I forget that I’m sort of on the autism spectrum
until I walk into a room full of activity
with a job to do,
and I’m overwhelmed.
It’s my turn to make dinner:
pizza and salad for twenty family members in a foreign kitchen.
I take in only half of what’s being said,
put my veggies in someone’s workspace
causing my sous-chef some angst.
All the centering prayer, retreats and spiritual direction
don’t save me.
And I call myself a contemplative.
Sheesh!
After three or four long minutes,
I ask an eager helper to set the table,
give another some peppers to chop
and begin slicing mushrooms.
We work, cutting boards, bodies, side by side.
I say the wrong thing,
can’t really listen
but I know that
and so does she, I hope.
An innocent, complicated question perplexes me.
I don’t know.
Then another
followed by another I don’t know
And then…wait… I do
and give direction.
Waves of anxiety rise and fall
until
six pizzas are baking.
Soon their aroma draws attention.
Young dads hover.
Wine and accolades flow.
Once our master pieces are sliced and served,
I give my relieved sous-chef a high-five.
Despite one burnt but still edible crust,
the meal is delicious.
I take a sip of my wine, a Syrah from the Naramata Bench,
let my senses return,
and along comes a thought.
Although I couldn’t stop from being stressed,
I was kind to myself.
That’s something
a contemplative would do.
Be compassionate to yourself just as your Father is compassionate to you.
–Luke 6:36 (CEB), adapted
An Everyday Pilgrim 