Eleanor Rigby's Story
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Eleanor Rigby's Story
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2006-07-10 21:33:30 GMTComments: 0 |Permanent Link
Eleanor Rigby's Story

Hello everyone and welcome to my website! In a way I feel bad about writing this because compared to what many of the people on this web ring must be going through I have very little right to complain. I only have some traits of Asperger’s and the effects of these are very subtle. However, I feel that the people at the high-functioning end of the spectrum still do have an interesting story to tell, and that is why I decided to write the story of Eleanor Rigby. I identify strongly with this character as there is a lot of her in me, and a lot of me in her. For the purposes of anonymity on this website I am adopting her name as my name. Enjoy the story. If you wish to contact me or have any suggestions for improvement please write to: eleanor.rigby222@yahoo.co.uk


 


Prologue


 


'Eleanor Rigby


Lifts up her eyes in the church...


Lives in a dream...


All the lonely people


Where do they all come from?


All the lonely people


Where do they all belong?'


The Beatles-Eleanor Rigby


 


What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow


Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,


You cannot say, or guess,


For you know only


A heap of broken images.


T.S. Eliot-The Waste Land


 


I’ve always wanted to write a story which is like an apologetic piece for all the lonely people out there.


‘All the lonely people? Where do they all come from?’


Why of course, they come from here, in our towns, in our streets, they live right among us.


‘Where do they all belong?’ 


Of course they belong in our hearts. Maybe they’re crying out for love but they don’t know how they can attain it. This is Eleanor’s quest.


 


Whilst Eleanor’s quest is a lonely and a painful one, somehow one also intuitively knows that much good can and will come out of it. Just because men cannot immediately ‘say or guess’ what good will come, does not mean that there is none. Perhaps it is this, that by being deprived for a time of the most important thing in life, contact with other human beings, one can attain a deeper appreciation of how important this is. Therefore one can also attain a greater appreciation of other people. One can realise the aim of life should not so much be to win games as to connect with other people.


 


The thing is a work in progress, but I thought putting it on line would make me write more even though I’ve barely started it yet!


 


The Cathedral


Eleanor entered the cathedral. In the night time and silence of her heart the candles were still alight. The cathedral vault still bore the echoes of the Lords’ prayer, Hail Mary and Glory Be recited here so many times and so fervently throughout the years. Eleanor closed her eyes and could hear the whispering voice of the congregation in her mind. It was a powerful, immutable, and transcendent voice even though many considered it mundane. Perhaps it was mundane when one did not pay attention to it. But really it was the sound of the sublime interfacing with the mortal. It was a bank of soul, a rock upon which so many had relied upon throughout years and upon which she too could rely if she sought to, or felt weak. She knelt to pray by the candle-rack, dropping in a coin and lighting a candle. Her knees met with the smooth stone, which was only physically cold. Here, the soft impermanent skin of humanity met with the solid brick-work of the Cathedral. All human pretensions to greatness were dwarfed by comparison to the eternity of the church. Man’s life was much shorter than the life of this architecture, and this architecture was again as feeble, impermanent and frail. Because she was not greater than other humans in this space, she was also not smaller. In this space the only weight one carried was the real weight, assigned by God, the weight of the soul. Eleanor felt like an amoeba, like a fragile organism upon the cathedral floor. Soon she would be gone and hopefully she would leave some traces here that would not be erased too soon by the feet of many others, although she doubted it. Trying to leave a trace of herself here in her sanctuary, an imprint of herself upon the world, she lit a candle and prayed.


 


What did she pray? Would a stranger coming into the cathedral be able to guess what a woman in white was doing here alone so late in the evening, or why she was running away? Would a stranger understand when she looked up at the cathedral vault with eyes that jumped erratically from beam to sculpture to beam without ever seeming to find the answers, without seeming to find something upon which to rest? Eyes, which seemed to fervently search for some kind of connection to the world but did not find it here? A heart, which was a warm heart but chilled by the stone, yet clung to the stone because that stone was the closest semblance it could find of warmth.


 


Homeless People


Eleanor walked the streets. She stared up at the tall buildings, the spires of Oxford. In the daytime they were awe-inspiring, but at night-time they were breathtaking.


Every morning she walked past this church on her way to work. She passed him again. He looked at her with eyes that questioned the reason for the existence of himself. Eyes that were warm and human. Eyes that were in the image of God, eyes that did not understand, save that there is a reason, a reason for everything. She wished she could break down the invisible walls that kept them apart, the walls constructed by society. She did not understand either. Her voice was frozen. As so many times before, she failed to bring herself to say anything. But often in her mind she revisited this place. She was swept by him in a current that she did not really want to be a part of. She was swept by in the current of her upbringing, her society. When she was with people, they would not notice him and would encourage her to hurry along and keep up with them when she paused to look at him. When she was alone, she still could not break these invisible shackles. She was not in a hurry but had not learnt any other way than to pretend that she was and swiftly move by him. The people who told her to hurry along were not there in this moment but still she felt invisibly restrained. Her heart was too cold and empty, not to feel, or to want to give, but to have sufficient self-esteem to actually succeed in giving. She felt the ache that she had so often felt in her solar plexus and the sadness that accompanied it. This was what restrained her. She remembered The Little Prince and how he had said that when a flower is not loved it is meaningless. This is how she felt: she felt like an invisible flower, still clad in white, almost invisible, sensitive as gossamer. All she could manage to do was to crack a smile on her porcelain face. It should have been a momentous occasion announced with trumpets and a brass band but there was none. The mundane was all around her.


 


The next day she returned to this spot. There was no homeless man there so she sat down and read a book, waiting for one to arrive. Eventually, one did. This was a different one. He looked away from her, smoking a cigarette, the smoke billowing away in the wind, white mist circling past her, like incense, it even smelt a bit like incense. She was reading a book about Hinduism and this seemed quite fitting. Finally, he glanced in her direction and broke the ice, asking her what she was reading about. He did not seem to understand why she would want to be reading about Hinduism to understand what their religion was like without herself being a Hindu. But he had pulled a crack in the invisible wall and she was grateful for it. That day she was able to ask him if she could get him anything to eat or drink, just as she was about to leave, because, ashamed as she was of it the situation was making her uncomfortable. How she wished she were a man. Men were so much less vulnerable: a man could not be threatened by a woman in the same way that a woman could be threatened by a man. If she had been a man she would have felt safer and would have stopped and talked to him for longer, or if she had been an old, wise woman. She knew this would be easier when she was old, because then her façade would be beautiful in a more rugged, acceptable manner for her to be conversing with the homeless like this, and she would know everything she needed to. She would be able to engage him in a conversation about things which he would know about: the films, the books, and the media that the homeless attended to were most probably very similar to the media that the middle class attended to, although probably with a greater sense of justice, longing, brutality, and hopefully philosophy in them too. If she were to attend to the media, these would be the kinds of media that she would attend to, with the exception of brutality, that was, because brutality was something which would be too much for her constitution to take.


 


All she had ever cared about was justice, liberation and emancipation of the soul. And yet here, as she attempted it, as she attempted to follow her dreams of bringing about that equality, that justice, she was stumped. Because she did not have a solid grip on the mundane she could not ascend beyond it to the exceptional. She felt like a house with beautiful decorated spires that reached to the skies, like the dreaming spires of Oxford, but shaky foundations. Damn the laws of gravity! Why did everything have to let her down! Why was she too sensitive and too incomplete to truly be or to function as herself on this planet?


 


All he wanted was a coffee. She felt he was just asking for it to please her. Coffee is something entirely unnecessary, unlike food. Still, it was a start. At least she had done something. At least she had been able to interface with a homeless person in some menial sort of way. She walked home with her head held high and a smile on her face, but not for long. It was not enough.

2006-07-10 21:32:18 GMTComments: 0 |Permanent Link
White Walls



 


She knew she should really be social. She knew she should go into the dining hall, but to her it was like a lion’s den. Literally, when she walked into it she felt like she was walking into a lion’s den, the fear in her heart and the pounding in her chest were as dramatic. She had been to that place, but it was terrifying. The high vaulted ceiling which magnified every sound and the other teenagers who she really should try and make friends with, but who she could not understand, who frightened her, for no apparent reason, but after many years of reflection, perhaps because they were too overwhelming for her: their fast conversation, where she couldn’t make out half the words, their social hierarchy, which was determined more or less by the laws of the jungle, and at which she sat firmly irrevocably and eternally at the bottom, right underneath everyone else. So here she sat, rooted to the spot, gazing at the walls, the white walls. Her soul was stretching out on those walls, reaching out for someone, reaching out for a person, humanity in general, but all it could find was cold hard stone. Words echoed around and resounded in her head ‘chrysalis’, ‘singularity’, ‘supernova’. Would she ever be able to blossom and become a butterfly or would she die an old woman, still as unfulfilled and spiritually small as she was now, and her soul spread out like a supernova, but an empty supernova, which was never really a successful sun or universe. ‘You have to go to the people, because the people will not come to you’. She went into the bathroom, which was also all white, eerily white, and blank, like she was. And the corridors were also all white. The white corridors which she haunted like a white ghost, a shadow of a human being.




 




This is a poem Eleanor wrote when she was in school:




 




Teach Me How to Play




Teach me how to cry again




Teach me how to pray




Teach me all the games you know




And teach me how to play




 




Tell me all the jokes you’ve learnt




Explain to me their mirth




May I laugh in your company




May I have a second birth




 




Sing me all the songs you know




Show me how you dance




I want to learn them all you know




And join you when you prance




 




Take me down from Calvary




And put me in your midst.




I want to relish all your smiles




I want to start to live.




 




The Girls




The German gym teacher smoked, but otherwise she was very friendly. She approached Eleanor one day and offered help. She had seen the situation and found that previously, in similar situations, she had been able to help friendless individuals. All the previous girls she had helped had noticed some subsequent improvement in their quality of life, as a result of her intervention. Eleanor agreed to the gym teacher’s intervention. After all, she had nothing to lose, they were all of them strangers anyway, and nothing, no matter how strange, could possibly make them more distant towards her than they already were.




 




It was the end of the gym lesson, time for lunch and the big discussion. Eleanor sat with her bag packed and ready to escape, back to the wall. This was it. She stared at her feet, unable to move. Now of course was the most inconvenient time possible to freeze and feel sick, but she couldn’t help it. She just wanted to get it over and done with. There was a hammer banging on the inside of her head, the sort of sensation one gets when going to bed and trying to sleep straight after a fairground ride whilst drunk. To see it all as a bad dream was clearly the best option. This could not possibly be real. It could not possibly have come to this. Yet he who is in desperate need is unwise not to ask for it.




 




She felt relieved because she did not have to do anything, the German gym teacher did it all for her. She was very open and honest about the situation in a way that Eleanor could never have been. Then all she had to do was wait for the girls’ response.




 




At first there was silence. Then finally they spoke. The ringleader was the first to speak. Tall, muscular and intimidating, she said that it was too late. Unbeknown to her, they had all already formed all their social networks, which were full and complete to overflowing. They did not have space, there was no-where to accommodate her. Others said perhaps she would find friends at university, which at the time was 3 years away. The teacher tried to defend her, tried to impress upon them how hard everything was that Eleanor must be going through. She tried to impress upon them the harshness and cruelty of their statements. But Eleanor herself was mute, much as she wanted to, she could not speak. She was frozen. She could not say all the things she wanted to say. It wasn’t just anger she wanted to express, it was deeper than that. She wanted them to understand what it really meant to be her, how they made her feel. It wasn’t really compassion she wanted, because compassion on its own doesn’t solve anything. It was help. She wanted them to teach her how to connect with people. She wanted them to make allowances for how difficult she found it. She wanted them to really understand the situation, what was going on, and undertake practical steps to solve the problem.




 




She understood that the love of peers, contemporaries, colleagues was conditional, but she had not appreciated up until that moment how conditional. It appeared that the reason they did not love her was because she did not expose herself enough to the media. They felt she should listen to songs on the radio, watch movies, find what she liked and deliberately exaggerate that taste, become a caricature of herself to stand out against the background, and become interesting to others. She found this idea of exaggerating ones tastes to form an identity quite interesting. It was a bizarre way to define the self, less interesting and personal than the dreams she had of helping people, even sainthood. It was only later that she would come to realize that before being able to help people one must first learn to relate to people, and that the vast majority of people do in fact do this through a great deal of the media. Apart from the information overload, what prevented Eleanor spending any significantly large amount of time engrossed in the media was that she was tired of being a mute person who only received input. She wanted to output into the world. She wanted to write books and paint pictures that other people would see. She did not want to listen. She wanted to be heard. It was only later when she became more confident and felt she was achieving something in her life that she felt able to listen to the radio and the television. Then the unproductivity of these activities no longer disturbed her. It was more something calming, a relaxation, an input to balance all the output in her life. It seemed that unless she too spent so much time absorbing vast quantities of media information in a world that was already informationally so overwhelming she would not, could not possibly be interesting enough for them. She could often not remember to pack everything in her schoolbag, or even find it, let alone the names of famous people or who was doing what on which programmes, or the times of popular television programmes. Getting the TV timetable and co-coordinating it with her poor sense of timing was too much to cope with. But they did not, could not possibly understand this, because no-one had ever explained it to them.




 




Quickly they seemed to tire of the whole talk show atmosphere, and asked Eleanor to say something. They seemed to think it was unfair that they were doing all the work, that they had been asked to raise a finger before she did. They asked her to speak, but she still could not say anything. For months, for years after that point, she would remember that moment and wish that she had. Life is often that way. It deals us many opportunities, but blink and you miss it. They did not allow her enough time to respond. Another minute, even another few seconds of silence would have done it, would have broken fear’s hold on her. She would have thawed enough and least to speak, even if it was only with a shaking voice and eyes gazing at the floor.




Perhaps again, it was something less like an electra complex. At the time she believed that God was using this image to give her a message, that the man who had this physical appearance would be the man with whom she could read and sing and pray. Whilst many physical qualities of her imaginary man were desirable, the paleness was not. So she deduced they were more like markers, the signs by which she could find the man she would most easily and best be able to relate to on a spiritual level. She would often wonder, and implicitly believe, whether this was not a preliminary connection to her soulmate, the love of her life, who she would meet one day. He would be shy too, but he would rescue her from this shyness, and she would rescue him. And together they would manage to encourage each other to go out into the world and con 




Eleanor’s’ Dreams




Who that cares much to know the history of man, and how the mysterious mixture behaves under the varying experiments of Time, has not dwelt, at least briefly, on the life of Saint Theresa, has not smiled with some gentleness at the thought of the little girl walking forth one morning hand-in-hand with her still smaller brother, to go and seek martyrdom in the country of the Moors? Out they toddled from rugged Avila, wide-eyed and helpless-looking as two fawns, but with human hearts, already beating to a national idea; until domestic reality met them in the shape of uncles, and turned them back from their great resolve. That child-pilgrimage was a fit beginning. Theresa's passionate, ideal nature demanded an epic life: what were many-volumed romances of chivalry and the social conquests of a brilliant girl to her? Her flame quickly burned up that light fuel; and, fed from within, soared after some illimitable satisfaction, some object which would never justify weariness, which would reconcile self-despair with the rapturous consciousness of life beyond self. She found her epos in the reform of a religious order.







That Spanish woman, who lived three hundred years ago, was certainly not the last of her kind. Many Theresa’s have been born who found for themselves no epic life wherein there was a constant unfolding of far-resonant action; perhaps only a life of mistakes, the offspring of a certain spiritual grandeur ill-matched with the meanness of opportunity; perhaps a tragic failure which found no sacred poet and sank unwept into oblivion. With dim lights and tangled circumstance they tried to shape their thought and deed in noble agreement; but after all, to common eyes their struggles seemed mere inconsistency and formlessness; for these later-born Theresa’s were helped by no coherent social faith and order which could perform the function of knowledge for the ardently willing soul. Their ardour alternated between a vague ideal and the common yearning of womanhood; so that the one was disapproved as extravagance, and the other condemned as a lapse.







Some have felt that these blundering lives are due to the inconvenient indefiniteness with which the Supreme Power has fashioned the natures of women: if there were one level of feminine incompetence as strict as the ability to count three and no more, the social lot of women might be treated with scientific certitude. Meanwhile the indefiniteness remains, and the limits of variation are really much wider than any one would imagine from the sameness of women's coiffure and the favourite love-stories in prose and verse. Here and there a cygnet is reared uneasily among the ducklings in the brown pond, and never finds the living stream in fellowship with its own oary-footed kind. Here and there is born a Saint Theresa, foundress of nothing, whose loving heart-beats and sobs after an unattained goodness tremble off and are dispersed among hindrances, instead of centring in some long-recognizable deed.




George Eliot-Prelude to Middlemarch




This poem is written about my friend whose dream it is to work with women in the shantytowns in Latin America.




 




Beauty




 




Tonight I will go out on the shantytown




And walk the streets of this city.




I do not pretend to be a saint




Nor will I ever be.




Tonight I will see the run-down buildings




In the inky, smoky blackness




See their beauty




See the children run to play




On the rubbish dump




And beg at the break of dawn



And I will be deeply happy.




 




I do not know why there is beauty




In poverty




But if there were no shantytown




Would love shine so brightly?




I will go alone, or maybe




I will take someone with me




A good friend, a companion




For all that weighs on my heart,




Makes it weary




A broken heart too is a beautiful thing.




 




I do not pretend to be useful.




I will relish in my uselessness




I will accept it




But remember Mother Teresa




With her drops of water




In the ocean




Maybe where you walk




Feet of angels go behind and before




And do the work for you




Maybe I am not entirely useless




 




Maybe there is something I can give




An embrace, a cup of cold water




And maybe there is something I can take:




Confidence, companions, love.




 




 The Church




 




The Beautiful Atheist




The time is now propitious, as he guesses,




The meal is ended; she is bored and tired,




Endeavours to engage her in caresses




Which still are unreproved, if undesired.




Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;




Exploring hands encounter no defence;




His vanity requires no response,




And makes a welcome of indifference.




 




(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all




Enacted on this same divan or bed;




I who have sat by Thebes below the wall




And walked among the lowest of the dead.)




Bestows one final patronising kiss,




And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit…




T.S. Eliot-The Waste Land




 




He opened the drawer. Amongst the electronic paraphernalia that spoke of his intelligence it contained a hair band and a necklace. The hair band had on it two flashing horns and the necklace a crucifix. ‘Aha, I wonder what this is…this is my memorabilia from the women I’ve kissed.’ The irony of the juxtaposition of the devil and Christ in that woman who had kissed him, whilst most probably unintentional, was a mockery of the church. However, whilst the wearer may have been unawares of the irony, he was not, and neither was Eleanor. He was all too blissfully, and she was all too painfully aware. That symbols of faith and treachery could be worn in juxtaposition in such a light-hearted manner seemed to Eleanor at that moment a very strange thing. It seemed that to him, these ornaments were trophies of his previous conquests. More than that, they were symbolic of his triumph over the faith that had oppressed him when he was little. She saw the little boy forced to attend mass against his own will and she wanted to cuddle him. Whilst there may have been reasoning with the little boy who was not yet so disenchanted there could be no reasoning with the man she now saw before her, or at least it would be much harder. In that moment, she wanted to be a man. She wanted to have the wit of a man. She wanted to make him see that what he was doing was wrong, but she felt powerless. Was that all she was to him, then, a potential conquest? Did he not value her heart, her mind, her spirit? She knew in that moment of course that the point of his actions was to make her jealous of this other woman, to lose her faith, and to kiss him. However she could not, because this would go against all her beliefs, and everything she stood for, everything she silently screamed for, and no-one could hear. Maybe one day she would find her voice, and then it would be worth it, it would be worth resisting him.




 




Every time she encountered him her whole body would begin to ache for him. Even looking at him put her in so much pain that she knew could only be eased by cuddling him. Interesting, that desire could be so strong that when blood rushed to the skin it could produce a sensation of vague pain and longing. However, she had to withstand this devilish desire to save him. She knew she could not be just another of his conquests, otherwise she would have lost the battle. She knew that to retain any power in her discussions with him she had to remain distant from him, no matter how much it hurt. Often she would go to the bathroom in his house and pray for strength, pray for the strength to withstand the devilish magnetic pull he had on her. He said she was like a computer with a virus, her faith was the virus. It overtook her mind and destroyed her reasoning completely, according to him. But according to her? Well, according to her, he was 2-dimensional. The ‘virus’ she had could perhaps appear as a virus to an outsider, but really it was a code. She knew that she loved him more than he loved her, and yet she longed for him to change his heart, change his desire, and pray with her. She desired the impossible. It was her heart’s deepest, most unspoken desire. But she did not tell him. Perhaps that was her mistake. But then probably if she had he would merely have used it as one of his parlour tricks to convince her to kiss him.




 




Then one evening they were standing by a pool table playing pool. He wanted her to lie down on the pool table and kiss him. She told him that her aim was to wait with kissing until she’d found the person she was going to spend the rest of her life with. Surprisingly he admired her in this aim, even wishing her good luck. But he said that she was missing out one very important thing: the male psyche. Apparently, men were programmed differently and could not wait so long with kissing. Upon hearing this she thought that that made sense, he was probably right. It was not until many years later that she realised the wisdom of this statement. Time is so long and life is so short and the heart aches so much for company that perhaps one does not have to always wait for one’s husband, the perfect person, the night in shining armour. Perhaps it is enough to kiss a kindred spirit, someone whom one knows very well, and loves, and has a deep connection with.




 




Amsterdam




 




The Train




I could not




Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither




Living nor dead, and I knew nothing




The Waste Land-T.S. Eliot




 




Angels




She took a risk and wrote on the piece of paper what was really on her mind. ‘Will I find true love?’




Then they had to turn over the piece of paper and close their eyes, waiting for the answer to come back from the angels. All she could think of was that line from the Tracy Chapman Song.




 




‘Let me speak the word that precedes bliss:




love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love.’




 




It was in that moment that she realised that before she could find true love, painful as it was, she would have to disassemble this conglomeration of desire she had formed in her mind, as if one person could meet that desire. She would have to fight to do all the things she’d always wanted to do, alone. There was no knight in shining armour, no man of her life coming to rescue her. She would have to do all these things alone.




Whilst the mental picture of the girl who waits alone in the white corridor for them to come, for him to come, but who remained abandoned for minutes, hours days, weeks years, for maybe about 13 years is a terrible one. Perhaps there is something to be gained from this pain, this mental picture. Perhaps in a way it is more empowering, more feminist than the one in which the man rescues her. Because sooner or later she will grow stronger, strong enough to do the impossible, the inevitable. She will pick up the courage and the strength to stand and to walk out of that corridor, down the stairs, and face all the things that terrify and haunt her. Sooner or later she will look inside her heart and find it is stronger than she thought, more resilient. Sooner or later, because she is sustained by air and food and water, but longs for company, she will find it, even if only as a beggar who is so hungry but only finds a couple of scraps of food. Because she never had anything in terms of love, she has nothing to lose. She cannot possibly have any less love than she does now, unless she loses even God and is damned, and so she knows that she can bear it, she can bear rejection, because she has bourne something worse for 13 years: not daring, and not knowing, because she was always frozen. In the animal kingdom there are the fight, flight or freeze responses. And all her life she was always the frightened animal who froze. If she can unfreeze, if she can break through those walls of fear, then she can do it, although this, she knows, will be has hard as a ghost trying to transubstantiate, to become matter, a physical body. She has always been a ghost and now she wants




 




Salvation




 Chrysalis




On the inside looking out




The walls will not break down




Singularity




It should be the duty of the strong to protect the weak




The confident to unfold the shy




They talk too fast they know too much




They do not understand




The invisible shackles




 




I move to a different place




The air is lighter, the people warmer




I see what I once was




But I have failed




I cannot break down the walls




On the outside looking in



2006-07-10 21:30:29 GMTComments: 0 |Permanent Link
The Redemption Centre

You are now entering the south wing of the Redemption Centre. Below is a listing of events and therapies going on in each room, first by room number then in alphabetical order.


 


1.      Main Reception.


2.      Information Centre


3.      Information Centre


4.      Information Centre


5.      ABA with Linda Flockhardt


6.      ABA with Maria Linding


7.      ABA with Ronan Monroe


8.      ABA with Andy White


9.      ABA with Laura Zenon


10.  ABA with Laura Zenon


11.  Relaxation techniques with Julia Steventon


12.  Aromatherapy


13.  Anger Management


14.  Kinesiology with Gillian Hindshaw


15.  Music Therapy for autistic children


16.  Music Therapy for autistic children


17.  Kumon maths


18.  Facilitated communication


19.  Asperger Support Group-Catherine Black


20.  Gospel Singing-Cindy Reid


21.  Tai Chi-Christine Eckhardt Black


22.  Ronald Davis techniques-Orientaion counselling


23.  Ronald Davis techniques-teaching the alphabet and words through clay modelling


24.  Ronald Davis techniques-teaching the alphabet and words through clay modelling


25.  Group prayer meetings at 12:00 and 2:00pm daily


26.  Hindu prayer meetings at 13:00 and 15:00 daily


27.  Rest room-marked R


28.  Brain Gym with Ronda Lewis


29.  The Son-Rise Programme-experts from America


30.  The Son-Rise Programme-experts from America


31.  The Son-Rise Programme-experts from America


32.  Lovaas developments


33.  Lovaas developments


34.  Seminar-are there links between autism and dyslexia? Jean Francis


35.  Continuation of early intervention-what comes afterwards-research led by Catherine Black


36.  Teenagers with asperger syndrome-discussion groups led by Catherine Black. Ring extension 102 for details. You will find 4 internal telephones, one in the middle of each colour wall behind the chairs in the central oval.


37.  Parents of autistic children-discussion groups-ring extension 267 for details


38.  Parents of autistic children-discussion groups-ring extension 267 for details


39.  Parents of autistic children-discussion groups-ring extension 267 for details


 


Note: At 4 O’clock this afternoon there will be a conference in the central conference room to discuss…


Please feel free to supervise your children in the play area at any time or to sit in the chairs outside the central oval. You will find our library on shelves behind these chairs. This operates like a normal library: ask Hannah, outside Room 1, to borrow a book and you may do so for 3 weeks, otherwise you must pay us money. Feel free to use books for reference during your visit to the Redemption Centre and to participate in the philosophical and other discussions that take place in the chairs outside the central oval.

2006-07-10 21:25:33 GMTComments: 0 |Permanent Link
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