Author Archives: Paula Josa-Jones

inspiration

Jacob’s mother Jo-Ann shared this work with me during the week I spent with her, Derrill (Jacob’s Daddy) and Jacob on Martha’s Vineyard.  It was revelatory.  Phoebe Caldwell has developed Intensive Interaction, which seems connected to what I was doing with Jacob, but takes it farther, deeper.  Phoebe’s fearlessness, instinct and joy are exquisite to watch.

My sense all week was that I was de-coding Jacob’s language, and that even though it is the language of movement, I could not parse it, except in snippets.  Even though I consider myself a pretty good observer/listener, I was missing a lot.  What I learned watching Phoebe was the quality of pleasure and enthusiasm that she and the other teachers bring to their work.  I was trying too hard, not enjoying Jacob enough, efforting too much.  Anat Baniel talks about enthusiasm as one of the nine essentials of learning. Here is what she says about enthusiasm:

Enthusiasm is self-generated; it is a skill you can develop, choose to do and become good at. Enthusiasm tells your brain what is important to you, amplifying whatever that is, making it stand out, infusing it with energy to grow more. Enthusiasm is a powerful energy that lifts you and inspires you and others. It lights up your brain, helping to usher in changes, transforming the most mundane situation or task, adding meaning and generating delight. Enthusiasm helps make the impossible possible.

Enthusiasm is different from diligence, persistence or even love.  It is the thing that lights up the work, keeps you breathing, that allows a savoring pleasure in the moment.  The other thing that I saw in the videos of Phoebe was the sense of taking time, of waiting, and watching, but staying engaged, but in a softer way than I was experiencing with Jacob.  In mirroring/reflecting him, I sometimes lost my ability to relax and breathe.  Thank you Jacob, for everything you have taught me in the past week!  I can’t wait for more!

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looking for patterns

After working with Jacob today, I took a walk on the beach, and found myself seeing and then seeking patterns.  I realized that I had been doing that all day with him.  Looking for little chains of movement, sequences that made some sense of the collage that is his movement.

At night, I am reading, studying, trying to figure it out.  What am I seeing? How can I enter that world in a way that makes sense to him.

Tonight, I had a little breakthrough.  I mirrored him meticulously, in as much detail as I could.  The dynamics of his movement, the tension in specific body parts, the sounds, the sequencing of his gestures and the direction and shape of each movement, each stillness.  He felt the difference and guided me, sometimes taking me by the hand, through a series of about six little dances.  They were patterns! I felt like a visitor to his museum, his continent, with Jacob as the guide, helping me to navigate.  He seemed happy that I was finally getting it, and when I got it wrong, he showed me again.  I had to stop myself from crying.  At the end, he drifted away.  Perhaps the exertion, or maybe he had just found the end of the dance and I did not recognize it.

Jacob, looking.

pieces of the puzzle

I spend a lot of each day with Jacob, my autistic godson, trying to sort the pieces, and construct a puzzle that makes any kind of sense.  The clues, all of them spoken in movement because he has no language, are fragmentary, random, slippery, unreliable.  He is speaking in a code made up of beginnings that do not so much end as evaporate, endings that are not final, and links that form no chain.

This is a dance for which I have no program.  I often feel that I have arrived well into the performance, and have no idea of the plot or the players.

Some pieces reappear.  Touch:  he loves pressure on his back and legs and just a second later the delicate glimmering flickers of his fingers with mine.  There are the repetitions:  little rituals too short to hang your hat on – pulling everything from the shelves in a clatter or diving into a corner like a seal into the sea.

Outside, there is climbing, hanging, swinging – his solitary pleasures as he is swift and agile – a sloth, a bird, a monkey.  We cannot follow except with eyes.  On the ground, he runs – with us, without us – it is the same to him.

And yet, we all – parents, caregivers, godmothers, therapists – continue to stare at the pieces, turn them over, move them around, trying to make a picture that we can read, a landscape of this boy.  We are improvising – first our answers, and then our questions too.  The first and only known is his great heart, and ours, and ours.

 

 

 

ocean’s poems

I left the house briefly today to walk to the beach.  I found this painting left by the tide.

and this bird.

and this shell.

Each of these felt to me like a little poem, a remnant of the day or last night, written in sand, stone, shell and feather.

The day with my autistic godson Jacob felt like a series of little poems too.  There were dance poems one and two, dog poem (helper Katrina brought her lovely little dog), swing poem, and many little climbing outside haiku.  Also many verses of touch – light as a feather touching, patting, stroking, and bouncing touch.  I know that I am feeling the traces of all of those, just as surely as the sand holds the tracings of the sea.