National Autism Poetry Month

April is National Poetry Month. It's also National Autism Awareness Month. Last year, I spent the month of April posting about autism issues that affect our family as well as sharing some of my poetry about raising a child on the autism spectrum. Today I thought I'd share another one of my autism poems with you. This one is from a couple of years ago - I have to get my act together and write some poems about what things are like for us now!

Sensory Profile

i

I could pretend I know

what you’re thinking when

you’re spinning wheels, your eyes

intent on the turning, your body

remarkably still. Or spinning

yourself, never dizzying, eyes

tuned to the whirl of the room. You

are running now, back and forth,

circling, colliding your quick

little body over and over into

my body, or any soft thing.

ii

The way you are immobilized

if I remove your shoes on the lawn.

How you hold out your hands

for me to brush off the sand, every grain

too overwhelming to touch.

How this food is not warm enough,

that one is too slimy, this one

is not a perfect rectangle. You melt

before my eyes, we rock and sing,

rock and sing, rock and sing.

iii

My driver’s window opening is acceptable –

fresh air. Your back window opening

sends you panicking like a trapped bird.

Your eyes widen and tear, you try

to lean away in your car seat. You are quiet,

terrified, eye of a storm about to shift.

But then the streetlamps set your eyes

steady, focused. You center and lean

into their glow, their simple illumination

of what a moment ago we couldn’t see,

what gradually moves into our view.

iv

How you love to cross bridges.

Vibration of the steel under the car, lights

in neat, bright lines, the river beneath

a soft rushing, the bridge lifting us

to safe architecture of air. You love

the ones with perfect angles and x’s.

Those lit like a ladder of stars.

And the kind that were built improbably.

Lowered whole from the sky.

-Brittney Corrigan, copyright 2007. All rights reserved.

As many of you know, Elliot's main interest these days is still elevators. But instead of insisting that we pretend every doorway is an elevator when we move from room to room the way he did a couple of years ago, now he is very creative with his "elevator games," setting up elaborate elevator panels made from numbered blocks and complete with sound effects from his keyboard when the elevator arrives on each floor. He still goes on "elevator adventures" with Papa every weekend, as well. Here he is last weekend having a quiet moment on the Portland Aerial Tram to OHSU (the elevator at OHSU has 14 floors!).


Elliot also loves to draw pictures of elevators and people riding them, as you can see in this picture he drew this morning.


And I'll leave you today with these pictures of the kiddos enjoying the warm, sunny weather we had the last few days (we're back to rain tomorrow, alas!).


Gotta go. I've been instructed by Elliot that it's time to ride the elevator to the first floor!

Celebrate Mitch Day

Today is Mitch Day. It's the 9th anniversary of my brother-in-law, Michell's death. Every year on August 11th, we remember Mitch by doing three things he would have done. 1. Do a random act of kindness. 2. Play a practical joke on someone. 3. Make some art or do something creative. I encourage you to do one or all of these things today. Here is a picture of Thomas with his three siblings - Kate, Mitchell, and Michael.


I didn't get to know Mitch as well as I would have liked to, since I really only met him a handful of times before he died. But what I remember about him was his kindness, and his crazy sense of humor. Today I'd like to share with you a poem I wrote in honor of Mitch after he died in 1999.


Birds of Passage

i.

You tell me there's a stunned bird
on the sidewalk by the high rise
people stepping aside
as if it is nothing
but a lost tourist
you are on the 18th floor
maybe thinking
of the brother you lost
how he visits
your sister's rooms
his voice on the wind
you don't know
what kind of bird
some sort of hawk
don't know
if it flew into a window
fell many stories
is this how we are
with our grief
not knowing
building from sky
the police have closed
a lane of traffic
enough before rush hour
that it doesn't make
the news
we hope the phone
will never ring again
to tell us anyone we love
has died
by the end of the day
the bird is gone
and I want to know
where they've taken it
if wherever it is
will ever be safe enough

ii.

several states away
the smoke of your brother
pauses in the air
another hawk flattens
against a window
it is the house next door
to your brother's birthplace
no barriers
only reservation stillness
so much sky to choose from
who is he looking for
forgetting how to pass
through walls
we open and close our palms
blow out candles
burn sage
in the corners of rooms
the sky must be falling
stars smack into our windows
storm clouds spill under
our doors and the birds
double back on the wind
flying feet-forward
to land on our shoulders
whisper into our days
we want to tell you something
but we keep losing our way

iii.

four months to the day
and another
relative dies
we expect a hawk
to land on our windowsill
knocking
it is said
that when someone
we love has died
in twelve days
will come a sign
of safe passage
now all of us are looking
out our windows
through our dreams
into faces of people
we walk past
waiting for the message
hoping they will step
out of a crowd
calling our names

Brittney Corrigan, copyright 1999. All rights reserved.


And I'll leave you today with these pictures of Elliot at the "33rd beach" on the Columbia River last week, when Nona and Papa Mr. Vic Victor took him on an adventure one afternoon.




Now go play that practical joke.

On Re-Visioning

I heard the coolest story on NPR's Weekend Edition today. Composer Lee Johnson has written what he calls the Dead Symphony No. 6, which is derived from music by the Grateful Dead, to be performed by the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra on what would have been Jerry Garcia's 66th birthday next week. What's fantastic is that the composer wasn't even a Dead Head to begin with, but he's created symphonies on all kinds of topics, and this one is meant to be based on American culture. You can listen to the story (and the music) here. I imagine it will be an interesting opening night - a mix of symphony season ticket holders and tie-dyed Dead fans.

I love the concept of re-visioning. That is, not to revise but rather to vision again, vision anew. Adrienne Rich discusses this concept in her famous feminist essay, "When We Dead Awaken: Writing As Re-Vision," in which she defines re-vision as "the act of looking back, of seeing with fresh eyes, of entering an old text from a new critical direction." Her essay speaks specifically to the importance of re-vision for women, but I think it's valuable to all of us - women, male composers, and otherwise.

At Reed College way back in 1994, my senior thesis (inspired largely by Anne Sexton's Transformations poems) was a series of poems re-visioning fairy tales, folklore, and myths that have animal transformation motifs as their center. Some of the poems were actual re-tellings of the transformation tales, and some were re-tellings of other tales, using the animal transformation motif to transform the stories into something else. It was an amazing year of writing for me, for in looking anew at these old stories, I was in turn finding my true poetic voice. Here are three poems from my thesis for you (the poems were written in sets of three, but these have been excerpted from their triads). I think you'll recognize the three princesses.


Rapunzel

Wait Mister. Which way is home?
They turned the light out
and the dark is moving in the corner.
-Anne Sexton, "Music Swims Back to Me"

Let down your hair they say to me, those two who crawl about below me. Let down your hair. They mean out the window, but what is a window up here but a suicide door, a black hole, an unmended pocket? It is a kind of mystery how I got here to begin with: I am the chicken, the egg, the single cell. No one will ever say to me Pussy cat, where have you been? I visit the queen of this small round space. I frighten the mouse of myself, chasing my own split ends. I am the crooked cat. I am the last of the Furies, the Banshee of the Attic. They call to me, Let down your hair. And so I do. But not to them. Oh no, not out that window. They howl at me like dogs, hissing in their own poor skins for love of me. But I do not need a mother now the darkness rocks me to sleep. I do not need a lover now the stones wrap me in their arms. Let down your hair. So I do, and I run about shrieking in my own cylindrical space. My hair knows every possibility. It is a noose, a rope, a blanket, a ladder, a nest. I let it choose. It crawls about the space like a school of fish; it is as soft as the wind. I do not need a mother now my body has taken me in. I do not need a lover now my fingers make windows of my self. My hair is like a key, a hand, an infinite expanding space. I do not need a mother now I look through the keyholes of my own eyes. I do not need a lover now my hands expand into universes of skin. Today they call Let down your hair, and I do. It chooses the pocket with the bottomless hole, and today I choose to follow it through the door. Hush. I am not mad. Listen. I am a cat. I bathe myself with my own tongue. I always land on my feet.

Brittney Corrigan, copyright 1994. All rights reserved.


Beauty and the Beast

It really is not so bad, living in the castle.
The ceilings drip a little and the halls are dark
and at night when I am lying in bed
the walls breathe with the wind...
but there is a comfort in the stone
and in the courtyard which is its heart.

Once, the only thing belonging to me was a heart.

And now - somehow - I have always lived in the castle.
I have always been surrounded by stone...
(The hearts of my sisters were always dark
and my father's face was like the wind -
fluttering the petals of an empty flowerbed.)

I came here: to a hidden one's bed.

He would show me only his heart,
only at dinnertime, and its strings would wind
about my fears. All other times, it seemed the castle
was filled with something I could not see. The sun was dark
in the courtyard, dark on the flagstones.

For a long time, my kind eyes were flecked by stone.

Though he never approached my bed
in the nakedness of the unbiased dark,
I believed in the ugliness surrounding his heart
as much as I believed in the magic of the castle
or in the power of a snow-backed wind.

I did not realize at first that his coat was made of wind.

His sharp nails and pointed teeth were carved from stone,
and a curse made a prison of his castle.
He lay in the cell of his bed
and believed in the beating of his heart
as I stumbled about in the dark -

ness. To shift a shape, one must travel though a pillar of dark.

What I learned was to wind
it around me like spun yarn, to cup the heart
of it in my hands like a soup stone,
to lie in it as if breathing miraculously from a riverbed,
to emerge in the courtyard of the castle.

The ceremony of my heart unstatued stone.

I ate up the dark of his skin and his coat of wind.

My heart is an oysterbed: an infinite pearling of castles.

Britney Corrigan, copyright 1994. All rights reserved.


Silkworm Dream

I don't remember how I found it: what room it was in, who led me there, what time it was, or what I was wearing. But I remember the spinning wheel: how it was bent and gray like an old woman, how the old thread hung from it like hair, and how it one eye turned - circling and circling - pedaling itself to me. And how sharp it was... it was like a wasp, a brooch, a shattered cup. I touched its hair, and it laughed and crumbled. I fastened to it, I sipped, and it spun me into dream, into such rooms of sleep. I am eating mulberry like cream. I am spinning like a dreidle, I am twisting like a spindle in my larva house. I am trapped in a circle of thorns, where twelve small women fuss about me like little magdalens - their eyes pasted shut, their palms empty of gifts. But I am a worm. I squirm in my legless skin, I spin from end to end. I coffin myself in silk. I am wiggling about the mulberry bush from morning until dusk until silk drops from me like rain. I am an unwinding spool. I am making myself a shell like a bean, a little white grenade. I am crawling inside, I am dancing at the head of the pin. How I grow wings in here! Soft powdered wings like mouse fur. Do not wake me. I am spinning myself a silk house, I am growing a moth heart. Do not wake me. Do not kiss me with your lips like red cocoons. Oh, do not wake me. I am dreaming. I am spinning straw into gold.

Brittney Corrigan, copyright 1994. All rights reserved.


I haven't visited those princesses in years. It's kind of nice to hang out with them again!

And on a completely different note, I cannot leave you without some pictures. So first up, here is the promised photo of the three American Idols taken by Thomas with his phone in downtown Portland.


And here is Elliot falling asleep while getting his hair cut by Destinie at Clackamas Town Center, where Elliot and Papa go often to ride elevators, eat snacks, and get prettified.


Now maybe I should head off to nap with my own little princess, who's been passed out in the backpack for this entire post. Happy weekend!

Online Writing, Meow Meow, Online Art

I'm proud to announce that I am the poetry editor for a new online literary journal being launched in October that will celebrate the autistic spectrum. Here are the details.

Hyperlexia: A Literary Journal Celebrating the Autistic Spectrum is looking for your fiction, poetry, and personal essays. Our inaugural issue, which will be found at www.hyperlexiajournal.com, is planned for October. Send to submissions@hyperlexiajournal.com. Deadline for submissions is August 31st.

Submission guidelines:
* Hyperlexia is interested in honest, thoughtful, well-written poetry and prose about being autistic and loving someone with autism. We want genuine and truthful writing about autism. Our journal is a celebration of real life with autism, both the good and the bad. You can be serious, sad, or funny. We believe in respecting the diversity of the human mind and discriminatory writing or hatred of any kind will not be published.
* Submissions should be 1500 words or less.
* Send submission inside the body of the email, as well as attached as a Word doc.

My co-editors and founders of the journal are Kerry Cohen Hoffmann and Phoebe Gleeson. Please pass the word to anyone you know who might be interested in submitting work, and keep your eye out for the first issue in October!

And speaking of art online, check out my step-father-in-law's (that'd be Papa Mr. Vic Victor) artwork on his page on the Ovation TV website. You can see his artwork on the photos section of his page. Last Christmas, he made us this amazing shadowbox piece, titled "Orange Boots, The Star Hanger." I like the shadow effect created by the sunlight as I photographed it on the back porch this morning.

And I'll leave you with this video of little Miss Idgie playing with the kittens last night.

In the words of Henrietta Pussycat from Mr. Roger's Neighborhood of Make-Believe (as a shout out to Bryce and Ellen!), "Meow meow, cute!, meow meow!".

Boom

I had something to keep me company last night when I was up nursing Imogen at 3am. A huge thunderstorm! I'm talking a real-life, honest-to-goodness thunderstorm with lightening that illuminates the entire room right through the curtains and thunder that shakes the windowpanes. The kind of thunderstorm that is one of the things I really miss about Colorado in July. I love thunderstorms. Even better, Elliot slept right through it, and Imogen happily nursed right back to sleep.

The storm made me remember a poem I wrote years ago about missing those bone-rattling Colorado thunderstorms. Here it is, in honor of Portland's noble attempt to match those storms last night.

Denver’s Rain

The gutter in front of our house on Glencoe Street
had a section wide and deep as the bowl
of a pelvis, rimmed with asphalt that softened
with the heat, fingered into the cracks
of the concrete, steamed and hissed
when the rains began. Late summer
afternoons in Denver meant thunderstorms,
the sky opening up and the full gong
of the storm resounding in my five-year old body.

Severe Thunderstorm Watch — it was still safe
to be playing outside with my sister, the hose
spreading sheets of water down the driveway
and into the Big Gutter. My mother was still
snapping beans on the front porch, silver
mixing bowls at her browned bare feet. We
could hear the wind leaning into the crabapple tree
in the backyard with its moist breath
of thunder, the tree rocking in and out
of the dark sky and dropping its red fruit.

Severe Thunderstorm Warning — we had to pull
everything in — shut off the hose as the sky,
cracking, let the first drops fall. We gathered
up our cats as our mother collected her beans
and moved us into the house. The small
TV brightened before us and we watched the weathermen
on Storm Center 4 point out tornadoes, fascinated, secretly
hoping one would head for our house.

My mother tried to keep us away from the windows,
but we wanted to watch the lightening, count
the storm’s movement towards us in the seconds
between the split and the sky rolling itself
whole again — wanted to watch the Big Gutter
fill until it spilled onto the sidewalk, the water
rushing around the block like our dog
when he got loose, hail the size of ping pong balls
casting the lawn into winter. And we sat
in the dark of the house, the crabapple tree
losing leaves a season too soon, thinking
of the possibilities of mud and blueing skies,
the gutter now indistinguishable from the body of the storm.

Brittney Corrigan, copyright 1991. All rights reserved.

In other news, Imogen had her 9-month doctor's appointment today. She's 15lbs, 10oz. The doctor was a little concerned that she hasn't gained much weight since last time, but she's pudgy and healthy, so everything is probably fine (she's going back for a weigh-in at the end of August). I'm not concerned, since I was a little baby, Thomas and I are both small folks (elfin, as our friend Urban likes to remark), and Elliot and Imogen were both small at birth. Here are all 2 feet 3 inches of her.

She also got the last round of her Pc and HIB shots, and now she's passed out in the backpack. No more shots for awhile now, whew! For those of you interested, we've been doing an alternative vaccination schedule. We started the shots late and spread them out, and she's only received DTaP, HIB, and Pc. We're putting off Polio, Hep A, and MMR for when she's older, and we won't be doing Hep B and Chickenpox (the latter we'll give her later if she doesn't get them naturally). For you parents out there interested in learning more about vaccines and alternate schedules, I most highly recommend The Vaccine Book by Dr. Robert Sears. It's the only truly objective book I've ever seen on the subject of vaccines.

And not to be left out, here's Elliot maxin' and relaxin' on the arm of Papa's new recliner. Ah, summer.

I hope everyone has a fun and safe 4th of July holiday. We'll see if the fireworks display can rival that thunderstorm!

The Calm After the Storm

The house seems very, very quiet today. Kate and Pat headed to Michigan this morning, and Thomas and Elliot are off on an elevator adventure. After the events of this past week, today seems almost eerily calm.

We held Michael's memorial service at the house yesterday, and it was a truly beautiful day. The weather was perfect, the ceremony was lovely, and we were in good company. I actually missed the entire service while tending children inside, since Elliot wouldn't stop talking (typical) and Imogen wouldn't stop fussing (not typical, but she's teething and has her brother's cold). Here we are before the service began, hanging out in the backyard.


Pat set up a very nice altar for Michael's ashes, as you can see here.


Pat led a Native American pipe ceremony, and everyone had a chance to say goodbye. We chose a poem by Joy Harjo, one of my very favorite poets and a Native American herself, for the program. The poem could have been in Michael's own words.


Fury of Rain

Thunder beings dance the flooding streets
of this city, stripped naked to their electric skeletons.
I stand inside their wild and sacred ritual
on these streets of greasy rainbows
and see my own furious longing
erupt from the broken mask of change
to stone, to bear, to lightning.
Gut memory shakes this earth like a rattle,
knocking my teeth with heroic thunder.
I could have lied
and not seen my own death
dancing in the streets, the main shady
character forcing me to live.
What can I do but celebrate after
guarding the wreck for thirty-five years, in
this ceremony larger than a damp, suspicious city?
We are all in the belly of a laughing god
swimming the heavens, in this whirling circle.
What we haven't imagined will one day
spit us out
magnificent and simple.

Joy Harjo, from In Mad Love and War
Wesleyan University Press, 1990


I also want to include here a poem I wrote for Michael many years ago.


Fox Pieces, Orcas Island

It is the island rummage sale, in the rain.
Here, everyone has what is necessary,

and little that is not. The tables are lined
with bones, chicken feet, skins,

a headdress dangling small vertebrae
and soft, striped feathers. We stand before

a box labeled fox pieces, talk ourselves
into lifting the cardboard lid. Scraps of fur,

red hairs bristling on squares of skin.
You say your adopted brother would like

to be here, gathering bones and teeth.
Where is he this time, drinking, brown skin

bruising into blue? His hands bent
the dream catchers over our bed, tied the antler

bead to my wrist. You never know how
to touch him, what will bring him home.

With my eyes, I talk to the box of skins,
will the fox to assemble and walk into the rain.

Brittney Corrigan, copyright 2002. All rights reserved.


It's fitting that our last time with Michael was spent on Orcas Island. It's also fitting that this morning the rains came, after a gorgeous day of sun, breeze, and sky for the memorial. As Kate remarked last night as we were dropping off the leftover food from the service at a homeless shelter (Michael spent much of his life homeless, so we knew he would appreciate the gesture), now Michael is free from a life of not knowing where his next meal would come from, or having to endure any humiliation. She also reflected yesterday that not many people who lead the kind of life that he did have the support and love of so many friends and family members.

Michael, now that your storm is over, may you walk through the rain to the other side, whole. May you finally come to rest. We will always love you and miss you.

Serendipity

Serendipity keeps life interesting. It helps us remember that the world is never short on wonder.

My good friend Ellen Notbohm writes about a mantra that helped her in parenting a child on the autism spectrum in her book, The Autism Trail Guide. Here is the quote:

"Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes courage is the little voice at the end of the day that says 'I will try again tomorrow.'"
- Mary Anne Radmacher-Hershey

Yesterday, while checking in on my friend Jim's blog, there was the same quote, helping him out, as well. And it has been a good mantra to have this past week as our family grieves Michael's death. Serendipity.

The one positive thing about a funeral, however, is that it brings family together. It has been quite wonderful to have the family around all week. Imogen has especially enjoyed all the attention (so has Elliot, but he refused to pose for a picture). Here is Miss Idgie with Papa Pat and Nona. Thank goodness for grandchildren to make everyone appreciate the living.



Imogen has also been pleased as punch to be reunited with her Aunt Kate, who was (almost) there for her birth. Here's Imogen getting loved up by Kate.



We're now focused on planning Michael's memorial service, which will be at our house this Saturday. Pat will be leading a Native American pipe ceremony, and we expect it to be a really beautiful, healing event. Thanks so much to all our friends and family out there who have sent your condolences, thoughts, and prayers our way this past week. If any of you would like to make a donation in Michael's memory, you can give to the Red Cloud Indian School in Pine Ridge, South Dakota.

May something serendipitous happen to you today. And on that note, I'll leave you with a poem (I'm going to start including more poetry on the blog for you, by popular demand).


Angels

The man at the watch counter watching us
says I don't question how angels come to me
we have chosen the watch
he didn't know he wanted
he wants one too calls us
angels I feel the nubs of wings turn
my eyes to him rough something
renegade leather torn edges
his partner thin more frail a watch
for him too two identical watches
identical to the one we've chosen
but do not buy I feel the nubs of wings
remember the flocking
sandhill cranes surprising us
among geese taller and voices
lifted the brown bodies walking
through wetland soft rain coming
in wind hundreds walking opening
wings and dancing calling
across cold spring afternoon
how often do we get to be angels
nothing to do with watches
with wings or not wings
two men buying identical watches
us turning away from timekeeping
I don't question how angels come

Brittney Corrigan, copyright 2002, all rights reserved.

What the Living Do

Thanks to everyone who has sent their supportive thoughts and condolences our way since my brother-in-law, Michael died two days ago. We found out yesterday that he died from a heroin overdose. He was found around 3pm, and we know he had talked to a good friend on the phone around 1pm that day. The crow came to us around 2:30pm.

The family has been gathered together at our house since Thursday, and the twins' biological father arrived in town today. There will be a ceremony with the Native community at Eagle Creek tomorrow evening, and a memorial service here in Portland next weekend. We are thankful for every moment we had with Michael. For every time he came home.

Today I have been thinking about the poem by Marie Howe, "What the Living Do." In the poem (which Thomas read at his brother Mitchell's memorial service 9 years ago), she writes about continuing on with her daily routines, the small details of her life, after the death of her brother. I have been thinking about how having Elliot and Imogen in our lives at this time is a blessing. Not only do they have needs that must still be met - meals, bedtime, diapers - keeping us busy, but they are joyful and fun, reminding us of how wonderful our lives really are. And today we have been doing what the living do - laundry, making lunch, visiting friends.

And so today, a post about something joyful. Imogen turned 9 months old today. She now has two teeth, is crawling, can stand and cruise around furniture, is starting to make signs for "eat", "more", and "milk" ("nursie"), and is eating all sorts of yummy smooshed foods. Here are this month's comparison photos of Imogen and big brother Elliot.



How can anyone stay sad for long when these two children smile at you? Today, it is gorgeous outside. We have been looking at photos and videos of Michael and playing outside in the sunshine, remembering him. We will carry him with us always, as we carry ourselves through the dailiness of our lives, doing what the living do.

What Rhymes with Trampoline?

Yes, you guessed it, Imogen does! (Contrary to the belief of a certain substitute teacher at the school on Orcas where Tess was working this week, who claims that "hide" and "lied" don't actually rhyme because words can't rhyme if they are spelled differently. Who gave this guy a teaching certificate?)

So, I offer you a limerick in honor of Imogen's first real trampoline experience.

There once was a baby named Imogen
who wanted to bounce on the trampoline.
She gave it a try
with her Papa nearby
and her singing brother accompanying.

Ok, so I took some liberty with that last line, but that's what we call poetic license (look it up, crazy substitute teacher!). I was actually trying to end with the word "submarine" but just couldn't work it in. Too bad Elliot wasn't singing The Beatles! And now the visual component:




Pretty stinkin' cute, huh? And as if that weren't enough to satisfy your cute quota for the day, here is Imogen modeling her wild child locks.



Have a great weekend, everyone!

Sticks and Stones

Time to catch up! I have several stories to tell you today, so get ready for a long post!

First, I want to let everyone know that Nancy (aka Nona) is doing well after having surgery on Thursday. On Tuesday she fractured both ankles and broke her right tibia when she stumbled off the back porch steps at Pat's house (fondly referred to as "The Wallow," since it's located on Buffalo Street). Pat, Vic, and Uncle Mike were all there to help her, and the eventual surgery was successful. She's being released from the hospital today, though she'll have a recovery period of about 6-8 weeks.

Our second trauma this week was the "stuck duck". It was a lovely afternoon yesterday, and the kids and I spent several hours in the yard with Dixie, Joey, and Pippin. At the end of the afternoon, I began herding the birds back into the coop. Dixie and Pippin went right in, but Joe spooked and proceeded to run around the back of the coop and into the small space between the coop and the neighbor's fence, trying to get to Pippin. In a panic, she tried to back out and flipped herself upside down, wedging herself beak down, feet up, and wings splayed into a four inch wide space where I couldn't reach her. It sounds almost comical now, but poor Joe was stuck like that for about an hour until Thomas got home from work and we could move the (very heavy) coop and pull her out. Amazingly, Joey is just fine, and hopefully wiser from the experience (no one ever said domestic fowl were a bright lot).


Also yesterday, I got to do a very cool thing. My friend James invited me to be a guest poet for his class at LEP High School, a charter school here in town. His class spent the month of April learning about poetry and song writing (James is a wonderful musician), and James asked if I would share some of my poetry with the class and talk about poetry writing. Imogen came with and was mostly cooperative (she finally stopped fussing when I let her crumple up and chew on one of my poems on the floor at my feet - I'm not sure what that says about her future as a writer...). I have several friends (and of course my parents) who are teachers, and I really can't imagine getting up in front of those somewhat intimidating and apparently disinterested teenagers every day. But I was pleasantly surprised.

At the end of the class, I had the students do a 10-minute writing prompt. I picked 10 words at random from 2 books volunteered by the students (a couple of sci-fi fans, it turns out). The students then wrote for 10 minutes, trying to incorporate those words into a poem or some other form. I was surprised and thrilled to watch most of their hands shoot up at the end of the writing period to share what they had written (and it was pretty darn good, too!). A few students also came up to me after the class to thank me for coming and tell me how much they had enjoyed the presentation. My favorite moment was when a student from the back of the class who I had thought wasn't really listening or interested read his piece, which successfully used all 10 words in a poem about how much he had liked having a poet visit his class (who'd have thunk?). It was really nice for me to do something with my creative side (not that being a full-time mother isn't creative) and interact with kids who are more than 3 feet tall!

I have more stories to tell you, but first I'll refresh your eyes from this long post with some cute pictures of the kids. Elliot is modeling our friend Darius's super cool Foucault cap.



This morning we headed off to a tumbling class through Portland Parks and Recreation. Elliot and I have been going to the class as "special Mama and Elliot time"- that is to say, sans Imogen, who gets to have quality father and daughter time. I was hoping the class would have some structure so Elliot could practice turn taking and social skills, but it's pretty much a free-for-all, with 2 to 4-year old kids running around and jumping on mats for half an hour. It's still a blast (especially the parachute, which the parents all float up and down over happily screeching children).

Last week in class, Elliot latched on to a little girl (in typical Elliot fashion) about a year younger than himself. He was following her around, being perhaps a little too enthusiastic with her, but they were having fun nonetheless. Another little boy then took it upon himself to try to "defend" the little girl by pushing Elliot away, over and over again. Elliot was actually oblivious to both the girl's reactions and the boy's aggression, but I left feeling like my son had been bullied and being discouraged about his ability to read social cues, once again. I was worried about what would happen in class today.

Sure enough, as soon as class started, the boy made a beeline for Elliot (the little girl wasn't there today). However, what the boy did was to walk up to Elliot, take his hand, and say, "Hi, I'm Jonas, what's your name? Do you want to play?" He spent several minutes trying to engage Elliot in a game, to no avail, and then moved on to a new playmate (Elliot quickly found another little girl to follow around). Everyone was happy, and I was a little ashamed of myself. Yet another reminder, as with the students in the poetry class, that one shouldn't be too quick to judge.

Whew! If you've made it this far, here's your reward: a couple of cute videos of the kiddos. First up is Imogen eating pears, the first food she's really liked. Second is Elliot making Imogen laugh hysterically by opening and closing the cover on an exterior power outlet over and over again. The footage is somewhat lacking, since I was shooting it over my shoulder and couldn't see what the camera could see, but it's the soundtrack that really counts.



And finally, a little moment that has stuck with me this week. I was driving to our new Ikea store, which is near the airport and was built in the middle of what was once wide open space. It's still mostly surrounded by open fields which make their way to the Columbia River. As I headed down a side road, the huge Ikea building looming in front of me, a coyote loped across the road in front of my car. I pulled over to watch him head into the field, and he rounded to stare at me for a few minutes before heading on his way. If I didn't have an ancient cell phone, I'd have taken a picture for all of you to see. It would have made a great statement about our encroachment into wild habitat - the coyote with a huge consumer monolith behind him.

Now back to my own little wild ones. Happy May!

A Few Of My Favorite Things

Last week Idgie and I went to hear a reading by one of my favorite authors, Tom Spanbauer. He's a local Portland author, and it's always lovely to spend an evening with him. He has a wonderful, calm reading voice, and his fiction is gorgeous. He also tells amazing, riveting stories that are often intensely personal, and he's just a plain old nice guy. When I heard him read a couple of years back from his most recent novel, he walked around the room before the reading began, shaking everyone's hand and saying, "Hi, I'm Tom." Imogen was quite cooperative for the event, falling asleep as the reading began and waking up to happily stand in line to get my book signed while being adored by strangers (then she cried in the car all the way home).

Tom Spanbauer gets the honor of having written my favorite book in the world - the one I would take with me to a desert island. The novel is In the City of Shy Hunters and takes place in New York City during the AIDS epidemic of the 1980s. The story is amazing, you'll never want the characters to leave you, and Mr. Spanbauer's writing style is not like anything you've ever read before, I guarantee. I can't recommend the book highly enough.

While I'm on the subject of favorites, I also recommend every last word ever written by poet Naomi Shihab Nye. I attended a week-long women's writing retreat with Naomi in 1995, and she has been my favorite poet and personal hero ever since. Naomi is one of the most genuine, kind, and talented women you could ever know. In her presence, you'll feel like an old friend, and you'll want to talk to her for days and days. She's written countless poems, as well as essays, children's books, young adult fiction, and songs. Every one is remarkable.

And I must show you these photos of my two favorite people. This is Elliot at 5 months old and Imogen at 7 months old, wearing the very same hat.


This will probably be my last April post, so in honor of Autism Awareness Month, I want to give one final shout out to Elliot's preschool (and all educators and specialists out there who are helping children on the spectrum). I can't say thank you enough for everything they've done for Elliot. You can read more about Elliot's amazing school, School of Autism, here. And if you are interested in supporting the school with a monetary donation (they still need all kinds of supplies and funds for the addition of grades 1-2 in the fall), or by buying a T-shirt or a copy of the film that was made for the auction, you can do that here (your donation is tax-deductible!). The film was created by Peter Fuhrman of zodbox, and he did an amazing job. Elliot saw the film for the first time yesterday and immediately requested when it ended, "You want to watch that again!".

And, since April is also National Poetry Month, I thought I'd offer up a teaser for a chapbook I'm working on. It's a series of 40 short poems, one for each week of pregnancy. I started the series while pregnant with Elliot and continued it during my pregnancy with Imogen. I still have a few more poems to write before it is complete. Here are three of my favorites from the series, one for each trimester.

5 weeks

This is the week the heart starts
beating. Little bird, little lizard,

little princess pea. Small round
stairway of spine. Small cleft

body. Small ache in my belly.
Everything moves over –

my insides rearrange. The heart
starts beating. My insides rearrange.

Brittney Corrigan, copyright 2003, all rights reserved.


23 weeks

Little nymph, your skin is like
dragonfly wings. Everything

below is visible, illuminated
through your shimmering limbs.

Your blood travels in quick rivers
beside trees of bones.

Your heart is a small, red poppy
fluttering in a field of rain.

Brittney Corrigan, copyright 2007, all rights reserved.


34 weeks

Little person, we are almost ready.
I am preparing for the suckling,

you are standing back like a painter
from the canvas, adding a brushstroke

here, a whorl of color there. We bulge
under the veil, anticipate the viewing.

Then we can touch each other’s artful
lines, open our eyes and stare, and stare.

Brittney Corrigan, copyright 2007, all rights reserved.

Finally, I want to leave you with a story that my friend Christine shared with me today. Her son Jasper, 2 1/2, is good friends with Elliot.

In the name of friendship
Jasper and I were at the mall today, running errands. I told him we needed to go downstairs and he asked, "On the elevator?"
"Sure," I answered, "or the escalator. You can choose which one you'd like."
"Well, well... well... I love Elliot and he loves me. We love each other, and I'd like to take the elevator." (Pause.) "I don't want to hurt his feelings."
"By taking the escalator?"
"Yeah."
"I don't think he'd mind if you took the escalator. I don't think he'd even know."
"Well, Elliot is my friend and we love each other and I want to take the elevator."
So we did.

You can't ask for a better pal than that.

Farm Girl Wannabe

I wish I could show you in a picture or video what it's like to wander out to your backyard chicken coop on a misty Oregon morning and hold a warm egg in your hand, fresh from the hen. I'm more city girl than country, but I do love gathering eggs. With my love of horses and all the stray or injured animals I took in as a girl (including a pigeon (!) - I have very patient parents), I think I would have loved being a farm girl. I wouldn't choose it as an adult profession (backyard city chickens are just right for me), but being raised on a farm would have suited me well.

I just couldn't resist posting another set of Elliot and Imogen comparison photos. Elliot is a couple months younger than Imogen in this set, but they are making the exact same "teething" face. Pretty cute, huh?



Many of you sent really nice comments about the autism poems I posted and asked for more. Here are two more that are completed, and you'll just have to wait until the rest are edited and done.

Hollows

The place in my body you used to be.
Now my heart is on the outside.

The quiet when you finally fall asleep
in my arms. If you are awake, you are crying.

The days, the months and months
of you not talking, your lack of words.

The silence after the meltdowns. We
wait out the calm for another storm.

The things you won't touch, won't
eat, won't do, won't tolerate. It is like

where we are when the birds
leave us in winter. But I remember

we planted things, we tended,
nurtured, nourished, and warmed.

The birds will come back to us.
All of this will bloom.

Brittney Corrigan, copyright 2007, all rights reserved.


This Way, Right Here

These are my three-year old son's
favorite phrases: this way, meaning,
do what I want you to do. And
right here, meaning, I want
that, now, exactly this way.

Every visit to the store is the same. Or rather,
needs to be the same. First, we will ride
the elevator. He likes to push
the buttons, number two, the one
with the star. When we get off, we will
go this way. Insistent pointing. Loud voice.

We will check over here. We will go
see the vacuums. We will find something
right here. He holds a baggie of crackers.
I will push the cart through the aisles, break
them into two triangles, two squares,
two diamonds. We will get in line.
He will demand a sticker.

The checker will ask his name,
and how old is he? I'll be scanning my card,
entering my code. I won't have time to explain
why he won't answer, though he knows
the answers. He will not look at her. He might
notice the letters on her name badge,
rattle off the numbers on the stands.

At home, we will unload groceries. We'll touch
the big fence, the little fence, then
the big blue sign, the little blue sign.
We'll go inside. He will take his shoes off
this way, put his hat away right here.

This way, mama. Most days, I don't mind
adjusting my route. Right here, mama.
Most times, I can interpret his want.
Then he laughs this way. Hugs me
right here. Some things are fine staying
the same, the same, the same.
This way. Right here.

Brittney Corrigan, copyright 2007, all rights reserved.


And finally, let me hear from you! I know y'all are out there reading, so leave me some comments, already! I love comments. Let me know what you like and what you'd like to see more of - I'll oblige! Now I'm off to pick up Elliot and try not to think about taxes...

Going Up?

Elliot always seems to have one main interest that becomes his singular focus (or obsession!). In recent months it has been pretending to be Mel the dog from Jack's Big Music Show peeking out on the credits (which became every mirror and doorway), then it was acting out episodes of Blue's Clues. Currently it's pretending that everything is an elevator. We can't change floors in the house or move from room to room without pretending to push a button and waiting for the elevator to ding and open its doors for us. This obsession is equal parts charming and annoying. Here's the charming part - Elliot posing next to his masking tape, pretend elevator buttons in our basement stairwell.


About a year ago, Elliot's obsession was road signs. This interest corresponded with my time at Soapstone writer's retreat for women. One of the projects I worked on while there was a series of poems about raising a child on the autism spectrum. Today, in honor of national autism awareness month, I'd like to highlight some of my favorite creative writing on the subject of autism. Of course, I'll need to start with myself. Here is one of the poems I wrote at Soapstone, which used Elliot's interest in road signs (this poem also appears in Ellen Notbohm's book, as mentioned in a post earlier this month).


Signs

My three-year old can name
any sign on the road. He knows
the letters, shapes, colors.
If we are walking, he likes to touch
the weathered faces, wrap his fingers
around the posts, name and rename.

STOP
Some days, I feel sunk in cement.
I can't move my feet, can't see
past the rain in my eyes. The world
approaches, stares, leaves us behind.
We perseverate together - he recites
the letters again and again.
S.T.O.P. No instructions
for which way to turn.

YIELD
The road moves in to meet us. Hands
on the wheel, I resist taking my turn.
I'm afraid if we merge, we'll be stuck
in this traffic forever. We'll never
get home. Someone honks. I inch forward,
check the blind spots, shift gears.

NO U-TURN
We wouldn't go back even if we could.
We have navigated dodgy side streets,
gotten lost, asked for directions. Used
up a profusion of fuel. We've sat in
noisy intersections, wound down quiet
roads. He points ahead. This way.

ONE WAY
Forget about the map. We memorized
its lines, then left it at the rest stop
three states back. This is only one direction,
one arrow, and he wants to see
them all. Left turn, right turn, two-way
traffic, curve. We might go around the block.
We might drive for miles and miles.

BUMPS
We spend a lot of time with this sign.
It's one of his favorites - we see
it on our daily walk. We know
its shape, its angles, its warning face. But
the road between us and the playground
in in constant flux. Broken glass, a new
flower, bees. And always, he must
touch this sign before we can go home.

CONSTRUCTION AHEAD
We might be here awhile. Expect delays.
Or maybe it's Sunday and the workers
have the day off, the road signs are pushed
to the side. But we're curious. What
are they buliding? Does it have scaffolding,
are they tearing up the street? When
we round the next corner, will there be
a road block, a detour, a flagger waving
us through? I look back at him.
Green light. Go.

Brittney Corrigan, copyright 2007, all rights reserved


And one more for you (there are more in the works, so hopefully you'll see them in print someday!).

Ecolalia

My late-talking son is talking
all the time now, a nonstop flow of syllables
and phrases that come out the same every time.
Broken record doesn't even begin to tell the story.
My life with him is a soundtrack of repetition.

The word itself is lovely, ecolalia,
and reminds me of bats. How they find insects
in the dark. And each other. Instinctual,
utterly important. Echolocation.
This is how I see my son's language.
He's finding us in the dark, he's showing us
where he is.

He offers phrases from his favorite books
as greeting, conversation.
On Thursday he ate through four strawberries.
A comb and a brush and a bowl full of mush.
And when he woke up, he found it was true.
And they went out together into the deep, deep snow.

And what if we all listened this intently?
What if we remembered what was said?
Repeated ourselves until we got a response?
Until we heard our own words
echoed back to us?

To fight discouragement, to tell myself that someday
he will say he loves me, to imagine the conversations
we will have, I try to think of his words as heartbeats.
A rhythm that is essential, utterly important.
The sound he is using to find his way out.
The sound that keeps us alive. The sound that ties me
to him, beat for beat, and word for word.

Brittney Corrigan, copyright 2007, all rights reserved

(Italicized lines are from The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle, Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown, George Shrinks by William Joyce, and The Snowy Day by Ezra Jack Keats, respectively.)


I'd also like to recommend a few other pieces of writing to you. The first is a wonderful essay by my friend Kerry Cohen, whose son is just a few months older than Elliot. "What's Wrong With This Picture?" is one of the best essays I've read by a mom on the subject of what it's like to be raising a child on the spectrum.

In the world of blogging, I'd like to point you to my favorite autism-related blog, MOM-Not Otherwise Specified. (Yes, I consider blogs creative writing!).

Finally, here is a poem by a poet named Barbara Crooker about her son with autism, called "Autism Poem: The Grid".

In other news, Imogen is now sitting unassisted. Here she is in all her big-girlness.

I hope everyone is having a wonderful weekend. Now I'm off to get more things done around the house while Thomas and Elliot are off riding elevators downtown!