Preface
This piece is a companion to
Mistaking the Third Arm for a Tool ⧉ . Where that essay names the structural differences between autistic and neurotypical modes of social connection, this one enters the daily space of marriage — where those differences are not ideas, but conditions of life.
It does not explain. It does not argue. It simply moves as I move — through rhythm I can’t hear, and gestures I must translate without knowing if I’ve been understood.
There are moments when the thread drops and no repair comes. I don’t force clarity from the interaction itself. Instead, I return coherence to myself.
This moment mattered.
I reached. It was not met.
The thread remains in me, even if it cannot be held between us.
Sometimes, connection resumes — phatically, impulsively, incompletely. I meet it with presence, but I do not forget the cost.
I accept this as a gesture of return, not of repair.
This too is part of the price I pay to stay.
And when I am alone again:
The thread is mine now. I name it, even if no one else does.
This is not silence. This is holding.
Living with the Dancer is what that holding looks like.
It is how I honor my internal coherence in the absence of shared rhythm.
It is how I continue — to love, to stay, to write.
And if there is a point I want to make about a full life, it is this:
That fullness arises from the aspiration to — in a phrase given by my teacher, Dai-En Bennage Roshi — "pay full price to the universe."
~ 1 ~
Living Close To The Dancer
This difference is not abstract for me. I live alongside someone for whom rhythm is not just familiar — it’s relieving. She doesn’t merely speak the language of tempo; it’s how her nervous system co-regulates. And I don’t blame her. For neurotypicals, rhythm is how safety is known.
But in our shared life, the friction arises not just in moments of miscommunication, but in the
unseen asymmetry of labor. When I offer presence, it often doesn’t register. When she offers rhythm, it can feel to me like performance. We reach — but our reaches don’t always meet.
In our marriage, I am constantly calculating how much to simulate. How much to offer in her currency — nods, affirmations, casual remarks — so that she feels met. And I do it willingly, because I love her. But sometimes, I am depleted before we even begin. Not because she is unkind or unknowing. But because she
doesn’t feel the weight I’m carrying just to appear near.
And perhaps she feels her own kind of loneliness. The absence of reflexive mirroring. The silence where a laugh or “I know, right?” might land. What feels like attunement to me might feel like withdrawal to her. What calms me might unsettle her. This is the quiet chasm — not of care, but of calibration.
And when I think of how I might try to cross it — to confirm the logic of the moment — it’s possible that I am destroying the very connection I want to affirm. By trying to clarify
“did this mean that?” the question itself breaks the rhythm, because what she offered may have been a momentary gesture, inspired by some feeling in the moment rather than felt coherence — not anchored in thought but rising like a soap bubble. Whole, delicate, brief. When I reach to steady it, to understand it, it bursts. My need for clarity interrupts her rhythm, not out of force, but by nature. Not because I’m wrong to ask. But because her connection was
already complete in the offering, not in its confirmation.
So I’ve learned to choose silence and remain in my state of unmoored ambiguity, despite sensing she is at ease in some clarity I don’t share.
We both feel the cost of this difference. But we don’t bear it equally.
And here is one form that asymmetry takes: I am often the one who unintentionally initiates a rupture — by acting from care that isn't recognized as such — and then also the one who must repair it. Not just by apologizing, but by stepping back, softening the field, and restoring balance. This happens in different ways with my wife and my daughters. But in all cases, the return to ease comes more naturally to them. I remain metabolizing what was never seen: that the rupture was not caused by neglect, but by misalignment of meaning. And that the repair came entirely from my side.
This is not just about moments of discord. It reflects a larger rhythm that surrounds me. The phatic current that sustains her — the spontaneous laughter, the shorthand warmth, the casual syncing — flows easily with our daughters, who, now, as teenagers, are fully fluent in the phatic dance. It’s alive in the house, surrounding her. It nourishes her without effort.
But the rhythm I need —
coherence, presence, and recognition rather than fluidity and mirroring — has no natural current here. Unless I create it, it doesn’t exist. And when I do create it, it is often unnoticed, or misread as pressure, or simply not returned.
She does hold some threads — but not in the way I do.
She holds:
• The assumption that “we’re okay,” unless told otherwise.
• The belief that “we love each other,” as a background constant.
• The rhythm of showing up at the right moments, with the logic of “I’m here now, with good energy — so things must be okay,” untethered from what preceded or what will follow.
But these are not threads in my sense.
They are
patterns of relational presence, not
co-thread-holding.
They are
propositions, not
continuities — held in place by rhythm, not by return.
They do not seek anchoring. They do not complete the arc.
And if I reach to confirm them, they vanish, as if never meant to be held at all.
But this difference is not benign. In daily life, it means that even when I try to care for myself gently, it can land as betrayal —
not because I’ve withdrawn love, but because I’ve broken rhythm.
One afternoon, she asked if it was okay to eat her food beside me at the living room table. I said yes — because in that moment, it truly was. But as time passed, the smell of balsamic vinegar began to overwhelm me. I named it quietly, hoping for understanding. She responded evenly at first —
“I don’t like the smell of some of your food either” — but when I finally said I needed to move, she left in anger:
“You said I could sit here, and now you’re going back on your word.” For her, rhythm had already stabilized. My initial “yes” had sealed the moment, and breaking from it felt like reversal. But I hadn’t withdrawn care — I had simply followed my internal state as it changed. What I’ve written elsewhere is true here, too: in neurotypical rhythm, even gestures of self-awareness can be morally reframed.
A truth spoken outside the flow isn’t read as presence — it’s read as a refusal to stay in step.
And so, in trying to name what was real for me, I am cast as unreliable. The pain isn’t just in the misunderstanding. It’s in the sense that my coherence — my way of staying present — can be mistaken for cruelty. Over time, these moments leave me questioning whether my way of being is welcome at all.
1
I, too, hold threads. But mine are not patterns — they are commitments to meaning across time.
When I say ‘thread,’ I don’t mean memory or sentiment. I mean a line of coherence — something named, offered, or shared that continues to live in me as real, even when no one else holds it. I carry these forward not to dwell in the past, but to preserve meaning across time.
I hold:
• The moment something real was named.
Sometimes I act from memory — not to control, but to preserve coherence. My daughter had once expressed uncertainty about her summer program placement, and as the deadline approached, I quietly followed up with the program to make sure she had the clarity she needed. But she was frustrated. To her, my reaching out felt like interference in something she had already settled. What I hadn’t registered was that, in her mind, the responsibility for this step had already shifted to her — even if it hadn’t been explicitly said.
I hold threads with fidelity, and I need to be told it’s okay to release one — but even then, it’s hard. In my architecture of meaning, no thread exists in isolation. Letting go of one can begin to unravel the quiet coherence I’ve been protecting. I apologized — not to retract the gesture, but because it arrived after her arc had closed and unsettled her.
In a sense, I apologized
for missing a rhythm I couldn’t hear; and in the structural silence it left, I couldn’t enter — much less sustain — it, even if I wanted to. What she needed most was autonomy in the present. What I was holding was continuity from the past. And this, too, is part of the difference: I tend to protect meaning as it unfolds across time, while others often privilege what is current. Neither is wrong. But they rarely meet in the moment.
I hold:
• The tone in which it was said.
• The quiet expectation that what was offered would come back, not drift away.
And when I say hold, I mean years — decades, even. Not out of rigidity, but because that’s how meaning lives in me.
Time, for me, is less a line than a topology — folded, synesthetic, sometimes even tactile — where chronology dissolves and moments appear not as sequence, but as parts of a whole.
For me thread-holding isn't a burden — it's coherence.
It is my natural mode of remaining in relationship with what's real.
It is how I remain in the world.
But here,
in the dominant relational rhythm or our household, it is a solitary act.
No one is criticizing me for holding threads.
Instead what seems vivid and alive to me is simply unseen to others.
She doesn’t withhold love; she offers it in the way that makes sense to her — in rhythms, not arcs. I see that. Even when it doesn’t reach me.
This is not hypothetical. These moments happen quietly, almost daily. A message sent, seen, and left without reply — perhaps because I inadvertently signaled what, in phatic communication, is read as closure. Something like
“no pressure” or
“whenever feels right to you” — meant as space-giving, but heard as an ending. Not out of malice. Not even out of neglect. Just... not registered. And yet, I’m still the one who must metabolize the silence.
What does it mean to love someone who dances by instinct when you move by map?
I don’t have a neat answer. Some evenings, I stay nearby while the dance plays in the background — not because I’ve learned to dance, but because I want to stay close. And I try. I send signals I’ve practiced. I echo the rhythm where I can. I adapt, and I hope. But it’s never certain.
Living this way means acting inside a rhythm I can’t hear —
where every gesture I make is a guess, and whether I’m seen or not feels like a coin toss.
And yet, there are moments when I don’t hesitate. Not because I expect to be understood, but because the invitation was made — and I respond.
Even knowing the odds, I respond. Not from timing, but from coherence. I don’t wait for the nod or the beat or the synchronized momentum of shared tempo. That’s not how my system works. I enter when the shape is clear enough for me to move. Like in my theater work in rehearsal, when no one steps forward and I do — not to perform, not to lead, but because I can feel that it’s time, and I don’t need to wait for the social tide to pull me in. It’s not boldness. It’s not defiance. It’s just my rhythm. The rhythm that doesn’t defer, doesn’t circle, doesn’t anticipate consensus. I’m not building a bridge. I’m just answering the world in the way I know how — with what’s real, and mine to give.
~ 2 ~
What You Don't See Holds Weight
If you find yourself thinking “but this was just a miscommunication,” I ask you to pause. For me, what breaks is not the message — it’s the meaning.
2 Not the surface, but the structure. If I could experience these moments as miscommunications, I would. It would be easier. But I experience them as dislocations — existential, not rhetorical.
If you’re neurotypical and still reading this, you may think you understand what I’m describing. You may feel compassion. You may even admire the clarity with which I’ve explained something that seems foreign to your experience.
But if you walk away from this simply with insight, and not with grief —
you have not understood.
Because what I’m describing is not a quirk of style or a communication mismatch. It is a lived condition of
being unseen in real time, again and again, by the people I share my life with. It is the daily cost of having to carry the emotional thread alone, while never knowing if it will be picked up — or if it was even noticed.
This morning I sent a message: I followed a thread she named days ago. I was clear, tender, timely. It was seen, but no response was offered, and I can only assume the conversation closed by a mechanism I didn’t understand.
No rejection. No rupture. Just no response.
And in that nothing, I had to decide:
Do I keep holding this alone, hoping it might one day be met — seen, felt, named by both of us — or do I let it go?
Not because it was complete. Not because it had resolved. But because I could not bear the weight of another thread unrecognized. Another signal that dies in silence.
This is not poetic. This is not tragic. This is
commonplace — for me.
It is not the absence of love that breaks me.
It is the absence of recognition.
If you live by rhythm, and you love someone who lives by structure, then know this:
Every silence after their reach has weight.
Every thread you let slip was carried forward by them — with tenderness, with patience, and with the faith that it was a thread you both were holding.
Every moment you mistake for “just missing the timing” is another moment they must metabolize alone.
But this is not blame.
Nor even a blueprint for change.
Because they cannot see what was dropped.
And I cannot stop holding it.
This is not drama. This is not theory.
It is just a gap, lived daily.
~ 3 ~
CODA
And, on an ironic note — this inability to hold a thread works both ways.
When she asks something of me that I don’t yet understand —
or more precisely, something that comes from a place of emotional urgency but not coherence —
it often enters a kind of cognitive limbo for me.
It doesn’t fit anywhere. I can’t say yes to it.
So I say, “I’ll think about it,”
and unless I bring it up again, it’s likely gone.
Not because she doesn’t care,
but because her system doesn’t retain unresolved requests
unless they’re anchored in rhythm or reinforced by social urgency.
But I don’t feel ease in this. I feel tension.
Because I don’t want to live by cognitive loopholes.
I don’t want to occasionally benefit from an asymmetry
that costs me so much elsewhere.
I would simply love to live among people
for whom speech is not a gesture of emotion or social reassurance,
but an act of coherence —
something meant to last.
And I know this isn’t what she’s doing on purpose.
She’s not erasing the thread to wound me.
She’s just returning to rhythm,
where what was said is no longer held unless it remains moving.
I didn’t ask for symmetry.
But I believed, in that moment, that we were holding something together.
And when it became clear that I was the only one holding it,
I didn’t feel betrayed — just… alone.
There is an ache of loneliness in discovering that what I held as real
was never seen as a thread at all.
Not because it didn’t matter to her,
but because in her world, meaning dissolves unless rhythm sustains it.
And in mine, rhythm cannot replace meaning.
❧
Epilogue – A Note to the One I Love
If you’ve read this far, thank you.
This isn’t a request.
It’s not a map I need you to follow, or a truth I need confirmed.
It’s simply where I go when I want to stay close.
Even when the rhythm slips. Even when the thread is mine alone.
I know your way of loving is real.
It comes in warmth, in gesture, in presence I sometimes miss in the moment but recognize in full later.
I’ve seen you carry so much in ways I could never name at the time.
I know your grace isn’t always mine to understand.
This writing just follows my shape.
Not for explanation, not for agreement — just for coherence.
If it stirs something — curiosity, ache, even resistance — I welcome that.
But only if it arrives gently, in your own time.
I’m not asking you to meet me here.
Just to know that I was already with you.
If I’ve seemed far, it’s not distance.
If I’ve seemed quiet, it’s not absence.
If I’ve held on, it’s not out of need — but out of care.
I’ve always been here, reaching.
~ End ~
1 In the aftermath of this moment, I did not respond with anger. I stated what was real for me. Though she could not receive it at first, I stepped away to regulate. Later, when she returned in a calmer state, I chose to join her in rhythmic reconnection, despite being overwhelmed. Only then, once she was re-regulated, did I ask for the kindness I needed. It came, and it helped. But I needed to ask for it—through clarity, vulnerability, and bodily awareness. This is what repair looks like for me. It is not spontaneous. It is structured, chosen, and embodied. And it comes only after the rupture is held and named.
2 "What breaks is not the message — it’s the meaning."
Neurotypical frameworks often interpret tension through the lens of "miscommunication" — as if the problem lies in a garbled message, a mistimed delivery, or unclear intent. But for me, the pain comes not from the message being misheard, but from the collapse of the structure that gave that message meaning. I don't experience these moments as conversational glitches. I experience them as structural dislocations — where the coherence I was holding is severed, or worse, morally reinterpreted. A message can be clarified. But when the deeper meaning is misread — when an act of care is taken as control, or a truth as betrayal — what breaks is not correctable. It leaves behind not misunderstanding, but a quiet wound in the architecture of relationship.
Explore the full
Threadwork triptych:
•
Mistaking the Third Arm for a Tool ⧉
•
Living with the Dancer ⧉
•
The Rhythm That Forgot the Floor ⧉
Also part of this project:
•
Coherence Without Capture: An Ontological Arc (But Not An Ontology) ⧉
For orientation beyond this page, you may enter through:
•
The Vibrating Thread: From the Field of Redibility
•
Naikan in Four Movements
•
Threadwork (or begin with
Threshold to Threadwork ⧉ for a gentler entry)
•
The Holding Vow Sutra (drawn from the arc of
Naikan: The Rhythm of Vow ⧉ , but arriving later)
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