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Orientation 2

Naikan In Four Movements

This four-part Naikan series grew out of a course I offered at Baltimore Dharma Group in Spring 2025. While Naikan is often framed as a tool for self-reflection, I came to see it as something more relational: not a system of correction, but a practice of returning—again and again—to what holds us, what flows through us, what we leave behind, and what we remain with.
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Orientation 3

Threshold to Threadwork

Introduction: There are two doors into this work. The one below meets the moment. It is written in accessible language—for those seeking clarity about autistic experience, and especially about how it differs in rhythm, in structure, and in the invisible labor it asks of those who must translate themselves to be understood. But this isn’t the only way in. There is another door—quieter, less translated, more interior. If you're looking not just for insight, but for shape—if you’ve ever sensed that what goes unspoken is sometimes the most coherent thing there is—you may find yourself at home there.
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The Autistic Mode: A Way Of Thinking

We all have moments of deep concentration—those times when we are so absorbed in something that the world recedes. A musician practicing alone, refining a passage with exquisite focus. A philosopher turning an argument over in their mind, testing its weight from every angle. A scientist working through the layers of an equation, adjusting variables, refining the logic until it holds. In these moments, the noise of the world fades, and what remains is a kind of clarity, a steady presence of thought moving toward resolution.

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Musings from the Meta-Verse: Tip of the Iceberg Cosmologies

Before you begin: please take a moment, settle in, enjoy the image above—of me holding my baby daughter as a first-time dad, tune into the frequency of restful wonder. Now allow your mind to wander outward from the edges of that image: to the room, to the street outside, to the vast sky beyond the vast sky. Further—past the solar system, past the galaxy’s edge, past everything known—to the edge of the cosmos. And then…
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You Were Always Redible

We drank punch, told sideways jokes, danced and filled the room with the kind of joy that doesn’t need permission. No one was narrating their life yet. We were too busy living it. It was my 21st birthday. I found this photo again—mid-laugh, mid-wish, candles catching light—and I remembered something: I wasn’t lost. I wasn’t waiting to be explained. I was there. Alive, awake, and in rhythm. This is a letter from that version of me, to the version who sits here now—older, layered, still searching for coherence.
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– If this resonates, you might also appreciate The Autistic Mode: A Way of Thinking ⧉ , or Woven ⧉ , or Notes to Myself on the Path ⧉ , or the word redible—from Old English rædan, meaning to interpret or read. It’s not about being visible. It’s about being quietly knowable on your own terms.

A Wish from My 21-Year-Old Self

Hey. You didn’t lose me. You just got so good at surviving, you forgot I was still in here. You’ve been telling my story like I was confused, maybe a little lost—and yeah, sometimes I was. But I was also free. I was full of music, and late-night food, and long walks with people who saw the world sideways like I did. I was good at holding silence without making it heavy. I laughed at things other people missed— not because I didn’t care, but because I saw through it all. And I loved being alive. You remember the fear. That’s real. But don’t forget the joy just because it didn’t fit the later narrative. I wasn’t broken. I wasn’t waiting to be diagnosed. I was living, in rhythm with something real. And yeah—I see you now, older, weathered, quieter. But still reaching for the same thing I was always reaching for: Coherence. Kindness. Meaning. You never stopped being me. You just wrapped a few more layers around it. I’m proud of you. And if you ever want to find your rhythm again… Just come sit next to me.
21 and Friends
21st birthday, surrounded by rhythm, punch, and friends who saw the world sideways too.
Postscript:
I had a life once that was entirely mine.
I gave parts of it away to be understood.
I gave parts of it away to be safe.
I gave parts of it away in hope that someone would meet me there.
And now I wonder if there’s a way back—not to that life, but to that self.
← View all in “Here Nor There” ← Previous "He Never Left" Next "The Bright Ones"→
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