the grocery store with him to check out the reduced racks. 

 

Also, the pleasure of these slippers, my desire to continually slip my feet into their welcoming embrace, has kept me from noticing our floors need sweeping. Before these slippers, I was one for bare feet. Indoor and outdoor soles, that's what I feel I was born with. Even in winter when I loved to wear cozy socks I could feel the grit on the ground through the material. Before the slippers were introduced to my feet, I swept our kitchen floor at least once a day and other floors often, as needed. Why? Because I felt the bits of food and life that fall to the floor on my bare feet, or I felt them cling to my cozy socks, and I enjoyed the task of sweeping it up. It's a task you can easily do while thinking or singing to yourself. It's simple and helpful at the same time. 

 

But these slippers keep me from feeling the world at my feet. Instead, the joy of them keeps me feeling the fact of my feet. 

 

There is nothing bad or wrong about these slippers or my adoration of them. In fact, it is wonderful! What is especially wonderful is me noticing the changes in my behavior, the shifts in my choices, and reminding myself that these things are important. 

 

That the noticing should continue. 

 

Which of these changes in behavior, or shifts in myself, might I want to shift again? Back in my winter days of cozy socks, I could easily slip my socked feet into winter boots and walk in the snow, take my morning coffee across the street to the river, walk around the block or stomp in the snow under the trees in the park beside our house. But these slippers do not slip into winter boots, and hence I have to make a more purposeful decision to take them off in order to slide my feet into the winter boots. I have begun to do that a little more, now that I noticed how much I miss being outside. I have also taught myself to be comfortable in my winter boots without socks. This has made spontaneous outdoor moments easier and has given me a wider sensory comfort zone.

 

And sweeping the floor! How funny that I rarely do it anymore. I always enjoyed sweeping, but without feeling the grit on my feet it feels unnecessary. I admit, I don't see a need to change this. I still sweep once or twice a week, but I think it is totally fine that our floors are less clean than they used to be. And if someone living in our home that does not wear slippers finds themselves not liking the grit on the ground, they can have the pleasure of sweeping and singing to themselves. I was hogging all that fun and I'm not anymore. 

 

I think it is of GREAT importance to notice how our entire lives can be influenced by little things, like slippers. If I had not noticed, if I had instead simply stopped going outside or sweeping or walking into the store with my son, I possibly would have grown slowly less happy, perhaps more reclusive, perhaps less helpful. Oh, not much. But it only takes small shifts over time to invade a life. 

 

As parents and caregivers, it is also of great importance to notice. Did the introduction of a new food shift behaviors or bowel movements? Are those shifts mainly helpful? What shifts did those shifts cause? Are we moving away from a valuable pleasure by only following the movements of the new shift? How about a tool that helps your loved one communicate. That's great! But also, are you losing the connection you had when communication was based more on a special language between you and that loved one? Was that form of communication valuable to both of you? Or more for you alone? Notice. Find ways to move forward with new gifts. It's okay to lose some things, that is part of the evolution of living, but we want to notice and take care of the things that matter most. 

 

I will not be silly and stop wearing these wonderful slippers. I gained a pleasure when my love gave me this gift. But I am now more often taking off the slippers to step outside, putting on my boots to pick up my son, and being aware of the sweeping that may need to be done. 

 

I noticed the shifts and have made a few shifts in response. 

 

We are mostly responsible for ourselves and our lives. For who we are and who we choose to be. For how we live and for providing our own joy and purpose. 

 

I believe I have this one life and I enjoy the work of doing it well. 

 

I was living it without slippers.

 

Now I'm not. 

 

Hugs, smiles, and love!!!!

Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)

Autism Answer: I Haven't Met You Yet (A letter to my granddaughter)

 

                                                                                                              March 11, 2021

Dear Aislinn, 

 

Tomorrow you will be one week old and I still haven't met you. 

 

Oh, you spent some time here with me and Ian before you were born. I had the pleasure of singing to you, of feeling you shift around in mommy's womb. You were here with your dad, mom, and big sister, Clarke. My heart - my heart! - when I remember your sweet sister here calling out, "Gweema!" and letting me wrap grateful grandma arms around her itty bitty body. 

 

I love you, Aislinn. I just haven't met you yet. 

 

You've been born into a world swirling thickly with ideas, desires, needs, and beliefs that splash and clash and dance, diminish and expand, hurt and heal. (I don't only mean us grown-ups tend to argue and debate, I'm also referring to the balance of nature itself which is brilliant, bold, and assertive.)

 

Your cousins and sister were born into this same world, too. We all were. But you, Aislinn, arrived at a time when this swirling world is keeping me away. There are travel restrictions and a virus whose spread we're trying to limit. Unlike any time in my life, Aislinn, the world is working on the same problem at the same time. There are a surprising number of sides to this story little one, and I am just one grandma with a few thoughts, no big answers or fighting words, but my relationship with you begins in this moment no matter how few or big my thoughts and words are.

 

I love your cousins, I love your sister, and I love you. You are all singular and extraordinary. I crave your spirits and care more than feels manageable about your hearts and souls. All of you.

 

You are all special to me. But you, Aislinn, are newly special. A love of my life that I cannot hold in my hungry arms. They ache, Aislinn, with the lack of you. I held your sister, not long ago, for hours and hours and hours. My arms ached with her weight, with my desire to meet her needs as she slept ever-so-lightly. Do you sleep ever-so-lightly, sweet snuggle bug? My arms do not know. My arms ache to know.

 

So you and I are starting off learning each other in this new way. 

 

I do get to see you. Pictures, videos, and video chatting are not substitutes for the real thing but they are real. I can sing to you and watch you with your sister. Watch you with your mom and dad. Hear your little voice as you cry out. (Although, I have not yet heard your little voice. Do you have a loud cry? Do you demand attention from the world or simply call out to those close to you? I don't know these things. I want to know these things.) 

 

I love you too much not to learn this with you. This way of getting to know each other. And, do you know little pumpkin pie, that we are not alone? There are millions of others unable to gather or snuggle or show up. So many others who cannot lean on their usual ways to connect with each other and celebrate life. So, like us, they are figuring it out. 

 

I hope that we are all stretched to be better because of this. With you being born I have so many reasons to care about using this moment well. Not only because you and your sister and cousins are in this world and I want it to be a place where we use moments well, but also because I am trying to use this moment well and I'm noticing a few things.

 

Surprisingly, I feel myself resisting. I want to hold you and sing to you, I wanted to be there with you and your sister from the beginning, be the helper-self I know me to be for your mom and dad, so I catch myself resisting the joy of this new way. This being apart way. Partly because this new way is temporary (I will hold you and be with you, Aislinn, I just don't know when) but mostly because I know how much I love the other way and I don't want to lose that. Silly grandma! I can love both ways. And this is the way we have right now. 

 

Also, the world is sort of smaller but also sort of bigger. Because we are unable to travel and visit much, we are practicing new ways of being together. And if we practice being honest and authentic and vulnerable in these new ways, we can grow in unexpected directions. I'm sorry to tell you little love bug, but even before the travel and visits were limited people struggled to connect in meaningful ways. This is something I can't wait to discuss with you as you grow, but for now just know that we - as a world, but also you and me - have been almost forced to contend with this. To explore where we've been lacking and make changes. 

 

So, sweet snuggle bug, we are building something new together. Well, new to me I guess. You are learning this from the beginning. 

 

More reason for me to do it well. 

 

Aislinn, you matter so much to me. You and your sweet cheeks and full head of hair have my heart. Yet I am no one to you; I know that. But I will build something with you. 

 

You are singular and extraordinary to me. 

 

We will navigate this new relationship together and build something unexpected and unrivaled.

 

I love you, Aislinn.

I just haven't met you yet. 

 

Love,

Grandma 

 

 

P.S. "Haven't Met You Yet" is a song by Michael Buble, a singer your Uncle Declyn likes. I have been singing that hook in my head since you were born and, this is something I can tell you about me, I like that it has an upbeat tempo. It's a fun song. I like using it to remind myself to be happy and remember that I will meet you, it just hasn't happened yet. I love using song lyrics to feel things. Oh, and I can be annoyingly positive sometimes (ask your dad, he's comfortable saying I'm annoying sometimes. tee hee!) but mostly I'm just normal positive, not annoying. Positive.

Hugs, smiles, and love!!!

Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)

 

Photo Credit: Obviously, not me. I haven't met her yet! This pic was taken by baby's mom, Aly. Beautiful!

 

Autism Answer: My Only Excuse For Not Doing The Work Was Fear - My Interview With Mom

I stared at the invitation for possibly thirty seconds while a whirlwind of unexpected hopes and worries blurred my vision.


It was a surprise from several angles. 

I had never considered interviewing my mom for, well, for anything. My blog, my YouTube channel, articles I submit for publication, none of them, even though I actively submit the suggestion of an interview with my mom all the time! I research contact info, compose emails, fill out forms, and I'm always thrilled when my interview suggestion is accepted and acted upon. I'm not only thrilled because it's generally a thrill to have a suggestion accepted, but also for my mom who learns more about what she knows by answering questions, for a new audience who will be introduced to her insight and work, and for the interviewer whose questions will be thoughtfully considered and intriguingly answered. 

And yet, funnily, until the quick reply from an editor at Women Writers, Women's Books to my interview suggestion turned things around by suggesting I do the interview, I hadn't thought to take that gift for myself.  

And now that the invitation was here, I sat in stunned appreciation and explored the previously unknown feelings I had about such a project. 

I admit, my first feeling was of having been complimented. This editor - whom I had emailed back and forth with a few times - thought I might have the skill for it! Secondly, I got scared. What if I don't have the skill for it? Dude, I am not a fan of letting people down or exposing their mistaken confidence in me. Thirdly, I hoped I might have the skill for it. A good interview requires several things. An interesting guest, for one. I knew I had that. My mom - like her creative work - is compelling, down-to-earth, inspirational, poetic, clear, inclusive, and candid. But a good interview also requires questions that simultaneously encourage the guest to shine while caring about relevance for the intended audience.  

A good interview brings everyone in and, often, guides revelations that change us all in the process. 

My respect for a gifted interviewer was seeded for me as an audience member but blossomed when I became a guest. The difference I felt when asked questions by someone who clearly cared for me, themselves, and their audience vs someone merely looking for content blew me away. It has happened for me several times now and, though I always reflect and dig deep for honest answers to interview questions, I am invigorated and surprised by the ones that are careful and relevant. The experience consistently leaves me breathless and aware of myself and my world in new ways. 

So -

Did I have the skill for something like that?

This thought led me to a fourth feeling; it would take work. I mean, complimented as I was, I would have to hunker down and consider everyone and do the work. That's a big task when you're afraid you don't have the skill.

But, fifth, what an opportunity! To see if I have the skill, to ask my mom questions, to introduce her to a new audience, to be part of the Women Writers, Women's Books community in this more active way, the only excuse for not doing the work is fear. 

What kind of example is that for my sons? My granddaughters?

And so, I did it. I accepted the invitation. I crafted questions I felt brought all of us to the table and would encourage growth, new ideas. 

I was nervous sending them to my mom. (She claims to have loved the questions but, you know, she's my mom.) 

I was nervous sending them to the editor. (She claims the interview is insightful but, you know, the interviewee is my mom.)

But it was invigorating and fun. It was an opportunity I plan to give myself again soon. 

And I was a good example to my sons and my granddaughters. Not that they're watching. Yet, we are all always watching. 

I owe a great big dose of gratitude to the editor that offered me the chance to learn all this. Oh, I know she was likely overwhelmed and overworked and unlikely thinking about me or my skills, but isn't that the way so many of us get what we didn't know we wanted? Someone could use our help doing a thing we hope they'll do and suddenly we're doing it together. 

And suddenly we're discovering a new skill or interest. 

Let's not be shy about accepting new opportunities that match a desire we have or a goal we're after, and let's not be shy about offering them. 

We never know when we might be ready for something new. 

Read, enjoy, and share my interview with mom here: Interview with Dr. Lynette Louise ("The Brain Broad")

Hugs, smiles, and love!!
Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)

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Be sure to check out all of the other interviews, blog posts, and books on the Women Writers, Women's Books website while you're there! My mom wrote this post for them a while back: Writing is my Lifestyle 

Autism Answer: Inspire Yourself To Greatness - A Review of Book and Self

"A wish is a whisper that guides you." ~Me #quote #InspireYourself
(Prompt was on pg. 21 of Inspire Yourself To Greatness by Dr. Lynette Louise) 
 
A Few Quick Disclaimers: The author of the book is Dr. Lynette Louise, aka The Brain Broad, aka My mom. So I'm inclined to love the book. Also, I'm inclined to be nervous about the book the way family members are when reading the candid stuff we write. But mainly, I'm inclined to love the book.

In addition, I have already read the book through its many phases as a beta-reader. So although this is my first time reading the book in paperback form, I have experienced it along the way.

Okay, now, let me tell you what I'm learning about me and this book (I am only on page 37 in my paperback copy).

_____________________________________________________

 The newly released book Inspire Yourself To Greatness: Change Your Brain, Change The World by Dr. Lynette Louise ("The Brain Broad") is a brain-based book, it is an inspirational book, it is a beliefs and ideas book, it is a guide and friend, and it is a reflection of its reader. 

As I was graced with the gift of being along for the book's growing-up and creation, I immediately felt the book engage and inspire me. However, I also intuitively knew (though at the time I wasn't sure what it was I knew) that in order for the book to give all its power to me, I would need to participate. I was impatient for my own copy, one I could write in, like I have been impatient for no other. 

And I was right! 

The author begins by asking (nearly demanding!) that we examine our definitions, and that we write down our definition of "GREATNESS" in order to decide for ourselves who and what we are intending to grow into as we interact with the book. I almost didn't do it. Despite my desire to write in the book I had no idea what my definition of "GREATNESS" was and thought I'd wait till maybe something in the book inspired me to have an idea. But, wait! The title is "Inspire Yourself" and so, I did! I scratched out a thought. 

It wasn't something I felt strongly, or something entirely important to me, but it was something. And, indeed, as I read on, it grew to have more meaning. 

Only a few pages later, with new information and understanding of how our beliefs and definitions affect our DNA, our environment, our world - we are asked to define GREATNESS again. And, friends! I did! And this time it was similar, but different. I felt more aware of the ME I was hoping to enhance and become. 

I can say with absolute certainty that the author of the book would not have suggested or written the definitions that I chose. Heck, I'm not even sure the author (or you, my dear clever friend) would have a clue what I meant with the definitions I chose! But I can say for certain, that is the point. That is what this book does. It gives information, it offers intelligent, thoughtful, non-judgemental perspectives that reveal potentially unseen paths, and it tells us useful biological information that makes us better at this job of becoming "GREAT". But we are the ones to inspire and choose for ourselves. How we want this book to work, who we want this book to help us become, what successes we will create from its lessons, and how it will change our world. 

Dude!!! This feels so much like more than a book!! 

Now, as I mentioned, I'm only on page 37 in my paperback copy. But I have already learned a few important things about myself. The most surprising is this: I want to grow great! I had no idea! That may seem strange but I have always had an uncomfortable relationship with wanting. Even as a little girl I feared wanting because I was ultimately afraid that (as is portrayed in so many movies, shows, and books) wanting would lead to loosing what I had. And I have, for most of my life, truly loved what I had.

Now that I am in my 40s, I am even happier with what I have! The older I get the happier I am with myself, my life, my circumstances. And so it surprised me to find myself, well, wanting. Wanting to inspire myself to greatness. 

And this brings us back around to the brilliant format and writing of the book. Because the reason I was able to learn about my wanting to grow great, was the way in which I was invited (strongly invited, tee hee!) to define what that means to me, and for me, and as me. 

This is a snippet from the back of the book: "A belief in humanity's ability to discover their own gifts drives this book while a desire to share knowledge fuels it. Lynette Louise presents strategies and perspectives that enable a view of the possible, beyond what readers may have imagined alone. Presented as a team project this engaging book is an opportunity to participate with Lynette in a unique journey of self-discovery that ends in the achievement of greatness." 

Yes. That's what this book is. But now that I am participating the way it was intended I can also say, that's what this book does. 

 
One of the things I love about my mom's books and articles: They are inherently inclusive. Because our family is overflowing with diversity and her work takes her around the world into people's homes, she thinks, writes, learns, and teaches with an inclusive nature. Everyone is considered and represented. So if you are thinking, "Yes, yes, another self-help book for everyone else. Another book that speaks to common folks struggling with common issues, but not people on the outskirts, not me, an outlier," well, you'd be wrong. This book not only includes you, and is for you while it is also for the common folks, it also invites us all to know and understand each other. 

Also, it's not really a "self-help" book, I don't think. Although, admittedly, I've never read one. If it is and this is what they are, well then I've been missing out! :D 

At the top of this post I quoted myself and linked to the tweet where I publicly shared my quote, along with the hashtag #InspireYourself. (BTW: If you share thoughts on social media with the #InspireYourself they will likely get shared by the author!) On page 21 of the book we are asked to define "wish" for ourselves. And though that is what it is, a definition for ourselves, we are also encouraged to share some of our quotes and ideas. The truth is, we will change the world whether we share or not, but sharing is one of many ways we can interact with intention and confidence. So I chose to share that. My defintions of greatness I am keeping to myself. They are mine and they are me. But I am also sharing them, because, as I said, they are me, and I am in this world. 

From page 29: "It is important to note as you change your brain, you also change the world we live in because you interact with us. 

You are more relevant than you realize." 


If you are interested in growing great with me, however you define it, I invite you to let this book be your guide. 

Now, I'm headed off to bed with my book and a pen!

Hugs, smiles, and love!!
Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)

The book is available in paperback on Amazon.com and Amazon.ca

Autism Answer: The Men Who Found Me

*Author's note: I wrote this piece about five years ago. I don't remember why I wrote it. I do remember hoping it would be published somewhere by someone other than me. I do remember hoping it would be understood as valuable by someone other than me. I do remember hoping it would be published by a journal that compensates their contributors. I have submitted it several times to paying publications and have received several rejections. However, I don't believe that means it wasn't understood as valuable (though that is perfectly possible and alright with me). I believe it most likely means it was understood as not for them. That's one of the great gifts submitting work can offer. Understanding the various reasons for, and possibilities of, rejection.

This piece has been rejected several times by paying publications, but it has been accepted and adored often by me. My sons and husband have also felt the value of its message, though they have not read it. And perhaps it will be understood as valuable by you, dear reader. I would be honored if that were the case. I would be grateful if that were the case. Goodness knows that cannot be the case if I keep it tucked away hidden in a file on my computer. 

Whether or not you find this piece valuable or interesting, I hope you understand it as true and meaningful. Because though it carries with it several rejections, it absolutely is. 

Happy reading!
~Tsara

The Men Who Found Me

I was always there but deeply lost.

When the much older than me dark skinned mechanic, different from me in so many ways, looked adoringly at my colorful sons, helped my autistic brothers fix their cars, and held my milky white hand in his strong callused one, I knew I’d been finally found.

Admittedly, he wasn’t the first man to bring me closer to the surface. He stood in line behind a short list of important others. And they themselves had been in the position to search out the pieces of me, hidden and strewn haphazardly deep inside my container of a body, because of a long-ago man who broke me and left me hidden. 

When I was twelve my step-dad molested and disoriented me. 

He who we loved so much; he who’d stepped up and taken beautiful care of my beautiful mother, given us a home and the gift of adopted siblings, given us stability and a feeling of being powerfully protected—he had done what we knew he would never do. 

I was left lost. A jungle of lies and confusion and guilt and fear buried me deep. 

My mom was a hero, picking up the family and keeping us safe. Safer than safe; we learned to know things. My mom took impossible care of six kids on her own, strong and certain that she could discover answers that would keep us healthy. Against impossible odds—a past filled with abuse and a basket full of challenged children—she carried us to women’s shelters and safe homes, forever remaining the insistent and actively thinking student. Always aware of us children and our needs while climbing and building mountains of knowledge for our sake.  

But men were held at a distance, unpredictable and unlikely to lead to safety. We learned about men, we knew we wanted them around, but we were unable to completely trust them. Unable to learn from them or live as equals.

Leaving me lost. 

Until my first son was born. 

His dad told me he would take care of me because he thought I was appropriately pretty and young. He was looking at the container I was lost inside, and promising to buy it things. He was lying, but I wasn’t expecting much from him anyway. I had been hoping, but never expecting. 

Then I gave birth to my son. My son, who would one day become a man. And when his tiny brown wrinkly hand wrapped around my finger, and his hungry mouth hunted my breast, our love and needs locked and I knew I was in there somewhere. 

I felt him see me when I saw him. 

I began to feel found but was so deeply lost the signal was faint. 

I had another son with the same man, the one who took me to enough restaurants to keep my container impressed, and this boy was more insistent. He was almost downright rude with his demands from me.

He really encouraged me to pick up my pieces and put myself together. He would accept nothing less!

So I walked away from the man who lied and grew a little less lost while I played with my sons. 

I met a kind man, and for a time I struggled to be completely found with him too. But when I was pregnant again I pushed him away. He called me beautiful, smart, and sexy. I didn’t think I could keep that up. 

But for my third son I became more myself. More creative, silly, and snuggly.  

I could feel myself grow less lost, almost entirely aware of my path and my surroundings. The consistent sounds and sticky sweat from my jungle of guilt and fear quieted, chirping less obnoxiously in my head and heart. The path I was walking with my sons felt like my choice. I could intuitively sense something exciting and new calling me in a direction, and I began to trust myself to know it when it appeared. 

Then my mom’s car broke down. This kind, older, ridiculously different than me mechanic came to the rescue. 

At first, he didn’t see me. I tried to be noticed by flaunting my body and lips. I used the only tricks I knew, glossy and flirty. Hips swinging and bodies brushing and lips inviting, but he was avoiding and uninterested. From my place inside where I was almost found I began to consider retreating deeper into the jungle of lost, where I felt familiar. 

But instead I spoke about my sons who were visiting my sister. I put away my flirty tricks and let me talk about my boys. Something about this quiet hard working mechanic seemed to allow it. 

He was not kinder, smarter, or richer than other men. He was there, and he was good, and I was ready to be found.

Talking about my boys drew me out of hiding. My boys had me dancing and showing off

right at the surface of myself.

And that’s when the mechanic found me. He found the beautiful mom, the creative soul, the loving sister, the delighted daughter, the tentative friend, the dancing queen, the flirty girl and more.

He didn’t look at the container I was hiding in, my body and face and hair, not at first anyway. He looked at me.

And I was found. 

Had my sons not needed me I may have stayed too deeply lost for him to see. Had I not needed to find me for my sons, I may have wanted to stay lost. 

But my sons found me. 

And because of them, the mechanic found me. 

Together, the mechanic and me, we had one more son. 

A young man who will grow up having always known me. 

The mechanic and I have been happily married now for eighteen years. We’ve lived in separate homes close together, separate homes far apart, crowded in one home together, and always we’ve worked as a team. 

Over the years I’ve easily trusted him, learned from him, and we’ve lived together as equals. 

When he found me, I found him. A man to help me guide our sons out of their own jungle.

A man who will example and help them to know themselves.

The men who found me were my reason to be found. My reason to find me. And now that I know who I am, now that I’ve grown confident and comfortable with all of the pieces of me as they fit together, I know I will never be lost again.

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Short Bio: Tsara Shelton is a writer of musings, a sipper of coffee, and an addict of anything story. Having learned life exploring the edges of society she finds her footing in the world through storytelling—as a mom, wife, daughter and citizen. She blogs regularly at Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton and is the author of Spinning in Circles and Learning from Myself: A Collection of Stories that Slowly Grow Up.

Website: www.tsarashelton.com

Facebook: Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton

Twitter: @TsaraShelton