I literally see cats and dogs (the animals) falling from the sky along with raindrops. I still ultimately understand that it means very heavy rain, even though that’s not exactly what I see in my mind’s eye.

However, when I was a child, perhaps the first time I head the phrase, I felt very sorry for the poor cats and dogs. I mean, it would hurt to fall from the sky like rain and hit the ground! I would hear the cats and dogs mewling or barking in distress, inside my head. Until someone actually explained what they meant by the phrase, I found it very upsetting because I thought animals were getting hurt. (I’ve heard other people have similar reactions to the phrase “There’s more than one way to skin a cat.”)

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been noticing that certain idioms evoke a strong visual and emotional response in me as well:

There’s more than one way to skin a cat.

You’ll kill two birds with one stone.

Don’t lose your head.

It’s no skin off my nose.

Can you lend me a hand?

You’re stirring up a hornet’s nest!

I know that each of these sentences is idiomatic, and I always have. And yet, I feel varying amounts of physical pain and emotional upset when I see the visuals appear in my mind — probably because the literal meaning of each one implies some form of pain to the body of a living creature.

So, it got me to wondering whether, contrary to popular opinion, the tendency of autistic people to see things visually might engender an intensified empathic response. Like Lauren, who talks about feeling upset at the vivid image in her mind of dogs and cats crying out and getting hurt, I wonder whether other autistics feel that same kind of upset by words that describe pain, or by images that show suffering.

The visual image can evoke very intense feelings, it seems. The idea that thinking visually means that we somehow objectify the world around us and detach ourselves from it seems altogether wrong-headed to me. If your way of thinking is primary visual, wouldn’t the visual images have more emotional power, rather than less?

I’d love to hear your thoughts on this question.

© 2011 by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg

Of course, I said yes. I had never put together a presentation like this one before, but it was a lot of fun to do, and I’m very happy with the result.

I’ve love to hear your comments. If you are a parent or a teacher, did you find the information helpful? And if you are autistic, how do you remember your own school experiences?

—

For those with visual difficulties, and for others who prefer reading text, here is a transcript of the video, slightly edited to remove references to the photographs in it:

Autism in the Classroom: Personal Reflections
A Presentation by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg

The Lewis School
Valparaiso, Florida
May 5, 2011

My name is Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg.

I’m a 52-year-old wife, mother, writer, and artist with Asperger’s Syndrome. I was diagnosed at 50. I’m married to a wonderful man named Bob, and I have a beautiful daughter named Ashlynne.

In order to give you some insight into what your autistic students might need in the classroom, I’d like to share my memories of my years in elementary school.

I was raised in Brookline, Massachusetts. I attended the Edith C. Baker School, a public elementary school, from the second grade through the eighth grade.

I had symptoms of autism, but no one picked up on them.

As a child, I was extremely sensitive to sensory stimuli, especially sound, and I felt the emotions of the people around me acutely.

Fascination and alarm: Those two words describe the nature of most of my responses to the physical and emotional world throughout my childhood.

I did not speak a word until I was 2 1/2, but I could read when I was three years old. I taught myself.

As a child, I had great difficulty making eye contact. Even now, when I look into a person’s eyes, I have such a profound experience of the person that I feel his or her soul coming directly at me. When I was a child, looking into the eyes of another person was an overwhelming experience.

My small, very conservative school gave me the structure to indulge my fascination with the world while protecting me from the kinds of experiences that inflamed my anxiety.

At school, we had many, many rules, and they governed nearly every aspect of the school day. We had rules for how to enter the cafeteria, with whom to sit, and at which table. We had rules for how to form a line and use the proper side of the stairway. We had rules for what constituted proper school attire.

The rules created a predictable, structured environment in which I could thrive.

My school environment was very spare and quiet. We did not have all the visual and auditory distractions of today’s world — no iPods, no computers, no cell phones. All of our learning was text-based. For me, it was the perfect environment.

My teachers demanded respect from all of us. And they did an excellent job of returning it. But they were not my friends. They were better than friends. They were allies. The vast majority were kind, patient, and supportive.

My teachers created an environment in which I developed faith in myself. I could never have achieved so much without this solid basis.

As you work with your students, please keep in mind that autism is not intrinsically a condition of deficit, but of overabundance — an overabundance of sensitivity to sensory and emotional phenomena.

I spend every day living with an experience laden with perception. I hear everything very clearly, with very little filtering. My eyes are constantly taking in the visual world, in every detail: color, texture, pattern, and motion.

The intensity and acuity of autistic perception causes many of the behaviors that can be so perplexing to non-autistic people. Stimming is a way to calm our nervous systems, and it serves to block an abundance of input by creating an abundance of output. Concentrating on visual or auditory patterns allows us to bring some measure of control to our perceptions of an overstimulating world.

Living with this level of intense perception is a great deal of work. Please know that your autistic students are working very hard, all the time, to filter and process sensory and emotional information.

It may not look as though they are working hard. Please look beyond what you see to what lies beneath the surface. When you do, you will go a long way toward helping your students succeed.

Thank you so much for taking the time to watch this presentation. Please feel free to contact me through my blog, Journeys with Autism (www.journeyswithautism.com),with any questions you might have.

© 2011 by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg

I used to work full-time and homeschool (yes, on the same days!), and I kept up with all of my commitments quite well. I never had a problem designing our curriculum or articulating our educational goals. I always got all of the materials to the school district early. We consistently finished our curriculum well in advance of the end of the school year, and I always got my daughter to her lessons on time. At work, I never missed a deadline, I was never late for a meeting, and I was always known as someone who kept all my tasks well planned and well organized. Through all the demands of working, schooling, and mothering, I was never late on a mortgage payment or any other bill.

Take any portion of my life, and it comes out looking much the same. Even when I was working minimum wage, and living in a state of extreme sensory overload, and spending much of my time dazed and confused, I always paid my rent on time, got to my appointments early, and made sure my bills were paid well in advance of their due dates. In my whole life, I’ve only bounced one check, and that happened about thirty years ago.

And yet, when I consider cooking a meal with more than one course, I feel paralyzed. I’m perfectly capable of making a main dish and boiling up some rice or quinoa to go with it, but I’ve never considered trying to make a multi-course meal in which everything has to come out of the oven and off the stove at the same time. Of course, I have no interest in cooking a multi-course meal, because it’s best for my health when I eat simply, but just thinking about it feels like a monumental task. Every time I do, I feel like I’m asking myself to move an object twice my weight up a steep hill. My immediate thought is, “Nah. Never mind that.” And then I think about something more pleasant.

For a while now, I’ve been wondering why I’ve always been able to sequence important tasks in time—like bill paying, and tax deadlines, and arriving at work in the morning—but I’m unable to sequence the tasks for something less important, like a multi-course meal. And then, finally, it came to me: I can sequence tasks in time when I make them visual. Then, they’re no longer just tasks in time. They’re actually objects in space, and I can organize objects in space like nobody’s business.

I have three main ways that I turn the things of time into the things of space:

1. Lists. Lists, lists, lists. Not too many lists, because that gets overwhelming, but enough lists so that I can keep my tasks separate and manageable. So, for example, at the moment, I have the following lists that I keep updated:

• The tasks I need to complete as the ASAN-VT chapter leader.
• The letters of recommendation and transcripts I need for the master’s program I’m applying to. (Yes! I’m applying to a master’s program! Don’t ask me too much about it yet. I’ll say more when I’ve actually gotten the decision letter.)
• The books I’ve sold.
• My sensory diet.
• Basic daily tasks. (Most of these tasks I do out of habit, instinct, muscle memory, what-have-you, but I keep a list just in case my routine gets thrown off, and I need to reassure myself that I haven’t forgotten anything.)
• The tasks I need to complete over the course of a week (household chores, bills, lessons, and so on). Most of these tasks are intuitive at this point, but I keep a list so that I have an anchor if something gets thrown off.
• Bills to be paid.
• Bank, credit card, and other accounts.
• Food we need to buy at the grocery store.
• The things I need to pack when I go to New York City.
• The art projects I want to do.
• Miscellaneous tasks that come to mind when I’m doing something else. I keep a “scribble list” for these kinds of tasks.

2. My appointment book.

Oh, sacred appointment book! Where would I be without you?

Excuse me for talking to my appointment book as though it were a god. I know that I shouldn’t be quite so in awe of it, but I am. I’m in awe of the fact that I can hold an entire year’s worth of time in my hands, and open up to the middle of it, whenever I want, without becoming disoriented. In my appointment book, I write down, well, appointments, but also soccer games, school events, tax payments, special errands, and any chores that don’t happen on a daily or weekly basis.

3. Leaving things where I can see them. My mantra is If my eyes can see it, I will remember it.

When a bill comes in the mail, I put it right at my place at the kitchen table, where I can’t miss it, and then I pay it within a day. If I have to hold a bill for more than a day, I put it in a basket that I use for the purpose, and then I write down in my appointment book exactly when I’m going to pay the bill.

If I have a book, or an item of clothing, or a DVD that I want to give to someone, I put it out where I can see it, and I write a reminder in my appointment book to give it to the person.

In order to remember to take my herbs and vitamins, I put them in a small pouch and leave it on my chair at the dinner table. That way, in order to sit down to eat, I have to pick up the pouch, and then I remember to take what’s in it. I do the same sort of thing with my nighttime herbs and medicine: I put them on a shelf where I’m sure to see them.

So how did I figure out all of this stuff? Well, I’m very fortunate in that I love to organize things, large and small. Organizing soothes me and gives me a sense of accomplishment, two things that I’ve needed from the time I was small.

And then, of course, I grew up before there was a diagnosis, and like many of us, found myself out on the open sea without a compass. So, I invented the best compass I could, and I wrote myself a guidebook, and I came up with a host of very good ideas about how to navigate. Many of us did. We’re the ones my fellow blogger Lili Marlene calls “The Last of the Wild Autistics.” It’s a title I wear with pride.

And finally, growing up in a virtual madhouse violent and dysfunctional family meant that I could either chart my own course or go down with the ship. Early on, I looked at my parents and thought, “These people are chaos. I’d better get myself organized.” And I did. Such are the blessings that one brings out of disaster.

So about that multi-course meal? Yeah, I could make one, but only if I sat back for awhile and wrote everything down, and figured out when I needed to start making each course, and what time I needed to put each course in the oven/on the boil/in the saucepan, and what time I needed to take each course out of the oven/off the stove/out of the saucepan, and which area of preparation I needed to interrupt in order to begin (or resume) another area of preparation, and so on, and so on, and so on, until everything was written down in five-minute intervals, and I had mapped out each and every step in detail.

But when it comes to actually doing it? Nah. Never mind that.

© 2010 by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg

A mild hearing loss in my right ear
A moderate hearing loss in my left ear
Tinnitus
Auditory processing disorder

I hadn’t been aware of the hearing loss, so I wonder whether it’s really a “loss,” or whether I’ve always heard that way. I also wasn’t aware that the intermittent, high-pitched sound in my head was tinnitus; I’ve experienced that sound, on and off, all my life. Of course, the interesting auditory processing system I carry around was not news to me, although it was fun to have it show up in an audiology report instead of constantly having to convince people to take my word for it.

But that’s the medical point of view. From my internal point of view, the assessment showed me, in new and interesting ways, just how much I rely upon my visual sense to translate sound, and just how much I need to advocate for myself as a visual hearer.

The audiologist gave me several hearing tests, all of which took place in a sound-proof booth. (Heaven!) After I told her that my experience of sound is acute, she adjusted the volume for each test so that the sound would not be aversive. For the first test, in order to get a baseline for what I could actually hear, she simply gave me a series of words to repeat. Then, things got really interesting.

Binaural Interaction
The binaural interaction test measures word recognition in noise. The audiologist played a series of words spoken in the midst of noise—noise that I can only describe as a combination of static and the sound of an airplane flying somewhere in the vicinity of your house. Not fun. In my left ear, I could recognize 80% of the words, which rates somewhere in the middle of Good; in my right ear, I could recognize only 68%, which lies at the border of Poor. (Poor is below 68%.) What’s interesting to me is that I could distinguish sound better out of my left ear, in which I have less hearing, than in my right ear. It’s possible that hearing less allows me to filter out sound a little better. I’m not sure. At any rate, during the assessment, the only way for me to distinguish the words from the noise was to see them as spelled words and hold them in my memory. Each time, my repetition of the word was delayed because I had to work quickly past being overwhelmed, somehow fish the word out of the noise, hold it in my mind, look at it, and read it out loud.

Binaural Integration
The binaural integration test measures how well the subject can hear out of both ears simultaneously. The audiologist played a series of four numbers: two in one ear, and two in the other. I had to repeat the numbers to her. I got very anxious at the prospect of having to decode competing sounds, but I did surprisingly well on this test: 90% in my left ear and 92.5% in my right ear. However, the high scores are deceiving, because the process was not in the least intuitive. I kept my eyes closed, I listened very hard, I memorized what I heard, I visually lined up the images of the numbers in my mind’s eye, and then I spoke them. I did lots and lots of work, which resulted in lots and lots of delay. It’s a good thing I’ve developed lots and lots of patience.

Auditory Closure
The auditory closure test measures how well the subject can hear words spoken very quickly. Yikes. For most of the test, I was guessing. Sometimes, I simply couldn’t hear a thing; I’d just throw up my hands and shake my head. When all was (very quickly!) said and done, I scored 48% in my left ear and 52% in my right ear. On the overview from the audiologist, those numbers don’t even show up in the range of possible results. In the understatement of the year, the report notes that I am “presenting below normal limits in this area of processing.”

This test was very difficult because I couldn’t hear the words clearly enough to form a picture in my mind. I’m unable to hear soft consonant sounds like “p” or “th”; they’re at a frequency that my ears don’t pick up. (Later in the assessment, the audiologist ran a test that showed that the cilia in my left ear, which should be picking up these frequencies, are inactive. I believe she referred to them as “dead.”) Any sound at this frequency drops out at the end of a word. When words come at me slowly, I can usually run through the list of possible meanings in my mind’s eye, but when the words come at me quickly, the sense of the sound fading away is especially acute, and my ability to see the words in my mind breaks down. For instance, for the word stop, I was hearing sto-. For all I knew, the word could have been stop, stock, or stall. When I couldn’t see the word in my mind, I became very frustrated with the process, which probably accounts for why I become overwhelmed when people around me are talking too quickly.

Auditory Patterning
The auditory patterning test measures how well the subject can hear and replicate relative pitch. The audiologist played a series of three sounds, and asked me to tell her whether the pattern was “low-low-high,” “high-high-low,” and so on. I took this test twice. The first time, I used my hand to replicate each sound. If the pattern was “low-low-high,” I moved my hand twice on the same plane before moving it up once. By doing this, I was able to see the sound visually and give the answer. When the test was over, I told the audiologist about the method I’d used, and she said, “Okay. We’re going to do the test again. This time, sit on your hands!”

I tried not to panic. She played the sounds again. This time, I saw the sounds in my mind as colored dots: pink for low and red for high. Apparently, this is a form of synaesthesia, something I don’t remember having experienced before. Since I’ve long had synaesthesia-envy, this was very cool.

Using my visual strategies, I scored 100%, in each ear, on both tests. After all, ordering things into patterns will be the last of my faculties to go.

Recommendations for Self-Advocacy
The audiology report lists recommendations for how to walk through the world and self advocate with my way of hearing:

1. During communication, decrease background noise (such as scraping chairs, running water, fans, and talking).

2. If instructions or directions are given verbally, check in with the person providing them to make sure that I’ve understood what has been said, particularly if no written instructions are available.

3. Request written information to supplement any auditory information. For example, when making an appointment with a doctor, request a card with the date and time.

4. As often as possible, ask that others present information sequentially, especially if more than one person is providing the information. For example, instead of “Before you watch TV, can you walk the dog and take out the trash?” ask others to say, “Can you walk the dog, take out the trash, and then sit down to watch TV?”

5. Ask if I do not understand or if I have missed something. It is important to be as open as possible about communication so that when breakdowns occur, they do not result in anxiety, frustration, and anger.

6. Repeat what I have heard to clarify that I have understood. If I have heard part of the message but not the whole, I need to repeat the information I did hear while asking for clarification of the information I missed. For example, if someone says, “The elephant is sitting on the sofa in the livingroom,” and I heard the part about the elephant, I need to say, “The elephant is sitting where?” If I heard only the part about the sofa in the livingroom, I can say, “What did you say about the sofa in the livingroom?”

I find it a challenge to put these kinds of recommendations into play, but I am making progress. It’s really just a question of inertia. I’ve spent so many years covering up my difficulties and guessing at what people are saying that it’s an adjustment to switch to words like, “I don’t know. Could you clarify?” But it’s been an immense relief to find out that my difficulties are due to differences in the way I hear sound, rather than absent-mindedness, or lack of intelligence, or just plain not caring (all false explanations with which I’ve bludgeoned myself over the years). It’s not a question of attention, intelligence, or love. It’s that I hear sound visually. It’s a simple difference. It’s much easier to ask for help with a difference than with a moral failing. At least, it is for me.

It’s now clear why I’ve been a writer since I first learned to hold a pencil. I’ve spent most of my life struggling to decode sound and render it into words. It’s only in the past year and a half, since I’ve allowed myself to block my hearing, that I’ve realized that my pure visual sense is extremely acute. Because I now don’t need to decode sound constantly and to the exclusion of all else, I can notice what my other senses are doing. There are days in which I can’t even think about putting something into writing. I’m too involved with the pure fascination of the visual world and with rendering it in drawings, paintings, photographs, and other kinds of art.

But I’ll never lose my attachment to the written word. In the world of sound, it’s my anchor.

© 2010 by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg

In the course of reading the book, I’ve learned that I think in visuals far more than I’d realized. Sometimes, the visuals are clear pictures, and sometimes, they consist of outlines, textures, or colors that represent ideas and feelings. Because I’ve never been any good at representational art, I’ve never considered myself a visual thinker, but it’s clear now that I am most comfortable when I’m thinking visually and associatively, rather than verbally and linearly. I’m coming to this realization rather late, I think, because I grew up in two excessively verbal and vocal cultures—American culture and Jewish culture—and I learned to navigate so well in words that I couldn’t see the process behind the words until now.

As you’ve probably noticed, I’ve been writing about one post a week. I still love writing, but I’ve found that I need to balance my identity as a writer with living in the world of the visual. So, I’ve been immersing myself in a number of art projects and finding out just how much I love color, shapes (especially helixes), and the process of putting something together that wasn’t there before. In this post, I want to share what I’ve been doing—both over the course of the last year and at the present time.

I love making wind chimes, and in the spring, I made two wind chimes from parts that I “borrowed” from an old plastic xylophone.  (The plastic part of the xylophone became a lobelia planter for the garden.) Here are the wind chimes, one made from warm colors…

…and the other made from cool colors:

More recently, I’ve made two pieces of art from the contents of an old, broken digital camera and printer dock, along with some springs and beads I picked up at the thrift store:

I’ve also been delving into sewing and quilting. First, I created a new backpack from the remains of a skirt I made last year. I love the deep blue, teal, and purple of the Guatemalan fabric, and I fashioned the backpack so that the pull straps close the top of the pack when you put it on:

Then, I started working on a quilted wall hanging made of fabric from clothing and other items that were wearing out. While I was in the process of cutting the material, I decided to make a potholder from the scraps. It’s unusual that I make anything unplanned and asymmetrical, but I had a good time patching the potholder together and finding out what would happen. I like the result very much:

I still need to sew the backing onto the wall hanging. When it’s done, I’ll post a photo of it.

© 2009 by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg

First things first, though: My ASL class, as it turns out, is not as quiet as I thought it would be. While the course syllabus says that there is no talking upon entering the classroom, people are still talking before class. When I asked the teacher for clarification, she said that she doesn’t feel she can ask people not to talk when they don’t know enough ASL to otherwise communicate. I was hoping that they could just be quiet and have the experience of how it feels to have to adapt, but alas, another of my great ideas is just…well, another of my great ideas. Anyway, with my earplugs and headset on, I can still hear people’s voices. I can’t hear words, but I can hear what sounds like undifferentiated noise, and it wears me out before the class even starts. Were I to show up right at the beginning of class, however, it wouldn’t make much of a difference. The teacher jokes around a lot, so there’s a lot of laughter, and it’s quite distracting. Most of the time, I feel exactly as I do in the rest of the world: I wonder why everyone else is making noise when I’m trying so hard to concentrate.

But the problem isn’t just sound. It’s the fact that being in a room full of people is very disorienting. Even if the room were silent for two hours, I’d have all the visuals of people moving around, using their hands, gesturing in nonverbal ways, expressing things with their faces, and thereby distracting the living hell out of me. In the class, I have to focus very hard just to communicate and respond to the simplest signs in the language—signs that I can easily use and understand when I’m watching my ASL DVD, or showing Bob or Ashlynne what I’m learning. I need more structure, more quiet, and fewer people in order to learn and to use what I’m learning.

Unfortunately, the class feels very unstructured and chaotic to me. The description says that we’re supposed to be learning Units 1 through 6 of the book we got, but we’re already three classes into a 12-week course and we’re not even all the way through Unit 1. When I asked the teacher about the homework after the second day of class, she said that she doesn’t give homework, and that we should just study the material in the book on our own. Then, when I asked whether we could use signs in class that we’ve learned from the book, she said no, because not everyone will have learned the same signs. She only wants us to use the signs that she’s taught us in the class so that we can all learn them together. 

I understand what she’s trying to accomplish, but my brain doesn’t work that way. I have to learn things outside of class in order to really understand how to do them; I can’t just pick them up from watching her once a week and remember them when I get home. There is far too much in my visual field for me to be able to discern what I’m supposed to remember. And of course, once I get back to class, I can’t remember what signs she’s taught and what signs I’ve learned from the book.

And then there’s my moderate dyspraxia. I have a lot of trouble watching, imitating, and sequencing moving visuals, and ASL is one long series of complex visuals. While it’s a beautiful language, and I love learning it, I’m also finding it very challenging. When visuals are static, I can focus on them to my heart’s content and see all kinds of patterns and colors. When visuals are moving, it’s very difficult. I can get there, but it takes time and work. I’m willing to put in the time and work, but I need a different learning environment. The present one isn’t working for me.

I finally understand why Aspie kids need IEPs and one-on-one aides. I need educational supports at 51 that just aren’t there in a regular classroom. I’ve emailed my contact at the school about finding some other way to learn and practice ASL. Perhaps someone would be willing to tutor me? I don’t know. Wish me luck!

© 2009 by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg

I have read posts by other Aspies who say that they can see a person’s nonverbal signals all at once, but that they can’t understand the signals until later. These folks can replay interactions in their minds in order to view the nonverbals individually and interpret them. I envy Aspies who have this ability. When I’m interacting with a person, I don’t see any nonverbal signals of which I’m aware, so understanding these signals later is out of the question.

In last week’s ASL class, I began to get a hint of what might be the source of the problem. I was blocking out sound almost entirely, so I could not make out any words for the entire two hours. Because people were allowed to speak in the first two classes, some of them were taking the opportunity to ask a lot of questions. I couldn’t hear the questions, but my virtual deafness allowed me to observe people without any auditory distraction. All at once, I noticed that I was watching how one of my classmates used her hands and her facial muscles when asking a question. The inclination to watch felt intuitive, but my interpretation was on a wholly conscious level. I thought, “She’s moving her hands in such a way as to appear authoritative about what she’s saying. Her face gives me the feeling that she takes the subject matter of the question very seriously.”

I have no idea whether my interpretation was correct, but based on my previous interaction with the person, it was (at the very least) a good guess.

So, I got to thinking: Have I failed to see nonverbal signals all my life because I’ve been so distracted and overwhelmed by sound? As compelling as the visual world is to me, the auditory world commands my attention. Whether I’m listening to someone use a hammer, whisper in a movie theatre, or talk in a large group, my response is always the same: I can’t help but hear it, and I can’t help but be overstimulated and overtaken by it. It’s entirely possible that I’m not interpreting the nonverbals because my ears have been using up too much of my attention. Besides, because I’m always a click or two behind in a conversation, I’m spending so much time parsing the words that I haven’t got time for the nonverbals. And once I parse the words, the nonverbals that went along with them are already gone.

It’s also possible that my visual and auditory systems function in analogous ways. Just as I can hear everything very clearly, but can’t prioritize, filter, or interpret competing sounds, so I might also be seeing all the nonverbal signals very clearly, but can’t parse, separate, or interpret what’s right in front of me. When I walk into a large, noisy social gathering, I hear very little except pure, undifferentiated sound, and I overload immediately. Perhaps each person has the same effect on me visually: all the nonverbal signals get piled on top of one another until I see nothing except undifferentiated gestures and facial expressions whose cumulative impact is quite pronounced. After all, a face-to-face conversation can be an extremely intense experience for me. Perhaps I avert my eyes because I’m actually overloading on nonverbals.

If taking in undifferentiated sound has an impact, taking in undifferentiated nonverbals must have an impact as well. With sound, the result is auditory overload; with nonverbals, it seems to be empathic overload. Although I can’t parse the nonverbals, I have a very powerful experience of almost every person with whom I come into contact. I can feel the person’s mood and emotion. It’s a wonderful ability to have in a scary situation, but it’s very distracting when I’m just trying to go grocery shopping.

Some people would call this kind of intuition a sixth sense, and perhaps it is. In any case, I seem to have exquisitely acute senses that bring me information in ways that I don’t always consciously understand.

© 2009 by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg

I’ve planted another garden to the left of the one in the picture, but it’s not quite finished yet.

When I’m not digging up our entire lawn and planting things, I sometimes turn my attention to art. Here is a project that I just finished: a shadow box!

 
This project was so much fun. I worked on it when my mind was too full of words and I needed a different kind of concentration.

I bought the shadow box years ago, when my daughter was small, and it had been sitting in the attic unused. So, I decided to create “The House of the Worry Dolls.” The dolls are kind enough to hold many of my worries. At least, that’s what it says on the little piece of paper that came with them. If you look carefully, you can see a doll in each of seven rooms. (One of the dolls is in a tiny coffee mug.)

Each room gets its own hanging mobile or lamp. The origami crane at the top of the house came courtesy of my daughter; years ago, when we were homeschooling in a cafe, she made the crane out of a used teabag packet. The thermostat is from our old heating system, the two cats used to be earrings, and I found the orange Matchbox car out in the garden when I was digging up the grass.

And finally, here are some recent photos of my daughter Ashlynne. As you can see, she jumps for joy at the beginning of spring…

She hasn’t forgotten her powerful karate kicks…

 
And she has a style all her own!

Occasionally, she will even sit on a couch in the middle of the street:

Why? Because she’s resting. She’s been working hard. At what, you ask? At carrying the couch several blocks with her friend, of course! A neighbor had put the couch outside to be taken away for free, and Ash and her friend decided to carry it home. When they showed up with it, I told them to just leave it on the porch, and Bob and I would help them carry it up the stairs to Ash’s room. But they were on a roll. They brought the couch all the way upstairs as well.

Girl power!

© 2009 by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg