Friends Journal

An Interview with Quaker Playwright Michael Mears and Actor Riko Nakazono

The Mistake, a play about an atomic bomb survivor searching for her parents in devastated Hiroshima, will make its U.S. debut with a tour of four states in April and May. Riko Nakazono, an actor from Japan, plays the lead role. Michael Mears, the playwright, portrays multiple roles including that of Leo Szilard, one of the scientists who developed the atomic bomb and tried to stop it from being deployed. Mears is an attender at Wandsworth Meeting in southwest London. He and Nakazono previously performed The Mistake for a two-month run in the UK in fall 2023.

On August 6, 1945, the United States dropped a uranium bomb on Hiroshima, Japan, which killed more than 100,000 people by the end of the year, according to Encyclopædia Britannica. Three days later, on August 9, the United States dropped a plutonium bomb on Nagasaki, Japan, killing approximately 74,000 people by year’s end.

Friends Journal talked with Mears and Nakazono in advance of the play coming to Indiana, Illinois, Pennsylvania, and New York. The interview has been lightly edited.

Sharlee DiMenichi: What initially led you to embrace pacifism?

Michael Mears: [laughs] Oh, wow. It’s interesting. It doesn’t run in my family. My grandfather fought in the First World War, as did my great-uncle. This is on my English side because I’ve got an Italian side as well. And my father fought in the Second World War.

I don’t know whether there’s a pacifist gene. The Second World War obviously is sort of a unique war in terms of history. From a very early age, I just couldn’t comprehend that war was a way to solve disputes, international disputes, whatever. I remember writing on my school pencil case, when I was a teenager, I wrote, “War is illogical.” [laughs] And I used to get a bit of flak for that, a bit of mockery from some of my fellow school-mates—particularly the boys, you know, suggesting I was a coward or whatever or not tough enough. So I’d try and defend my position.

In researching for my previous play, This Evil Thing, which was about British conscientious objectors in the First World War, I learned that some conscientious objectors would be in families of pacifists. But some would be in families which supported the war.

In my late teens or early 20s, I joined the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament in the UK and was very supportive of that and just had an instinctive reaction against the use of nuclear weapons. I hadn’t learned a lot about Hiroshima and Nagasaki, but I knew something.

As I got older, my belief that war is not the answer just became strengthened within me. I met a lot of like-minded people; we all strengthened each other’s beliefs in that area. And I still believe it. I think people should talk—you know, try and sort their differences out by getting round a table and talking. I don’t know where it came from, the pacifism, but there we go.

SD: How did you come to be a Quaker?

MM: Well, I started attending Quaker meetings about ten years ago. I’d been to a couple of Quaker meetings much earlier in my life and found it interesting, but didn’t continue going. Then it was around the time I was researching my last play about conscientious objectors . . . through my research, I realized the Quakers were very prominent in supporting conscientious objection in the First World War, and I learned about the Quakers’ peace testimony.

So I hooked up again with local Quakers, and they were very supportive. Then I wanted to set up a tour around the country of the play about conscientious objectors, and a lot of Quaker meetinghouses around the UK were very helpful and reached out. I performed it in a few of those, and I performed it in a few of the UK Quaker schools. There aren’t that many Quaker schools here, but there are a few, where subsequently Riko and I performed The Mistake.

I found the Quakers in Britain really supportive of what I wanted to do with this work in the theater and really helpful in spreading the word. I felt drawn to that community. So I go along whenever I can and sit in silence for an hour. It’s quite special.

SD: How would you describe the emotional impact of meeting [atomic bomb survivor] Toshiko Tanaka?

MM: Although I’d read and researched so much—I feel as if I’ve lived in Hiroshima for many years, but I’ve never been there yet. I’m planning to go there this year. So last year, at Friends House in Central London, was the first time I got to meet an actual atomic bomb survivor, rather than just reading their accounts or seeing them in documentaries. And that was rich.

Toshiko Tanaka, a very beautiful human being, 86 years old, was six when the atomic bomb went off in Hiroshima. She survived, but some of her family members didn’t, and school friends didn’t. She suffered burns and injuries and has had health issues for all her life, but she’s lived to 86 fortunately. Hearing her story at Friends House and then her taking questions, she was just so modest and humble, but at the same time so convinced that those bombs should never have been dropped, and they should never, ever be dropped again.

It was very inspiring in a very quiet way. She wasn’t pushy or preachy, just really quietly inspiring. I was due to perform a short piece from another Hiroshima play—I’ve got a Hiroshima monologue as well—and I was going to perform a short extract from that directly after she’d spoken. And I suddenly felt so nervous because I thought, This is a real atomic bomb survivor we’ve heard from. And now I’m going to just act a bit of an account?

But then I banished that idea and just got on with it. She was very moved by that. I mean, there was a translator there, so we made contact and exchanged cards, and we’ve been exchanging emails since, thanks to Google Translate, because she writes in Japanese. Sometimes I send it past Riko and say, what exactly is being said here? Toshiko still lives in Hiroshima, and she said, You must both come to Hiroshima, if you possibly can, come to my home later this year. So, we’re hoping to do that.

Meeting her made me even more convinced that I need to do this work, that I want to do this work, that it’s important. Because her message is that we must never forget. I want to help in my small way to share that message that we must never forget, and we must do what we can to make sure it never happens again.

Newspaper clippings of the article from The Guardian, August 6, 2002. Images courtesy of Michael Mears.

SD: What were some of the central questions that guided your research to develop the play?

MM: The film Oppenheimer is very admirable in many ways. One of the main criticisms of it is that it doesn’t reference the Japanese experience at all. I started working on this play slowly on and off many, many years ago, well before the Oppenheimer film. But I always wanted it to honor the Japanese experience, so it was very important for me to have a Japanese central character in it, and to share some of those accounts of survivors.

But I wasn’t sure how I was going to make the play work. Originally, I was focusing on a survivor, and I was also focusing on the pilot. My idea for doing the play started from reading a newspaper article in the UK 22 years ago, and I’ve still got it. It’s here. It’s slightly yellow.

But it’s Paul Tibbets, the pilot of the plane, holding a model of the plane—a big interview with him. Then on the other side is an interview with Fumiko Miura, who was a survivor of the Nagasaki bombing and became a poet. So there were these two interviews 22 years ago, and they clearly never met each other. Clearly the pilot had never met—had never gone back to Hiroshima, had never met any Japanese survivors.

So, I thought, how about writing a play where actually the pilot does get to meet survivors, and difficult questions are asked? So that’s where I started from. And then I thought, what about the science, you know, about the people who created the bomb?

A lot is known about Oppenheimer. But I came across another very important scientist on the Manhattan Project, called Leo Szilard, who was Hungarian Jewish and a brilliant nuclear physicist. He really interested me because he really did seem to feel terribly guilty about his role in creating the bomb, although initially he and many of the other European refugee scientists who came to America to work on the Manhattan Project—like them, his only intention was to build the bomb as a threat to Hitler.

When Nazi Germany was defeated, Szilard was horrified to learn that the bomb was now going to be used on the Japanese. So, he turned completely and said, No, you mustn’t drop it on Japan—and did all he could. I mean, he was up against the U.S. government and the U.S. military and all of that, you know, which was in the middle of a war. But he did what he could to try to persuade the powers that be to at least delay using the bomb or demonstrate using the bomb on neutral territory without actually dropping it on Japanese cities. Of course, he didn’t succeed.

So I was fascinated by him, and I thought, he’s got to be in my play somehow. The play has now become about three people predominantly: a young female survivor in Hiroshima who then goes through the city to search for her parents and family; Leo Szilard; and the pilot of the plane as an elderly man who’s shown no remorse—so this is another question I ask: how is it possible to cut off your emotions?

We know that part of military training is you just have to cut off your emotions and not view the enemy as human beings exactly the same as you are. Because if you had that kind of sympathy for them, you wouldn’t be able to kill them. I also think, how can you drop such a devastating bomb like that and not feel any remorse or regret? I try to probe that in the play as well, through the character of a modern Japanese woman who asks some very challenging questions to the pilot when he’s an elderly man.

And then the other character Leo Szilard, who I wanted to explore, what is it that drives scientists to explore and experiment and make new discoveries, but sometimes without thinking about the consequences, where those discoveries could lead? In Leo Szilard’s case, he has this sort of dark foreboding that what he’s working on, really, he shouldn’t be tampering with this, you know, with the powers of nature. And once you unlock them, you’ll never be able to put them back again.

I find his whole journey fascinating, from being very excited about creating nuclear reaction, chain reaction, a nuclear power, to then realizing it could create a bomb, which would hopefully stop Hitler in his tracks, to then thinking, no, we should never, ever use this bomb. Once the bomb was dropped, Szilard spent the rest of his life—well, not the whole of the rest of his life, but quite a lot of the rest of his life—working for international arms controls, trying to control the appalling bomb he helped to create—so I find him inspiring as well.

SD: Riko, how would you describe the emotional impact of hearing from a hibakusha [a Japanese word for “bombing survivor”] for the first time?

Riko Nakazono: I was born and raised in Japan. When I was a student in elementary school, older survivors were still young enough to travel all over Japan. Every July the school organized this peace month in which we invited all the hibakusha survivors, and they spoke to us and shared their accounts in front of our eyes. That was my first trauma in my life because I just imagined what they said and was horrified. I was seven or eight, and they did it every year up until I was 12. I was always scared around July going to school and meeting them. But it was a really fortunate experience; it sort of shaped my idea of war and bombs.

Rico Nakazono in The Mistake. Photo by Simon Richardson.SD: How did you prepare to play the role of an atomic bomb survivor?

RN: [laughs] That memory of meeting them and hearing the story from them was just a really vivid memory of my childhood. I still remember all the feelings I felt in the classroom. When I read the script of The Mistake, written by amazing Michael, it just—all the memories of what I felt just came back to me.

I didn’t intentionally prepare for it. It’s a mission for me as well. There are not many people who have met survivors and had that feeling in their childhood, right? I just trusted what I felt at the moment, and my mission was to deliver that and convey it to the audience.

SD: What do you most want audiences in the United States to know about the bombing of Hiroshima?

RN: I want them to know what the survivors experienced. I studied in the U.S., and I had the opportunity to go to Washington, D.C., where they had a war memorial. There was an exhibition about World War II, and I still remember reading a signpost—it was written as a victory. I was really shocked. Because as a Japanese person, I only learned it from my side, from the Japanese side.

I didn’t really imagine that, okay, for Americans, yeah, that was a victory for them. I know that some people still believe that dropping the bomb was the only way. I don’t know what was the best thing. But, as a child learning, hearing the survivors’ stories, I just could not agree. I think people have different opinions about it, but at least I want them to know about the Japanese story.

SD: In addition to the visits by the atomic bomb survivors, what do Japanese schoolchildren typically learn about the bombing?

RN: I’m not sure what they teach at the moment is exactly the same as what I learned when I was in school. But we really focused on peace and the effects of the atomic bomb, and that it shouldn’t be repeated again. That history shouldn’t be repeated again.

SD: What were some of the most surprising things you discovered through your involvement with the play?

RN: I didn’t really know about creating the bomb because the history was heavily focused on the survivors’ side. I’d never heard of Leo Szilard until I read Michael’s script.

While I was researching, I learned that survivors were heavily discriminated against by even the Japanese government as well. Because, at that time, they didn’t understand exactly what was going on in their body after the bomb. They literally treated survivors as a virus. Everyone was just avoiding them. They didn’t get jobs because they didn’t have enough stamina to work the whole day. And everyone had weird spots on their skin.

They were really discriminated against, even in Japan. I learned that a lot of people who were helping them survive were actually American people. They didn’t receive any scheme or funding from the Japanese government at all until the later years. A lot of Americans who really sympathized with them were sending the money to them, so that was interesting.

SD: Michael, how did you acquire the verbatim testimonies of the atomic bomb survivors, scientists, and military members that you used?

MM: Mainly from a lot of reading and research. There’s a lot of verbatim in the play, but there’s also imagined dialogue. For example, Leo Szilard wants to see President Truman to tell him to stop, not to use the bomb, and Truman sends him to his secretary of state. We know that Szilard met the secretary of state and tried to persuade him not to use the bomb or at least to demonstrate the bomb [in an unpopulated area], but we don’t know exactly what was said in the room. But I’ve learned what their opinions were, so the short scene between them in the play I put together from other things they’ve said.

The answer to your question really is from a lot of reading. There are many accounts of atomic bomb survivors I was able to read. The central character in the play, Shigeko, who Riko plays, pretty much everything that happens to her in the play happened to different survivors. But I’ve made it one account. I’ve drawn from different accounts for the character that she plays in the play because I needed to do that dramatically—so that it was a story that had a trajectory. But pretty much everything that happens to her in the play I read about happening to somebody in the accounts of atomic bomb survivors.

For Leo Szilard’s character, there’s a very good biography about him, and there are interviews and documentaries about him on YouTube. And similarly for Paul Tibbets, the pilot of the plane that I also play in the drama, there are interviews with him. Not only in the newspaper that I read all those years ago, but there are interviews with him online and in other journals and so on. He wrote a book as well, which I bought. I drew from all those different sources and then added a bit of imagination.

SD: How long did it take you to write the play?

MM: How long does it take to write a play? How long does it take to write a book? Well, we should say, I suppose, 23 years, beginning in 2002. I mean, on and off. I started writing some ideas and then carried on with my regular acting work, and then I’d come back to it. In fact, Leo Szilard as a character didn’t come along for me for quite a while. And once he came along in my mind, then things moved more quickly. The main work has been done in the last about three or four years, but on and off.

Michael Mears in The Mistake. Photo by Simon Richardson.SD: In the play, do you play the two male characters, or is there another actor?

MM: No, it’s just myself and Riko. I play all the Western characters. I play the scientists, politicians, military, President Roosevelt at one point briefly. I play Albert Einstein. The good thing about writing a play is you can think to yourself, oh, I’d quite like to play Albert Einstein, even just briefly. So I’d write a scene for that. I didn’t get to be cast as Einstein in the Oppenheimer film, though! [laughs] But that’s fine. In the play, I also very briefly play Robert Oppenheimer. Everyone knows about Oppenheimer, and hardly anyone knows about Leo Szilard. In my play, I thought, Okay, it’s going to be all about Leo Szilard. We’ll have a tiny bit about Oppenheimer. So there. He’s had enough publicity. He’s had a major movie made about him.

I view the play, ultimately, as an act of healing and reconciliation. It’s an attempt to understand why these terrible things happen, but understanding them through—particularly in the case of Riko’s character, Shigeko, understanding through an individual story or experience.

I saw this great quote. It’s three words: “Statistics don’t bleed.” I’m not sure who said it. But the statistics around wars are very important, you know, how many people died, how many people were injured, and so on. The statistics around Hiroshima and Nagasaki are important, but it’s hard to take in 100,000 or 70,000. It’s hard to take in what that means.

But if you follow an individual story through a play, and their journey, and what happens to them, and the things they witness, and their search for their family, that has a much more powerful and emotional effect than just reading cold statistics. I really hope the play opens hearts and minds. I’m quite nervous about doing it in the U.S., though I’m sure a lot of our audience will be very sympathetic.

But I also hope there will be people in the audience who are pro nuclear deterrence and pro nuclear weapons—or even people who agree that the bombs should have been dropped on Japan. I’d love for them to see the play and be stopped and made to think and feel and think, Hmm, I wonder if my opinions are right? That would mean a lot to us. I hope it’s a means of opening more discussion and debate about these terrible weapons.

I’d love to perform the play at the White House [laughs] and in the Kremlin, but that’s never going to happen, is it? The two times I’ve performed in the States with my own—let’s call them antiwar plays—guess who was president? The same man. He was president in 2018 when I came to the States and performed my conscientious objectors play at some peace churches and colleges. Trump was president then. We performed in Washington, D.C., in a church not far from the Obamas. I think we put a letter through their letterbox! We invited them, but they didn’t show up. [laughs]

SD: What would you like to add?

MM: Well, just that this is the 80th anniversary of the dropping of the bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, which is why I so much wanted to have the play performed in the U.S. and Japan. We’re going to Japan later in the year, in September.

You are probably aware that the other week the atomic scientists moved the Doomsday Clock even closer to midnight by one second. The world is in such a fragile state now. I feel the play is not history. The Mistake is not—I mean, it’s history in one sense, but it feels so relevant and important and urgent now. We want to keep making people aware and remind them of the terrible consequences of using these weapons.

What was extraordinary was that in the UK, even in some of the Quaker schools, it was clear that some of the students knew very little about Hiroshima—and, indeed, many adults as well. There’s that sense of what Toshiko Tanaka was doing, of we mustn’t forget. We mustn’t forget. Those are probably good words to finish on.

The 2025 U.S. tour of The Mistake includes performances in April and May at various theaters, universities, churches, and Quaker meetings in Indiana, Illinois, Pennsylvania, and New York. Find a complete list of dates and locations on Michael Mears’s website.

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Tone-Deaf and Fine with It

Twenty-eight years ago, I was born. Of the many things I inherited—from my grandfather’s eyelashes to my grandmother’s blue-black hair—the one thing I did not inherit from either side of my family was an ear for or love of music.

One of the most effective events to gaslight my self-conception came from a boy I liked in my first semester of college. He informed me that contrary to my suspicion I couldn’t be tone-deaf because that was a rare thing, and so I must not suffer from it. He would know: both his parents were doctors. It wasn’t until I was 23 that my then-boyfriend/now-spouse said to me, “If you’re not tone-deaf, I will eat my hat. The way you describe the sounds in music is absolutely bananas.”

As “rare” as tone-deafness purportedly is, someone has to have it. The rarity of something is not contrary evidence to its existence. Perhaps equally misunderstood, perfect pitch was also described to me as “extremely rare.” However my immediate and strong reaction when someone tried to correct me was that of disbelief. No longer a student but now a college professor, I declared, “Is that right?” Snorting, I said, “Rare for you, perhaps, but every autistic friend I have has perfect pitch. All of them.” The autism—probably related to the prevalence of perfect pitch—is also called “absolute pitch” among my close family and friends, and it is likely also the reason for my own tone-deafness.

My autism with its denser-than-average gray matter makes for neural overconnectivity locally and hyperconnectivity across specific and repeated cross-brain pathways. Hyperfocus and ultra-specialization comes easier, and certain coordinated behaviors quickly gain near-compulsion status quickly. This means that autistics are often either inept or savant at the same kinds of skills: social reclusion but also hyper-sociability are traits in autism; hyperlexia (which I and my father have) or dyslexia (which my mother and grandfather had). Hearing pitch perfectly or not at all are two traits that go hand-in-hand: two sides of the same coin.

The ability to correctly hear the absolute pitch of notes—regardless of being able to reproduce them—means that you have perfect pitch. It is likely that you cannot become a musical prodigy without the extreme advantage that comes with the ability to correctly identify notes, but an ear can still be trained to do so. The ability to hear the precise pitch of sounds does not at all mean you can then produce those sounds. Often people with perfect pitch are extra-dissatisfied with their own musical ability and will tell me they are tone-deaf because they are certain they cannot make perfect music. This is how most people use the term: to apologize for poor musical skill, they will call themselves tone-deaf.

Tone-deafness does not mean that I do not enjoy music. I fully appreciate rhythmic beats and can hear melody. I have songs I listen to on repeat, albums that I adore, and artists that I follow, but when the best of singers harmonize, a pleasant enough sound turns bitter instantly: an unpleasant buzz in my ears. If I’ve made my peace with a soothingly dull church song, it will suddenly be sung in the round and turn into the equivalent cacophony of a garbage disposal. Although I can tell the difference between the thin and pale wails of vocals and the thick dampness of heavier notes, their contrast does not seem to bring me the intrinsic joy nor artistic appreciation that they have always seemed to provide for others.

Although I can tell the difference between the thin and pale wails of vocals and the thick dampness of heavier notes, their contrast does not seem to bring me the intrinsic joy nor artistic appreciation that they have always seemed to provide for others.

As an emerging adolescent at 13—already socially stressed in school—other teenagers’ constant desire to talk about music (bands, tours, instruments, the quality of a voice, or the skill of a bassist) was, to me, absolutely insufferable and deeply exhausting. I had no clue and was like a colorblind man at an exhibit of Impressionists: someone who can see the shapes and values but is missing whatever exciting thing animated others into a singular kind of delight. In the end, it was an experience that deeply damaged my trust in others.

At certain points in my life, I was sure that everyone else was lying. Music just wasn’t that good. The makers of the forceful beats and incredible wordsmithing of mostly Spanish, French, and Arabic rap songs were what I first found compelling enough to pass as “my favorite musicians,” which was a requirement for any self-respecting high schooler to have. But still, hearing Whitney Houston hold an impressive (to others) note was not unpleasant but was extra boring, despite clearly being a powerful performance. When singers hold a note, the variation of noises lessens, which suddenly sucks whatever beauty I was gleaning from the singing. And so much of what I know to be considered “good music” by the masses was unobtrusive and loud but boring, and before I was clear about why I could not differentiate nor appreciate certain sounds as much as others, I assumed that they were all somehow deceiving me. I assumed everyone was boring, and so I talked about music because it was safe and comfortable, like chatting about the weather.

I assumed that when people were obsessed with music, they were trying to be interesting because they had a bland personality. I thought that we were all collectively putting on a performance that “music was good,” much like we like to declare that “inequality is inevitable,” “lying is an inherent part of the human psyche,” and “poverty is a problem of the poor.” Clearly, it was necessary to pretend that music was as interesting as other art forms, which clearly it wasn’t, because I had ears and was listening to the same things as seemingly every other person in the world was. And I just didn’t get it. I had no one to explain this particular aspect of what was, for me, the most rampant of collective social delusions.

One too many times, my mother was secondhandedly embarrassed by me when I was nine, ten, or maybe even 12, and she would bring me home from a party and then spend hours upon hours teaching me to sing “Happy Birthday/Las Mañanitas” in two languages. She did, and I can sing it to a normal and fine standard. But it was hard won to get even those basic tunes into my muscle memory: well past what other children managed without ever having to practice.

But the sense of betrayal came from not having been told of the disability; it was particularly bad to be lied to about something that literally everyone could perceive about you, but you could not.

At some younger age than that—maybe four or possibly six—I came home outrageously furious at my family for having told me I was good at singing. I had found out years later that I was not good at singing; the object of my rage was that my mom had told me (in that way you tell small children) that my singing voice was perfect and beautiful, just like my art skills or storytelling abilities. She had lied.

But the sense of betrayal came from not having been told of the disability; it was particularly bad to be lied to about something that literally everyone could perceive about you, but you could not.

What’s worse than being excluded from any integral aspect of life is feeling singular in your discomfort, like there must be something essential in your body or mind that doesn’t render because. . . .  Well, how can you know why, if you don’t have a word for what it is?

“I don’t regret telling you that you were a good singer. What’s the alternative? To impede the childhood joy of singing?” my mother told me once, as I explained neurons and my acoustic self-discoveries. I think about that perspective and then respond, “It’s not about lying. You thought my singing was valuable, even though it was objectively wrong.”

“But there’s no wrong way to sing!” she objected, with great conviction.

“That’s true no matter what. But it’s not offensive to be told you’re bad at a thing you literally can’t tell exists. In fact, it’s important to me to talk about it because I thought I was the one in the wrong for forever, and I’m not. But others are not wrong either. I thought it was either me or everyone else in the world. The two couldn’t be right at the same time. But they can, just like it’s not bad to be autistic. It’s life-saving to know that there’s a reason I can’t seem to lie, to know why we are the way we are, right?”

My mother—longtime explainer to other parents and family of the nameless weirdness of her extra-bookish, antisocial husband, who finally found the name for it when a cousin was diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome and her daughters were identified as autistic—understands this comparison perfectly. Just like she had to have conversations with me about why constantly correcting the teacher was inappropriate despite school being about learning, she also had many a meeting with music or dance teachers who were terrified to break the news that I was just never going to be on good terms with the difference between notes, and it wasn’t for lack of effort on either their part or mine.

And so, if ever we share a meetinghouse, you and I, know that when you all raise your voices in worshipful song, I will lift my hands and in complete silence, sign along to whatever words I hear in the music you sing and to the beat of whatever joy lives in all of our hearts.

It’s soul-soothing to know that I’m not missing an aspect of human-hood; I just don’t perceive what others perceive when hearing the exact same thing. And it’s fine: it has a name, and it helps to explain lots of things to myself and others. In fact, it’s great fun to finally know how to ask all the things I really truly wonder about music. My descriptions sounded unhinged without that magic word: tone-deaf.

Now, sitting next to my husband with perfect pitch, from a family with perfect pitch, I whisper during a Broadway musical, “Why is his voice doing like a shaky thing when it goes up and gets long, but hers is steady and big and also moves like a snake but at different widths all the time?” He narrows his eyes and closes them while he turns one ear to the stage, listening to a Nala and Simba duet in The Lion King. After about 45 seconds, he opens them with the sparkling excitement of a competent teacher in his eyes. “It’s because he’s singing out of his range, and she’s not,” he whispers hotly in my ear. “He’s not bad at covering it up; clearly he’s a talented enough singer, but you can’t fake your range. In fact, she’s helping him out at times, but she’s probably the better Broadway star, triple-threat. He must be an exceptional dancer or something, maybe he’s the understudy.”

Although I flee from choir-like songs and singing in the round (which Quakers love to do constantly and without ceasing) that sounds absolutely horrific and almost physically painful to sit through, much less to pretend to enjoy. Sometimes I can’t escape Friends’ love of music and spontaneous song erupts.

As long as there are lyrics, I do participate: not with sounds but with signs: not because of my tone-deafness but because while English is my third language, American Sign Language (ASL) is my fifth. I spent months when I was 18, ten years ago, teaching ASL to that boy in college who denied my tone-deafness, then I completed a bachelor’s degree in sign language linguistics. Later I finished a master’s thesis on the methodological literary translation of ASL poetry. And so, if ever we share a meetinghouse, you and I, know that when you all raise your voices in worshipful song, I will lift my hands and in complete silence, sign along to whatever words I hear in the music you sing and to the beat of whatever joy lives in all of our hearts.

The post On Hating Music appeared first on Friends Journal.

Finding My Spiritual Home in QuakerismAlone with God

I attended my first Quaker meeting for worship just before my first semester started at Haverford College. I remember sitting down on the cushioned bench and picking up the pamphlet next to me to read about how worship works. It explained that Quakers got their name from the way some people quaked when offering vocal ministry to the meeting. 

From the silence, the first message-giver spoke about the Jewish tradition of requiring ten grown men, called a minyan, to be present at every service. He told an anecdote in which a synagogue had only nine grown men present, so they forced a boy who just had his bar mitzvah to attend the service. That was the conclusion of his message. 

How mysterious, I thought. Why had he just given this message? What did it mean? I contemplated it for several minutes, and then I understood. But I was a newcomer, so initially I did not want to speak. Yet as more time went by, I started to feel that I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I started quaking, like those early Quakers I had read about. 

So I stood up to speak, and all I said was this: “How many must be present at a Quaker meeting? Only two: yourself and God.”

I sat down, relieved from giving voice to a ministry that had swelled up within me. After several more minutes, a third person spoke, and she danced while she did so. She shared that she found the Quaker practice of sitting still and silent in your seat limiting and that movement was also a way of communicating and being with the Spirit. Then a fourth person spoke, resonating with the third message and sharing about his own relationship with movement. 

This first meeting that I attended left me impressed. The way that the spiritual presence of everyone at the meeting drew out of me, a newcomer, a succinct message that addressed the spirit of the first message. It felt like a powerful welcoming, not just into the Quaker community but also into the fountain of my inner wisdom. And for two people to challenge the Quaker norm of stillness by voicing their desire for movement made it clear that this was a community that welcomed critique and new ideas. 

This first experience of Quaker worship made me realize that I had spiritual gifts that I wanted to cultivate. So I kept going to worship that first year of college, continuing even when meetings switched to online worship due to the pandemic. Quakerism quickly became my spiritual home.

Seeking Differently

Since that year, my attendance at worship has been much spottier, for various reasons. I got busier, as many college students do. I developed bipolar disorder in my sophomore year and became burdened by emotional turmoil. Eventually, I was placed on medications that turned me from an early bird who woke up at 7 a.m. without an alarm to a night owl who could easily sleep past 10 o’clock. This made it much harder to wake up in time to attend morning worship. I didn’t attend at all for months at a time. 

Because of this and because I have not yet become a member of a meeting, I still consider myself a seeker rather than a full Quaker. But my spiritual yearnings have grown over the years. They have grown as I have grown into my complex identity as a nonbinary, neurodivergent, Chinese American young adult with a mental health difference.

In particular, my neurodivergence and mental health differences have strongly shaped my spirituality. Being bipolar makes me intensely spiritual when manic: suddenly everything makes sense about life, and I appreciate every little detail, even the crinkle of plastic wrap. But depression can be spiritual in its own way, as it immerses me in the shadow dimensions of life, into caverns of deep questioning. Autism—which I was diagnosed with last year along with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD)—gives me a strong commitment to the truth (honesty) and to my truth (authenticity). It also makes my relationship with rules intense: either I obsessively follow rules, obsessively rebel against rules, or obsessively create my own rules.

As a child, I was very strict with what I considered to be moral rules, ranging in gravity from being a pacifist to always eating my vegetables. Perhaps if my family were religious, I would have been devoted to a religious tradition and its doctrines and moral codes. But I have had to find my own spirituality and make meaning of life for myself. Influenced by Daoism and Buddhism since childhood and exploring Quakerism as a young adult, I have sought a syncretic spiritual foundation that could embrace all the parts of me, from my ancestral roots to my canopies of dreams. 

My spiritual journey has been in part a process towards defining my experiences for myself. Mainstream psychotherapy and psychiatry often neglect the spiritual dimension of life and fail to recognize that altered mental states can be incredibly meaningful to people, even when they are coupled with intense struggle. Though I do use diagnostic language to map my experiences onto Western psychiatric frameworks, it is not the only way I understand myself. I consider myself to be yinyang ren, a person of yin and yang. It is an identity and a philosophy at once, encompassing many of my social differences—my Chinese heritage, my bigender fluidity, my bipolar condition—while grounding me in a spiritual pursuit of energetic balance.

Each time I have returned to meeting after a long absence, I have been someone new. Yet each time I return, the Spirit is much the same. 

Illustration by Jaden BleierChallenges in Community

My journey with mental health and neurodivergence has taken me to places that others have not been, both literally and figuratively. My young adulthood has been defined by crisis: whether it is the personal moments of extreme distress that at times led to hospitalization, or the multilayered social and environmental crises that fever our world. Spirituality has been a way to cope and stay alive and to interpret the synchronicities in my life. Even when I did not attend Quaker worship, I could ground myself in the spirit of the message I gave at the first meeting I attended and be with that of God inside of me.  

But looking back, I’ve realized that that first vocal ministry of mine was missing a critical component of Quaker practice: the value of community. As an autistic person who struggles with maintaining relationships, regularly engaging in community can be difficult. My strongest relationships tend to be with neuroqueer people with whom I practice mutual aid. When I need you and you need me, it is harder for me to forget about you. But the ideal of intentional community is part of what brought me to Haverford College and to Quakerism. I initially did not realize how challenging community living would be for me. 

Neurodivergence and mental health differences can pose challenges to living in community, both for the person with these experiences and for the people around them. In my young adulthood, I have been in situations where I hurt a person or otherwise neglected the needs of a community (Quaker or not), that I was a part of. Usually the issues involved either not having full control over myself in times of mental unwellness or not understanding a social situation in the same way other people did, thus believing a certain action to be right when it was not. But it was also often the case that social and physical environments were simply not designed for people like me, and this mismatch caused problems. 

I was at an educational summer program once that turned out to be very mismatched with my neurodivergent needs. Due to my autistic struggle to navigate certain social situations, I unknowingly hurt many people around me. Some of these people then shunned me without explanation, which confused me. I was left not knowing for weeks what was going on until the director of the program called me in for a meeting and explained the specific harms that I had caused. At that meeting, I decided to leave the program, as I did not want to cause any more harm. 

In this case, retreating from the community in order to care for myself and allow the community to recover in the aftermath of conflict was probably the best path forward. I don’t blame the people involved for not communicating clearly to me what I did wrong, as they were likely afraid of my response and did not know that I was autistic and genuinely trying to improve my social awareness. But now I know that for me—and probably for a lot of autistic and neurodivergent people, as well as people with mental health differences—the best way to address conflicts that arise due to differences in functioning is to be direct and clear about what went wrong but also gentle and patient with learning to improve. Sometimes, I may not have the capacity to fix or even understand the problem at the moment. Yet given the time and space to process my experiences, I can learn and grow from what happened. 

I suggest that people be not afraid of approaching us neurodivergent folks with critique, even when we are sensitive to it. We need love and care just like everyone else, and often that means being honest and direct with us, just as some of us may be characteristically honest and direct with you. It may take longer for us to figure out how our strengths and challenges interact with the needs of a community, but we deserve the chance to learn. 

A Garden for Neurodivergence

I long for mentorship from spiritual people who experience neurodivergence or mental health differences, who might accompany me on my path of meaning-making and healing. I have been reaching out on my own to folks I know to try to find guidance on my journey. I wonder what it would look like for Quaker meetings to create apertures for connection around spiritual intensity and idiosyncrasy. What if we renewed the practice of eldering to nurture the mental and spiritual health of community members, paying special attention to the needs of the most marginalized or vulnerable?

Many young Quakers and seekers come into the Quaker community having embraced the language of neurodivergence to describe themselves. But my suspicion is that within the Quaker community, there are many people, especially older folks, who might be considered neurodivergent yet have never thought of themselves as such. The democratic, undogmatic nature of Quakerism attracts many independent and creative thinkers, who may be more likely to be neurodivergent. What potential there is then for mutual guidance and connection around social difference! People of all ages may learn from one another to embrace their quirky selves and deepen their spiritual commitments. People, young and old, need each other to grow and thrive in their personal journeys. 

I would love for there to be affinity groups within the Quaker community that explore the topics of neurodivergence and mental health differences, perhaps similar to the existing groups supporting those identifying as BIPOC or LGBTQIA. I know from speaking with neurodivergent Quakers that many of us tend to feel lonely and may find it difficult to discover new people whose experiences are similar to our own. Each of us has unique gifts and challenges, and we each experience a unique relationship between neurodivergence and spirituality; together we may support one another in developing our personal ministry. 

It would also be wonderful for Quaker meetings to create space for worship activities that are more accommodating to the needs of neurodivergent people. For example, thinking of the messages at the first meeting I attended, I wonder if there could be worship offerings that permit people to move their bodies or to be less silent. This could mean meetings for worship that have different or more flexible rules in place, or it could mean other worshipful activities, such as singing and dancing, especially as a group improvisation. There could also be offerings on days and times other than Sunday mornings, which may make it easier for anyone who is not an early riser to attend. 

It must be kept in mind that not all neurodivergent people are comfortable disclosing their identity or access needs. I’m unusually open about my neurodivergence and mental health difference and intentionally use my openness to advocate for the needs of others. Ideally, Quakers should work as a whole to be better informed about common access needs of neurodivergent people and make events accessible as a default. In particular, as a lot of people hold onto outdated information and stereotypes relating to autism and ADHD—not knowing, for example, how those conditions can manifest differently for adults and for women, nonbinary people, and trans people—meetings need to update their knowledge and make it easier for neurodivergent people to communicate and meet their specific needs. 

In this way, Quaker communities can become sanctuaries for neurodivergent people and anyone who feels different, lonely, or lost. It’s not about labels and diagnoses, though such language does help some neurodivergent folks to understand themselves and discover one another. It’s about honoring all the different songs and dances of the human spirit to the music of the universe.

The post A Person of Yin and Yang appeared first on Friends Journal.

Quaker Teachers Working with Neurodivergent Students

Quaker values of equality and community influence how educators who teach neurodivergent and neurodiverse students view their work. Neurodivergent students can face barriers to educational access and inclusion in classrooms because schools historically have developed to reflect the perspective of neurotypical students. Disability rights advocacy has led to national legislation and international guidelines that aim to reduce stigma around neurodivergence as well as promote inclusion and complete access to education for all students.

Dictionary definitions of neurodivergent and neurodiverse both refer to individuals whose brains function in ways that are not neurotypical. Some experts argue that neurological functioning is as unique as fingerprints and that everyone is neurodiverse. Some examples of diagnoses that are often considered neurodivergent are autism spectrum disorder and attention deficit hyperactivity disorder.

Friends Journal spoke with staff members of Quaker schools in the United States, Rwanda, and Ireland about evolving views of neurodiversity. The educators also discussed how belief in equality leads to a commitment to equity. In addition, they considered the way faith in community promotes full inclusion of all students.

“As part of our Quaker religious education program, we emphasize the importance of respect for all and talk about the distinction between equity and equality to enable the children to better understand that some children need additional support in order to access what school offers,” said Deirdre McSweeney, principal of Newtown Junior School in Waterford, Ireland.

All Quaker values encourage school faculty and staff to help all students, especially those with special needs, according to pastor Nizigiye Augustin, chaplain of Collège George Fox Kagarama, a Quaker middle school in Kigali, Rwanda. As the school chaplain, he teaches employees about the love of Jesus and that humans should love each other as Jesus first loved humanity. Such moral commitments lead school staff to want to include neurodiverse pupils and offer them the resources they need to succeed.

Equity refers to students needing different support to reach their potential. It is related to the Quaker value of equality, Karen Carney, head of school at Chicago Friends School, explained. The Quaker testimony of community promotes accepting people as they are, Carney observed. Recognizing that of God within each person helps educators meet people where they are, she noted. Carney is a member of Evanston (Ill.) Meeting.

Children learn from concrete examples of equity. In one lesson, lower school students at Brooklyn Friends School in Brooklyn, New York, took off their shoes and put them in a pile, explained Kate Minear, lower school math specialist. The students each chose a pair of shoes at random to try on. The children understood that each person needs shoes that fit their feet, and they came to understand that each pupil needs lessons and curriculum that fit their brain.

Each person has a unique way of experiencing the world and processing information, regardless of whether they have a diagnosis, according to M’Balia Rubie-Miller, Brooklyn Friends School’s middle school learning specialist and all school learning support coordinator. Each person’s experience of school is influenced by a unique neurological profile.

“We have talked about how we are all neurodiverse,” said Rubie-Miller.

This photo and those below are of Chicago Friends School students working in the classroom. Photos by Elizabeth DeVries.

Contemporary beliefs about equity for neurodivergent and neurodiverse students follow those of previous generations in which they were excluded from school and faced barriers to connecting socially with other children. National legislation as well as international policies aim to remedy previous inequities.

Historically in the United States, children who would now be described as neurodivergent were segregated from their peers and not sent to school. Disability-rights activism (led in part by parents of children not allowed to attend school) led to such federal legislation as the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA). The precursor to IDEA, known as the Education for All Handicapped Children Act, became law in 1975. The law mandated a free appropriate public education in the least restrictive environment for children with disabilities, including neurodivergent students.

IDEA made school accessible for neurodivergent students, but educators trained in the years following its passage continued to view such students through a deficit-based lens. More contemporary philosophies of education acknowledge the academic strengths and community contributions of neurodivergent pupils.

In Ireland, the Education Act of 1998 stated that each person, including each individual with a disability or special educational needs, has a right to an education. Educators are legally obligated to provide necessary support services as well as instruction that suits each student’s needs and abilities.

Rwanda ratified the UN Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities in 2008 and committed to the National Policy of Persons with Disabilities in 2021. The policy notes that physical and cultural obstacles have excluded people with disabilities from participating fully in society and that the country’s leaders support complete inclusion. Historically, those who serve people with disabilities have emphasized individual impairment over removing barriers to full inclusion in society.

Inclusive and equitable school environments benefit not only neurodivergent students but all learners, according to teachers at Brooklyn Friends School. Diversity makes school communities stronger as students learn that it is all right to experience the world and express oneself in ways that do not necessarily conform to society’s norms. Neurodivergent and neurotypical students often interact well together.

“We often see kids just innately adapting to each other’s styles,” said Beth Duffy, middle school learning specialist at Brooklyn Friends School.

Children with diverse neurological profiles share many of the same concerns and interests. Neurodiverse and neurotypical children all engage in problem solving, are concerned with fairness and rules, and involve themselves in imaginative play, according to Karen Carney.

One student with a distinctive type of social interaction was voted student council representative, notes Jonathan Edmonds, lower school math specialist at Brooklyn Friends School.

“Students are accepted for all their quirks, differences, and uniqueness,” Edmonds said.

Students talk a lot about disability, justice, and identity, so neurodiversity fits in with those discussions, according to Rubie-Miller. In addition, students regularly lead assemblies on disability justice and how to be an ally.

Social-emotional learning helps all students develop personal and interpersonal competence. Teachers use conversations with students to coach them on social-emotional learning skills. One key skill that pupils practice is naming feelings, explained Sim Lynch, reading specialist and clerk of Learning Team at Buckingham Friends School, a middle school in Lahaska, Pennsylvania. Neurodiverse students might need help identifying their emotions, as well as determining steps to take when they feel a particular way, she explained. The school counselor also helps students with social-emotional learning.

Ireland’s National Council for Curriculum and Assessment mandates a social health and personal education curriculum, Deirdre McSweeney explained. The curriculum involves whole classes in lessons on friendship, acceptance, and bullying prevention.

Teachers seeking to address the needs of neurodivergent learners improve instruction for the whole class, according to Lynch. All students benefit from explicit instruction and authentic engagement when learning new skills, observed Lynch. To learn a skill, students require practice and three recalls, ideally with a sleep between each recall. Neurodiverse students may require additional opportunities for practice and recall.

Beth Duffy believes all students benefit from the multi-sensory teaching techniques that work well with neurodivergent learners.

Jonathan Edmonds noted that support for neurodivergent students helps the whole class. For example, when teachers ask students questions and then give adequate time to think of answers, all students benefit.

“It helps break that tendency to just speed and rush and rush,” Edmonds said.

Emergent readers understand that each student gets the support needed and that each learner’s needs are different, according to Kat Lofstrom, lower school learning specialist at Brooklyn Friends School. Lofstrom said that one child had described this understanding, “We’re all on a reading journey.”

In addition to enriching teachers’ academic and social instruction, neurodivergent students contribute academic strengths to their classrooms.

“Like all individuals, neurodivergent students have unique strengths,” said Lofstrom. She said that some neurodivergent pupils demonstrate considerable grit, perseverance, and a strong understanding of metacognition. “They’re really learning how they learn,” Lofstrom said.

Some students who struggle with attention can focus on specific areas of interest for long periods of time, according to Kate Minear, lower school math specialist at Brooklyn Friends School. Such students can develop a deep interest in math and excel in the subject.

“They see things visually in a really surprising way,” said Minear.

A lower school class was looking at an image made of dots, and one neurodivergent student demonstrated his own way of determining how many dots there were, Jonathan Edmonds explained. Instead of counting the dots by ones, the learner saw a triangle within the picture and used the shape to develop an understanding of how many dots there were. Neurodivergent students may make striking connections between numbers and patterns as well as numbers and shapes. Contributing such perspectives to the class enriches everyone’s learning.

Teacher training in the most current methods of instructing neurodiverse students—both in college and in professional development classes for working educators—prepares teachers to help all students succeed. In some instances, instructors lack adequate preparation and support.

Neurodiverse students might experience sensory overwhelm from loud sounds, which leads to outbursts or isolation, according to pastor Nizigiye Augustin, chaplain of Collège George Fox Kagarama middle school in Rwanda. Teachers do not have professional training to address these challenges, Augustin noted. The school offers inclusive classrooms where students with special needs socialize with students who do not have special needs.

“We need to foster inclusion and equity. We try our best to help students with special needs, but we still lack resources like specialized programs, assistive technology, and emotional support from specialists,” Augustin said. He is also the pastor of Evangelical Friends Church of Rwanda.

Historically, colleges in Ireland have not adequately prepared new teachers to address the needs of neurodiverse students, according to McSweeney. University education for teachers has improved in recent years but still does not fully prepare instructors to work with neurodivergent students, she observed. New teachers require continuing professional development in order to meet the needs of neurodiverse learners, she explained. 

Training for U.S. teachers who work with neurodivergent students has also improved over the years. Previous generations of teachers were less aware of neurodiversity, Chicago Friends School’s Carney noted. Educators used to call children with ADHD “lazy and sloppy,” observed Carney, who has ADHD.

Many teachers leave master’s programs without a solid understanding of neurodivergence, according to Brooklyn Friends School’s Duffy. For instance, educators often do not realize that students with learning disabilities have average or above average intelligence. Graduate programs also do not necessarily teach about evidence-based strategies such as multi-sensory approaches.

“I think it’s really important that school leaders, learning specialists, and teacher mentors are well-versed in those evidence-based practices,” Duffy said.

Schools can help equip teachers to work with neurodivergent students by offering professional development opportunities. Staff members at Buckingham Friends School spend time meeting together to discuss the type of learning they would like all students to receive, Lynch pointed out. Educators go to professional development training to allow time to collaborate. The school has a four-member learning team with whom teachers can discuss what they notice and what they are wondering about in students’ learning processes, Lynch explained.

Sensitivity to issues of equality and equity as well as belief in inclusive communities motivate Quaker teachers who work with neurodivergent and neurodiverse students. Friends offer a particular spiritual perspective on educating students with varying neurological profiles. Quaker educators can also draw on a long history of activism on justice issues to inspire them to advocate for neurodiverse students.

Suggestions for Further Reading Provided by Staff of Brooklyn Friends School

We’re All Neurodiverse: How to Build a Neurodiversity-Affirming Future and Challenge Neuronormativity by Sonny Jane Wise.

Demystifying Disability: What to Know, What to Say, and How to Be an Ally by Emily Ladau.

The Pocket Guide to Neurodiversity by Daniel Aherne.

Culturally Responsive Teaching and the Brain: Promoting Authentic Engagement and Rigor Among Culturally and Linguistically Diverse Students by Zaretta L. Hammond (will be updated in 2026).

The Identity-Conscious Educator: Building Habits and Skills for a More Inclusive School by Liza A. Talusan.

The post Equality and Community in Friends Schools appeared first on Friends Journal.

One of my core beliefs as a Quaker is that I, a human being with no special ordination or sanctification, have access to the divine and holy spark that is equal to every other person’s. And when I join in worship service with others, I know that we are striving together to make space in our lives for that which illuminates our way. I have lost count of how many times I’ve dragged myself into Quaker meeting on some Sunday morning I was tempted to sleep in, only to hear in the ministry of a fellow Friend words that I needed to hear and that strengthened my own faith.

We are in need of one another, Friends, to walk this spiritual path. I believe that taking care to enlarge our circles, to make room for more in what we think of as our Quaker family, is a task to which Spirit is calling us. And so it is a delight, this month, to share with you the stories of Friends whose lens of experiencing the world may be profoundly different from yours, and who have found room in Quaker communities for them. I invite you to read these articles with a mind open to understanding and a commitment to learning.

The greater a people we gather, the more we’re going to need to learn from and make space for people who are different from us in a diverse range of aspects. In this issue of Friends Journal, our editors have collected powerful testimonies from Friends whose brains work in ways that situate them outside the mainstream of human experience. While it is a term that lumps together many very different aspects of mental being, we’ve used “neurodiverse” to emphasize the richness and variety of perspectives within our Quaker communities, and how Spirit works through those whose brains process the world in ways the world doesn’t consider “typical.”

As you read the articles in this issue, I invite you to consider: what are neurodiverse Friends asking of all of us?

Encourage my participation . . . Show me compassion . . . Understand that my “quiet” may be different from yours . . . Try to learn from my way of seeing the world . . . Help me know what to expect . . . Trust me when I tell you what I need . . .

It’s my hope that as we understand these simple requests, not only will we learn how fulfilling they can be to fulfill, but we will do important work in making our communities work better for everyone.

The post The Many Lenses of Quaker Experience appeared first on Friends Journal.

Quaker Meetings as Neurodivergent-Affirming Spaces

“I’ve started going to Quaker meetings because the Buddhists are too noisy.” It’s become a “comedy bit” that I do now when I’m mentioning my attendance to other people, including my Buddhist nun teacher who laughed and knows how happy I am that the local Buddhist center’s retreat this year is a silent one. Like most comedy routines, it contains truth. It is wonderful to sit mostly in quietness with other people without feeling a pressure to interact. There’s not a constant input of teachings, prayers, chants or hymns, or “discussion sections” to process. There’s only the occasional burst of words that often resonates in my mind like a bright bell and focuses my attention, which then itself seems to vibrate in tune with the after ring. I become the bell.

“It’s the biggest dopamine high of my week: sitting in a circle with 12 mostly retired people in Monkseaton.” That’s another line in my bit. But it’s true. Quakers are a byword for quietness and—given that many people still confuse them with the Amish—for restraint, purity, and “properness.” But I am finding attending the meetings thrilling. The hour brings me entirely alive.

I didn’t realize until I wrote this how apt the name of the meeting is. For anyone local to me (near the city of Newcastle upon Tyne in North East England), Monkseaton is a quiet coastal suburb. I love how I’ve just realized that the word carries a sense of berobed figures, seated in contemplation: Monk-seat-on. I am a professional poet, often employed to summarize events, like festivals or conferences, in instant verse. But slower, more private versions of sinking into words allow me space and time to process thoughts, feelings, and sensations. I feel that Quaker meetings also allow me this space and time, but it’s done communally. In fact, sometimes I feel like the group is cowriting a poem together, mostly silently except when parts of it burst through into speech. This feeling is not in my comedy bit.

Something that is only sometimes in the comedy bit, depending on whom I’m talking to, is “Quakers are very autistic-friendly.” If I’m talking to one of my many fellow late-diagnosed autistic or attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) friends and colleagues, then I will include it. Maybe it will make them want to go along to a meeting. Maybe it will help them realize that there are more places than they think that are safe and good spaces for people of our particular neurotype. But if it’s someone whom I don’t know, or who might only recognize the “medical model” of autism—described only by deficits with the stigmas and stereotypes about existing only with a learning disability and not possibly with empathy or a need for connection—then I will not mention it.

I see my Quaker meeting as a place of unmasking: somewhere I can go and be accepted as myself and drop the usual social norms and requirements. 

I am very publicly “out” about my autism diagnosis, having written a poetry collection about it. I am currently touring a spoken word show about neurodiversity. Shame thrives in silence, and since I am in a job where being “eccentric” is more accepted as part of the persona than it would be for someone who works in a bank, I hope I can make a difference by being open. But I still encounter many situations where somebody’s first reaction to hearing it will be something like: But you can’t be autistic! You’re making eye contact! Seem very sociable! Have been married! I seem to fit their expectations of “normal” and will be openly disbelieved. But like many of us who were diagnosed later in life (I was 42 and am 49 now), I have spent a lot of my life masking or camouflaging my autistic traits in order to fit in. This isn’t a conscious decision. It’s a reaction to how society can treat people who are different in their sensory, social, emotional, and cognitive ways of being. Masking takes energy, and new research shows it can often increase mental health problems and trauma, but for many of us it is unconscious, necessary, and ingrained.

Image by undrey

I see my Quaker meeting as a place of unmasking: somewhere I can go and be accepted as myself and drop the usual social norms and requirements. I love reading about the early Quakers. It seems like they were going through their own process of “unmasking”: questioning why hat-doffing, vow-swearing, and titles were necessary. They were making a more direct and bodily connection with something transpersonal, rejecting traditional hierarchies and power structures because they don’t make sense.

I am not diagnosing the early Quakers as autistic. However, they were certainly neurodivergent or “neuroqueer” in the definition used by neurodiversity activist and scholar Nick Walker. Walker’s definition of neurodiversity recognizes it can be a movement or a paradigm, not just a descriptor. Used as a philosophy, it values differences in the ways that people process things as a strength, just as variety is a strength in biodiversity:

The idea that there is one “normal” or “healthy” type of brain or mind, or one “right” style of neurocognitive functioning, is a culturally constructed fiction, no more valid (and no more conducive to a healthy society or to the overall well-being of humanity) than the idea that there is one “normal” or “right” ethnicity, gender, or culture.

I think of George Fox’s radical belief that men and women were equal and how that meant early Quaker women thought and presented themselves differently from other women who were forced into more normal (heteronormative) ways of being. That seems to me to fit Walker’s description of “neuroqueering.” Walker acknowledges that the term has multiple definitions but suggests one of them as

Engaging in practices intended to undo and subvert one’s own cultural conditioning and one’s ingrained habits of neuronormative and heteronormative performance, with the aim of reclaiming one’s capacity to give more full expression to one’s uniquely weird potentials and inclinations.

The word “weird” here is being reclaimed from being used in a derogatory sense, but there’s an intriguing origin to it. It comes from the Old English wyrd, which means “fate,” which in turn meant “spoken by the gods.” In more than one way, society has deemed it weird to sit together and silently attend on what might be spoken or heard in that silence. As an autistic person, I can struggle to filter out lots of sensory information that enters my brain simultaneously. In a meeting, I can tune in. I think it helps that I’d had a meditation practice for a couple of years before I started attending six months ago. I am getting better at working out what is an internal physical sensation, what is a thought from my “chattering mind,” and what is an insistent gathering of attention— I’ve come to learn that this indicates I might be listening to or speaking from something transpersonal. I am more likely to say “from the Light” than “from God,” but honestly, “from the bright ringing” would feel closer. It’s full-bodied, auditory, and within and beyond me all at once.

The sense of all attention being focused and heightened seems to me likely both a challenge and an opportunity for my fellow autistic and ADHD humans with low-support needs. Many of us operate better when our brains can look at just one thing at a time and be in a state of hyper-focus or flow. But many of us will struggle with lack of dopamine or an intensely wandering mind. The quiet might feel overwhelming.

Our bodies may need to “stim” (self-stimulate) with repetitive movements like foot tapping, hair twirling, or body rocking, in order to calm ourselves from the anxiety of being in an unfamiliar space with unfamiliar people. Given that we are often hypersensitive to sensory environments, we might hear the lights humming or a clock ticking, or we might be assailed by our neighbour’s perfume or distracted by someone’s very red scarf.

I would love many more neurodivergent people to be issued a clear invitation. . . . This is a movement that was founded on upholding difference and will continue to do so. Perhaps I could go so far as to say, it is a place where it is possible to be “proudly weird.”

Ideas about what makes a good “space” for neurodivergent people are still being developed. My instinct and conclusion from my own experience is that Quaker meetings are potentially good places for many neurodivergent people to worship and to be. But the invitation needs to become more explicit (with references to neurodiversity made clear in informational literature) and consideration given to any accommodations that can be made. 

One new framework, developed by autistic doctors for healthcare settings, uses the acronym “SPACE.” The “S” stands for sensory needs, already generally well-considered in Quaker spaces. “P” is predictability, which again is often a great strength of Quaker meetings; making clear information available in advance will help with this, too. The “A” in SPACE is for acceptance, which, again, Quakers have running through their ethos. “C” stands for communication: this is about being aware that autistic people may have different communication needs. Some may be non-speaking or use augmented communication devices. Many have fluent speech but may struggle in times of stress or overload. Clarity and directness are recommended, as many autistic people interpret meanings literally (an organization that values “plain speech” is already onto a winner). The “E” is for empathy; although autistic people are stereotyped as lacking empathy (while many of us in fact have a surfeit of it), it’s less recognized that non-autistic people can struggle to empathize with the different processing needs and communication and sensory profiles of autistic people. Taking time to understand these differences will help in all sorts of ways, as will giving increased physical space, time to process, and recognition of the different ways that emotions are expressed and received.

I must confess to an irony. A new writer friend had originally invited me to a Friends meeting because, as she said, “I keep getting this feeling that you’d love the space and the stirring that’s happening within it.” She’s seen my show and knows about my neurodivergence. But it’s not something that I’ve mentioned in that room where everything happens and nothing happens. I’ve found myself talking about snails and their homes, living adventurously, how love can be embodied in a saint’s name, still being attached to a duck, felled trees, and questions about “what would George Fox do?” But I haven’t spoken about my neurodivergence. There is, in fact, a freedom that comes in not having that as an explicit part of my identity for an hour: to exist in a place beyond labels and identities and find a flow that is part of something wider and deeper, where I am accepted, connected, and reflected. But it is a freedom that is made possible by the conditions that enable me to feel safe and relaxed enough to be part of it. I was lucky to have been invited in by somebody with a good intuition, but I would love many more neurodivergent people to be issued a clear invitation that tells them their needs would be recognized in Quaker meetings and that this is a movement that was founded on upholding difference and will continue to do so. Perhaps I could go so far as to say, it is a place where it is possible to be “proudly weird.”

The post A Place of Unmasking appeared first on Friends Journal.

Becoming the Self God Made Me to Be

I have a tight relationship with the divine flow of energy that I call God, and because of this, I occasionally use the word “mystic” to describe how I am oriented. I don’t, though, feel comfortable using the term “contemplative” for myself. I think of contemplatives as people who are deliberate, methodical, slow, and inward; none of which I am. Early in my time among Quakers, I had the impression that most Friends’ minds were like old Irish setters; they would come into the meetingroom, circle a couple of times before the fire, and then settle into stillness. My mind, however, was like an undisciplined chihuahua with the mail carrier on the front porch. My very first clue that I have attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) was after the rise of worship a couple of decades ago: a Friend shared how she hadn’t been able to center down and described what was happening in her mind and how disruptive it was that day. She talked about it as if it were highly unusual for her, but what she described was how my brain is—all of the time. 

Have you ever seen a drop of water resting on a body of water, and then, suddenly, the surface tension of the individual drop breaks, and it dissolves into the body? Sometimes that happens for me in meeting for worship. 

I have been a Quaker since my middle child, Zan (who recently turned 30), was learning to walk. Over the decades, I have participated in what surely must be thousands of hours of waiting worship. And yet, I still struggle with outward stillness and inward silence. My brain simply cannot settle the way most other Friends seem to do. My body is rarely able to quiet enough to cease movement. I joke that my primary spiritual practice is fidgeting. Sometimes, meeting for worship is excruciatingly hard for me. There have been times when I could not stay in the worship room because the hyperactivity of ADHD came to the fore, and I didn’t want to disturb others. 

I used to think this made me a failure as a Quaker. I could not do the one practice that seems intrinsic to the communities of Friends that I worship with. Several years ago, I tried to explain this to an anchoring committee supporting me as I participated in the School of the Spirit’s Spiritual Nurturer program. One Friend asked why I stay if it is so hard: why not worship in ways that are easier? I wrestled with the question for a long while afterwards. God even sent me on a spiritual sojourn for a few years, in part to help me explore the question. I loved learning to whirl and chant with Sufis, the sensory engagement of worship with Hindus, and the responsive readings calling us to actions of love and social justice with the LGBTQIA+ affirming Alliance of Baptists church. But I was not led to put down roots in any of these wonderful communities. As I held my relationship with each in the Light, my understanding that I am my truest self among Friends was reaffirmed for me. In spite of my challenges, waiting worship and our precious and remarkable way of seeking unity with one another gathered in the Holy Spirit during our business meetings is the right path for me.

This was good to know but didn’t make my sense of inadequacy and failure as a Quaker any less painful. 

I don’t mean to suggest that worship was never deep, rich, and profound for me. Sometimes I would know that we were gathered in the unifying embrace of the Holy Spirit. I would occasionally lose myself, falling inward not toward myself but into the essence of being. The best way I’ve found to describe it is this: Have you ever seen a drop of water resting on a body of water, and then, suddenly, the surface tension of the individual drop breaks, and it dissolves into the body? Sometimes that happens for me in meeting for worship. I’m there and then “I” am in unity with all that is in God—which is to say everything. 

I can’t cause this to happen. I do, however, have to show up. And not only just attend but bring my fullest self into the meetinghouse, the meetingroom, and into worship: fidgeting and chihuahua brain and all. I find that not fighting who I am, not getting stuck in what is lacking but bringing all of the parts of me into worship and giving them over is part of my practice. 

A photograph of a family member by the author. She describes this blurriness as “how I experience the world when my brain is hyper.”

My body is rarely able to quiet enough to cease movement. I joke that my primary spiritual practice is fidgeting. Sometimes, meeting for worship is excruciatingly hard for me. There have been times when I could not stay in the worship room because the hyperactivity of ADHD. . . .

I believe that everything is in God, and God is in everything. Everything I am—my body, my mind, and even my ego—all come from God. I believe that God is present in every cell of my being, every jot and tittle of me. And because of that, because everything I am comes from God, I feel that my spiritual work is to make everything I am available for God to use. This is not easy. Parts of me, like my sense of humor, creativity, and quirky way of being, I’m really attached to and take pleasure in. They define me for myself. I own these parts and don’t really want to relinquish them. I fear that God would ask me to change, to become less attached to them, which might open me to new possibilities, new ways of being available for God to work through, and it disturbs me to think of myself as less connected with them. 

Other parts I don’t want to relinquish for opposite reasons: because they feel shameful, flawed, or weak. These parts are my woundedness and hurts, the parts that I want to keep hidden away because they are filled with pain, anger, regret, or sorrow. I struggle with making them available to God because I can’t imagine them being useful. I’d love to be rid of them, to have them miraculously removed from my emotional memory, but that’s not the way it works. 

For me, humility is remembering over and over and over that every single thing about me—good and “bad,” loving and not-so-much—is already in God through me. When I cling to something or keep it stuffed in an emotional closet, I am blocking the flow of Divine Love that wants to move through me. Courage is being willing to risk change. Am I willing to submit my love of wordplay to God? Am I willing to bring what is hidden into the Light so that God can make what God will of it? Courage is trusting God with my fullest self. Humility is accepting that my fullest self is exactly what God needs from me. It helps also to realize that God created me with my goofy, sometimes irreverent, pun-loving sense of humor and loves me exactly as I am.

Photo by the author

I think of the contemplative practice of centering down as turning inward, like pulling on a monk’s hood to remove distractions. But centering up is turning outward to allow distractions to become reminders of the Holy Spirit’s abiding presence. 

At a School of the Spirit retreat, one Friend once asked if there is a difference between “centering” and “centering down.” I thought about it for a moment before coming to see that I do center; I just don’t do it like everybody else. I’m calling what I do “centering up.” My most reliable connection to my Creator is through my senses. Everything around me is an opportunity to be reminded of the creative, generative flow of God’s love, and so my eyes, skin, ears, nose, and even my tongue invite me to remember that Spirit is within and among and all around. This is the practice of wonder and can be done even while fidgeting. I’m making up the “rules” about centering up as I write, so bear with me: centering up is spontaneous but also intentional. It can be done with enthusiasm and expression, or it can be done quietly, and it often causes joy. It can be done in any moment, whatever one is doing: sitting in meeting for worship, walking around the block, or brushing one’s teeth all might be opportunities to center up. One may center up when one is happy and playful, frustrated, sorrowful, or even angry. Centering up may help shift one’s mood from negativity to hope. Centering up rejects shame and self-criticism and instead relaxes into the understanding that all things were created by God to be their perfect selves, even when they are not able to live into it quite yet. Centering up is a practice of gentleness and is full of the grace of starting over as many times as needed. Julian of Norwich’s quote “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well” could be a suggested mantra for a centering up practice. 

When I center up, I can be reminded of and reconnect with God through whatever comes to my attention in the moment: A white, fluffy cloud passing over the starry night sky, a thought or idea, the neighbor’s annoying leaf blower, my spouse’s hand in mine, the pain in my shoulder, a breeze touching my bare arms, the umami of a mushroom, and the beautiful hoar frost ribbons that I sometimes see on the morning of the first really hard freeze of the season are all opportunities to remember the Sacred. Even attending to my dog’s waste on our daily walks can be an opportunity to center up and express gratitude, if I allow it to be. I’m less likely to notice the sacred when staring at the screen in front of me, but it is possible. It helps to lift my eyes to the trees beyond and track a leaf falling to the ground. When my attention returns to my laptop, I have more capacity to recognize God’s presence in what I encounter.  

I think of the contemplative practice of centering down as turning inward, like pulling on a monk’s hood to remove distractions. But centering up is turning outward to allow distractions to become reminders of the Holy Spirit’s abiding presence. For me, centering up is accepting that God created me as I am with my dyscalculia learning disability and my ADHD and that I am uniquely and wonderfully made in God’s image. Centering up is embracing my body and my mind as they are in this moment and allowing them to connect with God in the way that feels right, good, and natural for me. Ultimately, I think, centering up helps me to become the perfect self that God created me to be by allowing every part of me to be available to God.

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Toward a Faith That Welcomes Neurodivergence

I was diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder and obsessive compulsive disorder three months after my thirty-sixth birthday. Both disabilities fall under the broad umbrella of neurodivergence. I grew up as the second of four girls in a blue-collar, working-class fundamentalist nondenominational family in small-town Texas in the 1990s, where mental illness and disability were things that could be “prayed away.” Plus, autism was something only boys had, right? The things that I now know are called “stims” were passed off as “nervous tics.” Things that overloaded my sensory needs and compulsions were called by my family my “being picky,” “weird,” or desiring to be “a perfectionist.” When I struggled to understand the sarcasm and passiveness that is a very large part of the culture of the U.S. South, I was told that I was “too literal” and “couldn’t take a joke.” The things that I needed to help me regulate my emotions and understand social cues were dismissed because I was “being stubborn” and oftentimes attributed to my having “a lack of faith.” I learned how to hide the things that set me apart: to stay quiet even if I didn’t understand something. The things that helped me navigate the complexities of the world were hidden away because I knew that I was a person of faith and these “oddities” were things that people interpreted as me having a lack of faith. I began to mask my autistic and obsessive traits at a very early age, before I even knew the word for this behavior.

I have always considered myself a seeker, whether seeking out every detail about a specific author, historical event, or musician that I was hyper-fixated on at the moment or whether learning about different faiths and religions. I have always loved learning and not just learning but understanding. After my father, I was the first one to attend college on either side of my family. Having spent my entire childhood attending the same church, I was curious to learn more about how others worshiped. For several months while I was an undergrad, I visited different religious spaces every week. Though I visited nearly two dozen faith communities, I did not visit a Quaker meeting. It didn’t even cross my mind. This was Texas, and Quakers were like Sasquatch: they most likely didn’t exist, but if they did, they certainly wouldn’t be here in Texas. Quakers were in history books and on the side of the oat containers, not in the South. So how did this late-diagnosed, ex-evangelical, neurodivergent millennial find the Quaker Sasquatch and become a member at an unprogrammed Quaker meeting? I give that honor to the COVID-19 pandemic.

When the COVID-19 pandemic hit, I was an elementary school teacher with Dallas Independent School District and in an unhealthy marriage. To say I was exhausted in every capacity would be an understatement. I had been seeking a faith community that I could be a part of for nearly ten years, but being an openly queer person as well as someone who enjoys asking questions (and getting answers), there never seemed to be a place where I felt safe and welcomed. When the pandemic hit, I did what most people did and got comfortable binge watching films and TV series. In the lockdown of 2020, I stumbled upon a historical fiction TV series set in New York during the American Revolution and—wouldn’t you know it—one of the main characters was a Quaker.

Image of “Quaker Oats” from commons.wikimedia.org

This was Texas, and Quakers were like Sasquatch: they most likely didn’t exist, but if they did, they certainly wouldn’t be here in Texas. Quakers were in history books and on the side of the oat containers, not in the South. 

It was nearly a year later, after I had gone through my divorce and moved out of public education, that I remembered that Quaker character. A recurring feature of my neurodivergent mind is that I get hyper-focused on a song, book, musical, or even just facts. Sometimes I’ll be consumed with something for a few months, and sometimes it will obsess me for many years.

Such was the year after watching the TV series about the American Revolution. Do you have questions about Alexander Hamilton’s life in the Caribbean? I got you. Want to know about the Jewish world of 1700s New York? Sit back and prepare to learn. Ever wonder how the German Hessian soldiers got involved in the war? I can answer that for you. I began to deep dive into every book I could find on the Founding Fathers and life of those in America in the 1700s. Then I thought about that TV show I had watched with the Quaker character. Using the great guide of Google, I began a search on Quakers during the American Revolution, which then led me to researching Quakers historically and eventually to researching Quakers today. I read about the SPICES, the testimonies of Quakerism—simplicity, peace, integrity, community, equality, and stewardship—and realized that I already lived my life and believed in them. I read about the early English Quakers and how they wouldn’t take their hats off to the aristocracy. In a world that revolved around social class, this was by far one of the coolest ways of saying we are all equal. I learned about how Quaker women—yes women—could be traveling ministers and were thrown in prison alongside the men for what they believed. How they would stand up for the oppressed, being at the forefront of the abolitionist, civil rights, women’s rights, and LGBTQ rights movements. They loved unconditionally. It was the Quakers throughout history who saw “that of God in everyone” and truly lived as if they did.

Photo by Sylvain Brison on Unsplash

My Quaker faith and autistic self mesh more than I ever could have fathomed. I find that the very testimonies of Quakerism welcome the very nature of my neurodivergence. Many of the churches and faith communities I had attended over the years focused heavily on what I consider to be a presentation of showiness: whether that was how loud the band was, how fancy the congregation were dressed, how moving the words were in the sermon, how high you raised your hands during worship, or how great the latte was in the in-house coffee shop. To me, everything felt like a performance and one that I often got lost in. Like many autistic individuals, I like rules that are black and white, and I dislike the “fluff” that surrounds and fills life and many of the religious spaces I had experienced. I also like understanding things to the point of obsession.

Hypocrisy was something I saw so frequently in the churches I grew up in and experienced in my college years. You say you welcome everyone, yet I find as a queer person that your welcome and love is conditional. You show that you want to be a part of the world in the way that you hold your Sunday services, yet you do not practice what you preach in the community. I felt myself to be so much an “other” in the world of religion.

When researching Quakers, I saw a group of people that didn’t just live their faith out only on Sundays but lived their faith every day: whether it be by serving the needs of people in countries at war, lobbying for human rights in the States, or caring for someone in their community. The “fluff” on Sunday was not “fluff” at all; it was reality, a refreshing and welcoming experience for someone who likes the black and white. And lo and behold, Quaker meetings could be found in most major cities throughout the state of Texas! Oatmeal box man be damned! Sasquatch is real and alive in the South!

Being a part of the neurodivergent Friends spiritual deepening community of Friends General Conference and embracing my identity as being a neurodivergent queer Quaker is to have finally found a faith community that sees me, hears me, welcomes me, and values me for everything that I am.

Many autistic folks, including myself, have a strong sense of justice. Mass media has made a caricature of what autism is supposed to look like, but autism spectrum disorder is just that: a spectrum. It is often coupled with other neurodiversity disorders or disabilities, and as the saying goes, “If you’ve met one autistic person, you’ve met one autistic person.” Even though my deep connection and interpretation of the emotions of others is often overwhelming and causes a series of social confusions and burnout, it is also a sort of superpower. Being on the spectrum of hyper-empathy, I feel like I am able to relate to people on a deeper level. For a faith community that shows so much empathy and passion for the world around them, I feel like I am able to be a better Quaker because of the different ways that I experience the world. I often become obsessed with conversations and interactions that I have had and will replay them over and over for hours and sometimes days. Even though this is exhausting in its own way, it also feels like I am able to read beyond a simple conversation and put myself in another’s shoes.

There are things that I struggle with in my meeting, just as I struggle in other parts of my life. But here, I want to focus on the light and the joy. The struggles will always be there, and the work on my mental, emotional, and spiritual health will be a never-ending journey of highs and lows. I know that it was because of my neurodivergencies that I found the Quaker Sasquatch. My diagnoses have helped me better understand myself and the different ways that I see and interpret the world and I can better understand the ways that I interact as a person of faith. Being a part of the neurodivergent Friends spiritual deepening community of Friends General Conference and embracing my identity as being a neurodivergent queer Quaker is to have finally found a faith community that sees me, hears me, welcomes me, and values me for everything that I am.

Understanding and embracing my autism and obsessive compulsive disorder has made me a better person of faith and a better Quaker. So much of that, however, goes to the community of Friends in my monthly and yearly meeting and the larger community and legacy of Friends around the world. At the very core of Friends is love and equality that offers safety and welcome to all those present. A Friends meeting is a place for all. Quaker Sasquatch is real and among us, and she sure is beautiful.

The post I Found the Quaker Sasquatch appeared first on Friends Journal.

Neurodiverse Voices in Worship

I was diagnosed with dyspraxia and apraxia when I was five years old. Dyspraxia, or developmental coordination disorder, is a neurodevelopmental condition that affects movement and coordination. Apraxia of speech is a neurological disorder that makes it difficult to plan and sequence the movements needed to produce speech. These disorders affect how the brain’s messages are transmitted to the body. They affect speech, language, motor planning, and the ability to perform daily activities. As a result, I found it incredibly hard to speak, be mobile, and socialize.

As a child, I experienced a lot of stigma and isolation that came with being neurodiverse. As an adult, I have come to reimagine ability and potential, and learned to broaden my understanding of what it means to be normal. I like to think that as society has progressed, so too has its general understanding and perspective.

I was constantly subjected to speech therapy and physical therapy, and though they are practices meant to help, sometimes the approaches can seem outdated and feel inherently ableist. I was reminded daily that I needed to be “fixed” and that my productivity and capabilities would determine my usefulness and relevance in society.

Silent worship was the biggest challenge for me. One of the many aspects of neurodiversity is a constant flow of thoughts, which makes it difficult to focus and creates a restlessness inside. There would be an outward silence but an inward chaos. 

Paradoxically, growing up going to a Quaker church, I was taught the importance of simplicity, peace, equality, compassion, and social responsibility. Church—or meeting—was one of the only places I felt a true sense of acceptance and belonging. I attended Sunday school with everyone else; I didn’t need “special” guidance or to be kept separate. There was almost a fundamental difference in how people at church approached and dealt with my disability. I still had trouble communicating at church, just as I did at school. But the difference was that when others had trouble understanding me, they didn’t see it as my disability; instead, they saw it as a challenge to their ability to listen. In the midst of misunderstanding, there seemed to be a kind of understanding.

I like to think the reason I am empathetic, understanding, and patient today is because of my experience as a neurodiverse Friend. I don’t see it as “going the extra mile” for someone else’s benefit; I see it as doing my part in order to get one step closer to living in a more harmonious society. Harmony is fundamentally about balance and coexistence, not uniformity. It’s about creating an environment where diverse perspectives, abilities, and experiences complement each other. And I like to think that that is a general Quaker perspective.

One of my favorite quotes was popular among nineteenth-century Friends (and has often been attributed to Stephen Grellet, a French-American Quaker missionary, though its true origin remains uncertain): “I expect to pass through this world but once. Any good, therefore, that I can do or any kindness I can show to any fellow creature, let me do it now. Let me not defer or neglect it for I shall not pass this way again.”

This quote embodies Quaker values. It encourages us to embrace the uniqueness of each individual and reminds us to always treat others with kindness. It also invites and challenges us to practice active advocacy so that we might use our privilege to advocate for the marginalized or overlooked. Finally, there’s also a sense of urgency in addressing needs and differences. Opportunities to make a positive impact are limited by our time on earth. Inclusivity and compassion are principles to be practiced now, because we might not get the chance again.

There was nothing wrong with my school or my parents wanting me to learn how to communicate and socialize like other children, but I found understanding in the Quaker community. Conscientious Friends understood how hard communication was for me and wanted to give me a break when they could and take on the burden of understanding themselves. I always felt safe and accepted at church, and that made all the difference in my spiritual and personal journey.

Silent worship was the biggest challenge for me. One of the many aspects of neurodiversity is a constant flow of thoughts, which makes it difficult to focus and creates a restlessness inside. It’s hard for me to be still, quiet, and focused for long periods of time. I had imposter syndrome every time I sat in silence. There would be an outward silence but an inward chaos. I would look around the room and think how everyone else was so much better at silence than I was. I would invalidate myself because I thought I wasn’t actually doing it “right,” and I felt like a fraud.

It wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized everyone experiences intrusive thoughts during silent worship; some just struggle with it more than others. I have since learned to embrace the noise: to treat the thoughts in my head as clouds in the sky and acknowledge them without judgment, observe them as they pass, and gently let them go without getting caught up in their content.

I have since learned to treat the thoughts in my head as clouds in the sky and acknowledge them without judgment, observe them as they pass, and gently let them go. . . . Whenever I struggle with restless energy in worship, I like to think of it as an invitation to be present with the mind as it is, as God made me.

I’ve also learned the importance of reframing. What many see as limitations or disabilities, some see as gifts from God. Self-acceptance and remembering that God made me this way help me navigate living the Quaker way as someone with neurodiversity. I now see every distracting thought as a type of divine intervention.

As Quakers, we believe that every person has an Inner Light, a term that refers to the Divine Presence that guides and enlightens the soul. It’s always important to pray and meditate intentionally and to try to still our wandering minds, though I’ve come to understand that as a neurodiverse Friend, my connection to God is different from others.

Sometimes silent worship isn’t quiet, and it’s okay to feel distracted; silent worship doesn’t necessarily mean a total absence of sound, nor is it about closed eyes and darkness. It’s about finding time to be open and listen for God’s voice. God speaks to people in different ways, and I have come to believe that those thoughts and feelings can be seen as part of the inner experience. Whenever I struggle with restless energy in worship, I like to think of it as an invitation to be present with the mind as it is, as God made me.

Though disabilities like dyspraxia and apraxia are invisible to the eye, they deeply shape how I experience the world. Neurodivergent Friends should not have to announce or explain their disabilities or need for their boundaries to be respected. I hope that the Quaker community continues to be mindful of this and works to create and maintain a culture where people are attentive to each other’s needs, even when they are not immediately apparent. We may engage in worship differently, but our spiritual journeys and connection to our Inner Light are no less valid. Just because someone is not engaging in the way the majority would—whether it’s not speaking, not standing, or not participating in a particular way—doesn’t mean they are “doing it wrong.”

Quaker worship is inherently a deeply personal and individual practice, and each person’s method is his or her own. Silence before, during, or after meeting should never be mistaken as disengagement but rather as an indication of active reflection or personal participation. The Quaker practice of waiting in silence may look different for everyone, but that diversity of experience should be embraced rather than questioned or pressured to conform.

Additionally, gentle encouragement for participation can make a huge difference. Many neurodivergent Friends may find it difficult to join a conversation or share their thoughts during worship. Asking them directly if they have any thoughts they would like to share can be a powerful way to make them feel seen and included, while respecting their boundaries if they choose not to share. Sometimes all it takes is a simple invitation, such as “we’d love to hear your thoughts,” to help someone feel more comfortable contributing to the discussion. This would create a more inclusive and supportive environment where everyone’s voice is valued, even if it takes extra effort for someone to speak.

By practicing compassion and attentiveness toward neurodivergent Friends, Quakers can better reflect the principles of equality and community. Fostering a space for diverse ways of engaging in worship, conversations, and fellowship helps us remember that all are welcome. These efforts are not about performative inclusivity but about deepening our collective spiritual experience.

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On Accommodating Neurodivergent Friends

I came to Quakerism long before I realized my neurodiversity, and in looking back, the attraction makes a lot of sense. I was drawn to the stillness first, enjoying the seated silence of worship. The church I grew up in required a stringent cycle of sit–stand–sing, and I resented it deeply. In Quakerism, I love the emphasis on equality, and especially the nonhierarchical nature of our meetings. I craved connection; in fact, Shakers and their tight communities have always been a special interest of mine, so being with Quakers felt exciting.

My meeting does not yet have an embodied understanding of what neurodiversity is, although I’m working to change that. Several years ago, I began a healing journey, unaware at the time I was doing so, and much of it involved participating in retreats run by Quakers. I had known for decades about my attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD)—I’m typing this 90 minutes before the magazine deadline—and had just come to realize and identify as autistic. As I discarded the shame and inferiority I felt in being different, I began to disclose my neurodiversity to those in my Quaker community. Others around me were following suit. 

Photo by Marcos Paulo on Unsplash

I accommodate myself: I shift positions, since part of my ADHD means a lack of core strength and ability to sit up straight for very long; I journal; I bring knitting. I do whatever I can to keep myself in the room and occupied without distracting others. 

At the same time, I started getting more involved in my yearly meeting and in youth programming for my family. It became clear to me that more than half of the children and adults in my meeting and my yearly meeting were neurodiverse, although most don’t know it. I believe the neurodivergent adults around me are also drawn to the ways in which Quakerism accommodates them, with its emphasis on social justice, celebration of intelligence, and tolerance of social awkwardness.

As in many parts of my life, I now find myself in the role of translator. I walk with a foot in each world, the neurotypical and neurodivergent, explaining the attitudes and behaviors of each to the other. 

The meetings I have attended all over New England have children who are not only fidgety because they are kids but also because they are neurodivergent: they can’t not move. They have meltdowns, which are beyond their control and are not tantrums. They get bored and find this almost painful. 

Not only don’t the neurodivergent kids know their own neurotype: often their parents don’t either. Many of the parents don’t realize that they themselves are neurodivergent. I am a psychotherapist who specializes in working with late-diagnosed and “high functioning” autistics. As I often tell my clients, I’ve never met a neurodivergent person without at least one biological neurodivergent parent. It comes from somewhere. Even when parents do know about their children’s neurotype, they often don’t know what that really means. Understanding the subtleties and profound differences in neurodivergent ways of being is rapidly evolving, replacing a misinformed medical model. People wildly underestimate how crippling ADHD can be and misunderstand the ways that autism presents, based on the stereotypical and outdated ways they are portrayed on TV. 

I’ve come to be an advocate for both children and adults when it comes to accommodations. Some of these are not forcing or coercing kids to sit in a circle (many have a fear of being perceived but can remain in the room or participate in other ways); understanding stimming (self-stimulation for emotional regulation); and realizing that when a neurodivergent child appears to be controlling others, it often stems from a “pervasive desire for autonomy,” which is rooted in anxiety.

Photo by Alexander

We neurodivergent folks work so hard to fit in, consciously or unconsciously wearing a mask in order to be accepted. Ultimately, even if the neurodivergence isn’t recognized, it still benefits everyone in a meeting to have the vocabulary for discussing needs and accommodations.

As I have come to realize what work for me, I also can now make sense of what hasn’t worked for my type of neurodivergence (underscoring here that neurodivergence is many faceted, not a linear gradient). What doesn’t work for me is the lack of accommodation for stimming and movement: such as knitting or rustling. Although I am not what most people would consider hyperactive, I am very restless. My mind and body are restless; I even have restless legs syndrome. I try to center my mind, but I get caught up in endless cycles of worry unless I actively meditate, and I don’t often want to do that. So I accommodate myself: I shift positions, since part of my ADHD means a lack of core strength and ability to sit up straight for very long; I journal; I bring knitting. I do whatever I can to keep myself in the room and occupied without distracting others. And it works for me, because otherwise I would not be able to be in the physical room where the messages are being shared.

I also don’t love the small talk after worship. I can do it, but it drains me. When I first came to meeting, I never went to the downstairs area for fellowship, or “coffee hour,” and for years I would just dart out the front door to avoid having to talk to anyone. What people don’t understand about me is that I’m a deeply social introvert. I’ll reiterate that I love getting to know people and spend time with them, but I dislike superficialities. I thrive in community, even if it’s just a weekend crafting retreat. One of my all-time favorite experiences in our meeting was an antiracism retreat where we interacted with tough and meaningful questions and spoke with each other about very intense and almost-taboo topics. After that, I felt exceptionally close to a few members of meeting whom I had known for decades but didn’t really know on such an intimate level. Relating to others and having structured ways of doing so is much easier and relaxing for me.

I want our meetings to get better at seeing and understanding neurodiversity, because those among the neurodiverse are an oppressed group, and we as Quakers have committed to advocating for other oppressed populations. Neurodiverse characteristics are not accepted socially or when they interfere with capitalism. I’ve met with many autistic professionals (including doctors, lawyers, and professors) who have been fired from their jobs and struggle with employment due to differences in communication style or unaccommodated sensory issues. We neurodivergent folks work so hard to fit in, consciously or unconsciously wearing a mask in order to be accepted. Ultimately, even if the neurodivergence isn’t recognized, it still benefits everyone in a meeting to have the vocabulary for discussing needs and accommodations. 

The post Finding What Works for Us appeared first on Friends Journal.

An Invitation to Neurotypicals

I am lucky that my world currently overlaps with that of many thoughtful, inclusive Quakers. On a Saturday in December, I was invited to the annual Christmas gathering for the ladies at the meeting: a night to craft, snack, and chat. My new neighbors were planning to go and offered to take me along. They are also the ones who now regularly take me to meeting. I have spatial distance and processing issues that prevent me from driving, and transportation has been a major barrier to participating as much as I would like. Still, people have tried to include me as much as possible, and I’m not just referring to the rides.

Quakers seem more open-minded, believing they can make a difference in this world. This seems to attract a lot of neurodiverse individuals: people who long for a fairer world. However, even in meeting, the predominant mindset is still neurotypical. 

Let’s get back to that Saturday, and I’ll show you what I mean. The person hosting the event called and talked to me ahead of time about how they could help make the event more accessible for me. Having a clear picture of what to expect usually helps alleviate anxiety. Why? Delayed processing makes it difficult to adapt quickly to unknowns, which can lead to frustration and meltdowns. Although meltdowns are a physiological response controlled by the autonomic nervous system, like our heartbeat or digestive system, having them in public is still embarrassing. If I am going somewhere new, where I don’t know people, and can’t predict what will happen or how people will react, it can make me not want to leave home. Having a point person to answer my questions and help me plan around potential problems ahead of time allows me to participate more fully. 

After arriving at the house on Saturday, we were ushered to the back door—one of the accommodations arranged beforehand. The main entrance, where everyone else was headed, had a lot of stairs that I couldn’t climb. I had recently aggravated my ankle, which I had injured earlier in the year, and was wearing a medical boot. Spatial and body awareness issues make me clumsy; I get injured more often than the “average” person. Without planning ahead, I would have tried to go through the main entrance with everyone else, gotten frustrated, had a hard time switching to an alternate plan, and might not have been able to enjoy the rest of the night. But by planning ahead, I ended up having a great time. 

When I entered the house, I could smell the delicious chocolate chip cookies and other snacks. Most places, I can’t eat what everyone else does because I have a gluten-free diet. They had plenty of snacks here that I could actually eat. They also had food for people who were dairy-free, vegan, or who couldn’t have nuts. It can be tricky catering to so many different dietary needs, but they did an amazing job.  

I started talking with the host and other people I know, proudly announcing that I had just started my own business: Nettleton Writing&Editing. Because of insistent productivity and not being able to do things in the same way as others, I cannot even get what people think of as an “easy” job, like bagging groceries or working in a sheltered workshop—not for long, anyway. However, I am highly skilled and hold two degrees. I’ve figured out that though I can’t get a job, I can create one, with the right support. Some of this support comes simply from knowing that people at meeting are cheering me on. Other times, it means more practical support, like one of the ladies I talked with that evening who offered to come over for an hour to help me learn more about using social media. 

Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

I haven’t had as much opportunity as others to interact with the world and its current technology because I haven’t had access. Some neurodivergent people struggle and blend into the world despite the cost. Others, like me, can’t—no matter how hard they try. And those who can’t are often segregated from society: shuffled into hospitals, day programs, and group homes. At least, the “lucky ones” are. Others end up homeless, in jail, or dead. Resources and opportunities are scarce. 

That’s just how the world is. I have heard this phrase uttered often, usually after an injustice of some kind has occurred. It makes me want to bring the speaker along to a Quaker space, like this Saturday get-together. Maybe the people who quote that phrase find their world to be the way it is because it’s too small, too big, maybe too quiet, or too painfully loud. There must be a reason behind such black-and-white thinking, right? Most neurotypicals seem to get defensive and spew trite phrases when someone questions them about norms. They have extremely rigid social expectations and are terrified of change. They are very sensitive, poor things. They also have a way of turning simple problems into complex ones. They do not seem to recognize that in the social world, it’s people who create “how the world is.”

Quakers seem more open-minded, believing they can make a difference in this world. This seems to attract a lot of neurodiverse individuals: people who long for a fairer world. However, even in meeting, the predominant mindset is still neurotypical. Cultural misunderstandings and conflicts can and do occur, usually with one or both sides being unaware of what the problem is. They can’t see things from the other’s perspective. I’ve been told that not being able to see things from another’s perspective is an autism trait. However, almost any trait can be flipped on its head; they are all human traits.

So, looking up at a wider horizon, my Easter hope is this article will have been read and utilized: opening perspectives about neurodiversity that will help changes in our Quaker communities hop along a little faster. 

After I sat down and started nibbling on my gluten-free goodies, I struck up a conversation with someone I didn’t know, a young lady going into a mental health field. I stated that I do not believe our current mental health system is good for either patients or providers. After going around and around about our differing opinions, we came to the conclusion that we agreed that the system has issues, but we were at odds on how to go about solving the problem. I proposed large system changes—a complete paradigm shift. To me, shuffling things about in hopes of creating change is like moving furniture around and redecorating a house instead of addressing the crumbling foundation. Neurotypicals seem to avoid major system changes as if they would be the end of the world. 

Sitting in the car and waiting to go home, it struck me as to why neurotypicals seem to have such difficulty conceptualizing major social changes, whereas I have trouble with changes in daily routine. As someone who is autistic, I’m a detail-oriented person. I see an up-close picture of life; that’s my world. Neurotypicals tend to see things on a broader scale. They have phrases like “that’s just a detail,” because altering one thing doesn’t change the whole picture for them. Change something as big as a system though, and that picture alters. The world they know disappears. 

What does this insight have to do with Quaker meeting? Whether neurodiverse or neurotypical, we need to understand that people will react poorly when someone says or does something that threatens or invalidates their worldview. It can make one feel frustrated and alone. We need to seek out the angles where our neurological-based worldviews can be seen in the same frame—so we can shift that frame together. What’s in a world is determined by the connection people have with one another. Over time, we can learn different ways to change our internal lens and create new relationships. Yet, if we are so scared that we can’t let go of our own perspective, connections get confused, even severed. However, like the spring, there is always hope. No matter how confused or frustrated we get with someone who doesn’t share our worldview, as long as we don’t give up we will never fail one another. 

I wrapped my scarf around me a little tighter in the chilly car as a myriad of thoughts and emotions from the evening swirled around me. No, I thought, the swirl was too big to have accumulated so quickly. I just hadn’t seen it amassing. It had taken seven years of attending meeting and building relationships with those present to make tonight a possibility. 

After arriving home, taking off my shoes, and setting down my sunglasses, headphones, and weighted backpack, I remembered the email with upcoming writing opportunities for Friends Journal. I was tired and wanted to ignore this nagging reminder, but I couldn’t. I needed to write about that night for the neurodiversity issue. Christmas hadn’t yet passed, but my mind was leaping ahead to March and to Easter in April. While many Quakers aren’t big on holidays, they are a necessary part of keeping track of my life. Holidays are growth markers. They give me a sense of time, another important type of relationship: a perspective that can get lost when someone is buried too deep in the details of day-to-day living. So, looking up at a wider horizon, my Easter hope is this article will have been read and utilized: opening perspectives about neurodiversity that will help changes in our Quaker communities hop along a little faster.

The post Shifting System Paradigms Together appeared first on Friends Journal.

Everything rumored about March is true.
You brute month, you howling monster month. 

          Iron-willed March, intractable March,
          you will bend a knee. You will give way.

April could only be the cruelest if there were no March.
We’re worn down from climate change’s ferocity: 

          the heaping snowy mounds that came this year
          and its bitter cold.

We’ve done our duty like good soldiers.
We’ve weathered the unthinkable. 

          We ring hands in anticipation, rub them together
          as if there’s a fire near to warm them, 

and know no matter how brutal March comes in,
there’s sure to be May and June—

          and roses blooming near the doorstep. Then March
          will be nothing more than a memory fading.

The post Early March appeared first on Friends Journal.

From a conversation with her ten-year-old autistic grandson.

Imagine what you would feel like
if you did not exist.

What would you feel like if you were dead?
Would you still feel like you were there?
But how could you feel if you did not exist?
It’s hard to explain.

If you and Grandpa had not married,
would I have been born to strangers?
Or, if you and Grandpa had not married,
would I have been born at all?
Would I exist?

If you’re dead, you’re gone.
What would you feel like if you were gone?
Would you think or have feelings?
It’s so hard to explain.
I don’t think you understand
what I’m trying to say, Grandma.

If there was nothing when God didn’t yet create the world,
how would you be there?
If you weren’t born yet,
how would you be there?
Imagine not being there
and not being able to think.
It’s not possible ’cause nothing can change that.
You would still be able to think and stuff.
It’s just weird.

No one knows what if feels like to be dead
because when you’re dead you can’t come back and tell people.

I started to think about this since kindergarten.
When I think really really big,
my brain hurts.

I’ve got a huge suggestion for the Bible:
They should make it easier to understand.

The smallest word with the most complex meaning
is God.

The post Peter Wonders about Death and Other Stuff appeared first on Friends Journal.

(1)
I am often left
empty of words,
language is of little use.
Why does Crow
speak better
of such matters?
Prayer comes easy to him
(perhaps it’s the black feathers?),
I wear a gray woolen coat,
yet, I remain silent,
saying nothing.

(2)
I’ve been asking
un-answerable questions,
where did it all go,
all that was once beautiful
gone leaving no trace?

(3)
Crow flies off,
I follow with my eyes,
Coming to rest
on a high bare branch.
Crow looks to the west,
I turn my head
& see the gray clouds
building as snow
begins to fall.

(4)
Crow is behind
a white vail,
not even his silhouette remains.
Turning, I walk home
following tracks
left by Fox
& finding at my door
yellow Spring flowers,
in full glorious bloom
cradled by newly
fallen snow.

The post Praying with Crow appeared first on Friends Journal.

Discovering nature again

“The Delight of Being Alive” is one of the most beautiful and insightful reflections I’ve read in a very long time (by Gail Melix/Greenwater, FJ Feb.). Thank you for sharing your wisdom and that of your ancestors. It resonated with me.

Kim Moore
Cape May, N.J.

This article spoke to my heart. Years ago I heard a minister talk about a God of society and a God of Nature. The idea of a “God of Nature” resonated with me. The minister spoke of the Native Americans having a God of Nature. This helps define the “Light” for me as a Quaker. Thanks for the article, Gail.

Barry Simon
Middleborough, Mass.

Thank you. I read this as ministry, coming when I needed to receive it.

Harvey Gillman
Rye, UK

I enjoyed this story of discovering nature again and the overturning of injustice from the Federal Bureau of Indian Affairs. I have special feelings for Indigenous members of tribes.

I am also a Quaker from Durango (Colo.) Meeting. I found peace of mind in nature and my love for animals. I’m not an Indigenous person, but as a young child, the outdoors was where I was the happiest. I learned over the years, in talking with the elders and working with members of various tribes, their honor of the land and nature has been embraced in my thoughts. Your writing about “what we love we protect” is so on target, but unfortunately, many are going too fast to realize what they missed.

I worked for the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Affairs in Native American Programs for 20 years in Phoenix, Ariz. I was the Southwest coordinator for resident initiatives, region 9. Before that, I was the executive director of housing at Ute Mountain Ute Housing in Towaoc, Colo.

ET Dahl
Ocala, Fla.

Thank you so much for this beautiful reflection. It resonates deeply with me, especially now in this difficult time.

Pat Johnson
Candler, N.C.

Thank you so much for this article. It spoke to my condition.

Lauri Perman
Saint Paul, Minn.

Thank you for this beautiful account and invitation to follow your example to connect more intimately with nature.

Marcelle Martin
Chester, Pa.

The other side of the chasm

Is it right to regard anything as outside our sphere of action (“On the Use of Despair” by Amanda Franklin, FJ Feb.)? Prayer connects us with an omnipotent God, and Christ said, “You do not receive, only because you do not ask.” There is a time for waiting in stillness, but also, when moved by the Spirit, a place for vocal prayer, which has been a part of Quaker ministry from the beginning.

Clive Gordon
Sutton Coldfield, UK

I am also a psychotherapist. In the last month, a day has not gone by that I don’t hear from clients who are scared, angry, and despairing. LGBT folks, people reliant on Medicare or Medicaid, women who fear we are taking a major step backward, and the list goes on. I catch myself trying to alleviate their pain, but this article helps me see that sometimes I just have to be in that darkness with them. It is surely not an easy thing to do, but Franklin makes the point well, that it is the faithful thing to do. It is compelling for me that sometimes my clients google me and discover that I’m Quaker and have theological training. Now more than ever, they come with questions about faith in the midst of their despair, and this article has helped me formulate a way to approach those questions and those people. I am thankful for Amanda Franklin’s words.

Geoffrey Knowlton
Hyannis, Mass.

Listening to understand other views prevents unpleasant surprises, moves us beyond divisive and exclusionary politics, and refocuses us on core ideals of God’s infinite equal love and forgiveness for all, so we build our lives on solid bedrock.

We changed our Constitution many times before to include more people in our governments, and we can do it again, so women, minorities, disabled, dependent, Indigenous, etc., can all be better represented after every election at the executive decision table with a seat, voice, and vote. The Swiss have already proved this executive power model is viable. Are we willing to share power with our neighbors?

George Gore
Chicago area, Ill.

Building relationships across politics

Thank you for “Rhapsody in Purple” by Kat Griffith (FJ Feb.). Her experience chimes with some of mine, as I canvassed here in the United Kingdom as part of Greenpeace’s Climate Vote initiative. We were (carefully) not promoting a particular party or candidate. Once people realised this and that we weren’t asking for money, almost all who had time were keen to talk. Many had clearly not been listened to on the subject before, and most didn’t think they could do anything about it. But we explained that if they could vote, they could look at the party manifestos and their candidates and see which of their policies might address their concerns. Greenpeace could send them a briefing about this when the manifestos came out.

It was really heartwarming to see people make connections between their own actions, politics, and things (places, people, creatures) that they were really concerned about. Even the Seventh-day Adventist who was looking forward to the end of the world was grateful for the conversation!

Not only is this kind of activity helping build community but it also helps give people confidence in their own judgment, which is being rapidly undermined by social media, accelerated by AI.

Linda Murgatroyd
London, UK

Wow, Kat, you are truly an inspiration and a peacemaker!

Joe Mayer
Burnsville, Minn.

Online: Kat Griffith discusses her article in a video interview at Friendsjournal.org/kat-griffith.

Meetings using money

Yet another use for our money came to me as I was reading your insightful stories on how meetings use money in the January issue of Friends Journal. In a word: outreach. We want to spread Quaker principles and practices to more people.

Here are some ways that come immediately to mind: post directional signs on the major streets nearby; adopt a street in your community, which usually entitles you to a sign posted on that street saying something like this to passing motorists; make sure the sign in front of your meetinghouse is conspicuous; design and print bookmarks, which you can distribute through your public library; host public events that draw others to your meetinghouse.

Tom Louderback
Louisville, Ky. 

Starting conversations

David Brooks’s advice is very similar to the way great salespeople I have known build relationships with customers (Review of How to Know a Person by David Brooks, reviewed by Kathleen Jenkins, FJ Jan.). It takes real effort and commitment. I suspect that’s why most of us don’t start conversations with strangers. The other reason is fear that the stranger will turn the conversation around to us. Here is a simple technique we use every day to keep the conversation about the stranger. It’s called the reverse: answer the question with a question of your own. Ever have this conversation with the checkout clerk at the grocery store? They ask, “How are you today?” And you answer, “Fine, thank you. How about you?” See, I bet you have done that many times in your life.

Don Crawford
Monteverde, Costa Rica

Breaking out of old roles

In the 1980s I worked in Philadelphia at a small agency whose role was to intervene in large-scale interracial and cultural disputes (“Lessons from My Quaker Ancestors and the People They Enslaved” by Os Cresson, FJ Feb.). I was sent one day to the Eastern Shore of Maryland. Although I was a White person born and raised in diverse places, I had never experienced anything like rural Maryland. It appeared that either you lived in a wood shanty or an enormous new luxury home, depending on your racial identity. As part of my work, I met people in their houses of worship and schools. The disparities were shocking, and the sense of never being able to escape social conditions and old patterns was still so strong. The people I met while working there were mostly very hospitable, even inviting me to their Wednesday evening AME church with them (I went). When I went home after a few days, I had the sense that we all had just played old, old roles once more.

Anonymous
Philadelphia area, Pa.

Thanks for this beautiful and eye opening testimony to native awareness of that natural wellness of spirituality within us all!

Eve
Delaware County, Pa.

Forum letters should be sent with the writer’s name and address to forum@friendsjournal.org. Each letter is limited to 300 words and may be edited for length and clarity. Because of space constraints, we cannot publish every letter. Letters can also be left as comments on individual articles on Friendsjournal.org.

The post Forum, March 2025 appeared first on Friends Journal.

How Trump’s Win Convinced Me I’m Quaker

There is something afoot in these times of great political turbulence that is inviting us to connect with greater Spirit.

I’ve been knee-deep in resistance to the Trump administration well before he took office on January 20. In 2020 I cofounded Choose Democracy to train thousands of people in how to stop a coup after Trump said he might reject unfavorable election results—which he did. Following Trump’s 2024 win and now his and Musk’s coup, I’ve been encouraging diverse responses: from tax resistance to developing community groups to observing ICE to defending civic institutions to long-term visioning. It’s going to take a big, wide net of strategies and tactics to resist their authoritarian takeover, but even more than that, I’m sensing many of us are going through an inner transformation as well.

In the days right after Trump’s election last November, my article “10 Ways to Be Prepared and Grounded Now that Trump Has Won” for Waging Nonviolence went viral. It quickly reached over a million views, and I got inundated with interview and coaching requests.

Most of the reporters I talked with were personally shaken. They weren’t just asking, What should we do? They were asking for themselves, How am I going to make it through?

I recall one interview in particular where I was asked a loaded question: given the breakdown coming, how do you hope Trump supporters get their comeuppance? It was a casually laid out question with minefields everywhere. I paused abruptly and reminded myself not to rush in. I took a step back to think about what I most wanted to convey.

I felt myself stepping back too far. Yes, I had some specific interventions to offer and approaches to share about how we need different strategies. But at a much deeper level we were entering into a time when many of our already frail systems were going to fall into greater collapse. This made me think of a quote by Italian philosopher Antonio Gramsci, often translated as, “The crisis consists precisely in the fact that the old is dying and the new cannot be born; in this interregnum a great variety of morbid symptoms appear.” Or as Slavoj Žižek later interpreted: “Now is the time of monsters.”

What do I have to say to that?

I got nervous that I was taking too long to answer. So I gave up figuring it out and just spoke from the heart, faster than my brain could process. Just say what’s true. And here’s the first thing I said: “Look . . . I’m Quaker.”

This came as a huge shock. I have never identified as a Quaker despite my many associations: graduating from a Quaker college; studying Quakerism in graduate school; working with many Quakers and Quaker institutions; attending dozens of Quaker meetings, often before leading those gathered in a social justice workshop; and training Quaker direct action groups.

I’ve always felt proud to be among Quakers doing their thing, but no. I’ve joked about not being Quaker for a long time. I’m a lowercase friend. A friend of Friends.

I continued: “That means I believe there is that of God within every person.”

And here is where I stopped reeling and regained my footing. This statement felt deeply settled in my soul. There wasn’t mucky uncertainty; there was solid ground beneath me. I felt confident that truth would flow from it. I continued without hesitation: “So in this time ahead I want everyone—everyone—to find greater access to their inner voice and connection to the Divine. This will be a way forward for all of us.” This part felt fully aligned.

After the interview, I told my wife about how I called myself a Quaker and we laughed it off as a blip, blaming exhaustion and the deeply ungrounded moment we are in. Still somewhere inside of me I was churning. I could sense that the ground has shifted for all of us.

I didn’t realize I was so in sync with many. One week after Trump took office, an African American elder confided in me on a phone call: “Daniel, I think I’m going to need God now.” Two weeks into the presidency, a White activist with decades of successful secular campaigning told me, “I’ve never been so ungrounded. I need to find a spiritual home.” A Colombian American messaged me and said, “I need someone to regularly meditate with. I can’t make it through this with what I have.” And a wise Quaker I know admitted, “These moments are testing my faith. I need to retreat deeper into it to survive.” I knew exactly what they meant.

We are witnessing great horror, tragedy, and cruelty, as systems are forced to bend to coups and break on whims and be utterly destroyed by dictatorial fiats. This is so much greater than Trump. We’re going through not only a political crisis but a spiritual one. It’s what the Romans must have gone through as their Empire crumbled. What the Mayans felt as their people could no longer keep up their temples. Each of us may view it in our own way, but we’re all experiencing a lifting of veils and great internal upheaval.

The day after my accidental Quaker “blip,” I did another interview and was again asked a similarly tricky question. My mind felt ready this time. I won’t say I’m Quaker. I’ve already seen this question before so I’ll find a better answer. But in the moment I knew I needed to say what was true. I took a deep breath and just let my words fall away. I didn’t go chasing them. I needed to find a deeper grounding and so let myself the briefest of communion with the Spirit-that-moves-through-all-things.

“Look,” I said, “I’m Quaker. That means I believe there is that of God within every person. That means in the time ahead I want each of us to find greater access to that of the Divine inside of us. We need great wisdom for what’s ahead.”

Under the pressure of these times, a spiritual doorway opened for me. And I believe there will be many more spiritual doorways for all of us in the days ahead. I urge you to connect with your inner voice, speak your truth, and walk through.

The post These Times Are Spiritual Doorways appeared first on Friends Journal.

Leer en español

Opposing immigration enforcement in houses of worship, Friends General Conference (FGC) joined an interfaith lawsuit against the U.S. Department of Homeland Security (DHS) and two of its enforcement agencies, the Customs and Border Protection (CBP) and Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE).

Update, February 11, 2025, 2:30pm ET:

The First Amendment and the Religious Freedom Restoration Act, on which the suit relies, are well-established law, according to Kelsi Corkran, Institute for Constitutional Advocacy and Protection’s Supreme Court director and lead counsel for plaintiffs.

“It’s a statement about what has always been true,” Corkran said of the lawsuit.

Other plaintiffs noted that faith-based ministries such as English as a second language classes, food distribution programs, and legal clinics have seen a drop in clients since the revocation of sensitive location protections.

Iris de León-Hartshorn, of Mennonite Church USA, pointed out that Christians believe Jesus calls them to community service. People avoiding church-based social services because they fear immigration enforcement undermines a core activity of the faith, she noted.

“It’s not just going to worship, but it’s the actual act of ministering to others,” de León-Hartshorn said.

Original story, morning of February 11, 2025:

Barry Crossno, the general secretary of FGC, said, “The suit asserts that subjecting places of worship to ICE enforcement actions without a judicial warrant substantially burdens our religious exercise in violation of the First Amendment and the Religious Freedom Restoration Act. These enforcement actions at our places of worship interfere with our religious activities and our ability to fulfill our religious mandate to welcome and serve immigrants.”

There are 26 other Christian and Jewish denominations and community organizing associations among the plaintiffs, including Baptist, Brethren, Mennonite, Methodist, and Unitarian Universalist, based in 12 U.S. states and the District of Columbia, with some being national bodies. The suit was filed Tuesday, February 11, by the Institute for Constitutional Advocacy and Protection (ICAP) at Georgetown University in Washington, D.C.

Since 2011, ICE agents have been restricted from arresting, interrogating, searching, or surveilling people in such places as meetinghouses, churches, mosques, synagogues, schools, and hospitals.

Protections for individuals without legal status at sensitive locations included exceptions for cases involving national security hazards, terrorism, and imminent threats of death or violence, according to DHS.

The Trump administration rescinded the previous protections on January 20.

FGC learned of ICAP’s suit from Christie Duncan-Tessmer, general secretary of Philadelphia Yearly Meeting, which is a plaintiff in a separate suit also against DHS filed on January 27, shortly before a previously scheduled meeting of the FGC Executive Committee. Executive Committee members discussed the litigation’s basis, the previously filed suit, how FGC member meetings were affected by DHS rescinding the guidance, as well as concerns for meetings working with immigrants and asylum seekers, Crossno explained. The discernment process led the group to clarity about joining the suit.

“FGC is very fortunate there were meetings who mobilized, discerned, and committed within a handful of days,” Crossno said.

FGC staff contacted leaders of member yearly meetings to find monthly meetings and churches that would formally state the risks immigration enforcement posed to their congregations, Crossno explained. The statements had to come from congregations who were not plaintiffs in the previous lawsuit. The attestations by Friends in Pacific Yearly Meeting, Intermountain Yearly Meeting, Southern Appalachian Yearly Meeting and Association, and South Central Yearly Meeting supported the lawsuit, according to Crossno.

DHS and ICE did not immediately respond to a Tuesday request for comment on the current litigation.

This is a developing story, originally published February 11, 2025. Please check frequently for updates.

The post Friends General Conference Joins over Two Dozen Religious Groups in New Immigration Lawsuit appeared first on Friends Journal.

Read in English

Oponiéndose a la aplicación de las leyes migratorias en los lugares de culto, la Conferencia General de Amigos (FGC) se unió a una demanda interreligiosa contra el Departamento de Seguridad Nacional de los EE. UU.  (DHS por sus siglas en inglés) y dos de sus  agencias de aplicación, la Oficina de Aduanas y Protección Fronteriza (CBP por sus siglas en inglés) y el Servicio de Inmigración y Control de Aduanas (ICE por sus siglas en inglés).

Actualización, por la tarde del 11 de febrero de 2025

La Primera Enmienda y la Ley de Restauración de la Libertad Religiosa, en las que se basa la demanda, son leyes bien establecidas, según Kelsi Corkran, directora del programa ante la Corte Suprema del ICAP y abogada principal de los demandantes.

“Es una declaración de lo que siempre ha sido cierto”, dijo Corkran sobre la demanda.

Otros demandantes señalaron que los ministerios religiosos, como las clases de inglés como segundo idioma, los programas de distribución de alimentos y las clínicas legales, han visto una disminución en el número de clientes desde la revocación de las protecciones de ubicaciones sensibles.

La Rev. Iris de León-Hartshorn, de la Iglesia Menonita de EE. UU., indicó que los cristianos creen que Jesús los llama al servicio comunitario. Las personas quienes evitan los servicios sociales de las iglesias porque temen que la aplicación de las leyes de inmigración socave una actividad central de la fe, señaló.

“No se trata simplemente de la adoración, sino que es el acto real de ministrar a los demás”, dijo León-Hartshorn.

Historia original 11/02/2025:

Barry  Crossno, secretario general de la FGC, dijo: “La demanda afirma que someter los lugares de culto a las acciones de control del ICE sin una orden judicial supone una carga sustancial para nuestro ejercicio religioso, en violación de la Primera Enmienda y la Ley de Restauración de la Libertad Religiosa. Estas acciones de control en nuestros lugares de culto interfieren con nuestras actividades religiosas y nuestra capacidad de cumplir con nuestro mandato religioso de dar la bienvenida y servir a los inmigrantes”.

Entre los demandantes hay otras 26 denominaciones cristianas y judías y asociaciones de organización comunitaria, entre ellas bautistas, hermanos, menonitas, metodistas y unitarias universalistas, que representan a 12 estados de los EE. UU. y al Distrito de Columbia (D.C.), y algunos organismos nacionales. La demanda fue presentada el martes 11 de febrero por el Instituto para la Defensa y Protección Constitucional (ICAP por sus siglas en inglés) de la Universidad de Georgetown en Washington, D.C.

Desde 2011, a los agentes del ICE se les ha prohibido arrestar, interrogar, registrar o vigilar a personas en lugares como templos, iglesias, mezquitas, sinagogas, escuelas y hospitales.

Las protecciones para personas sin estatus legal en lugares sensibles incluían excepciones para casos que involucraban peligros para la seguridad nacional, terrorismo y amenazas inminentes de muerte o violencia, según el DHS.

La administración Trump rescindió las protecciones anteriores el 20 de enero .

La FGC se enteró de la demanda de ICAP a través de Christie Duncan-Tessmer, secretaria general de la Junta Anual de Filadelfia, que es demandante en una demanda aparte también contra el DHS presentada el 27 de enero, poco antes de una reunión previamente programada del Comité Ejecutivo de la FGC. Los miembros del Comité Ejecutivo discutieron la base del litigio, la demanda presentada anteriormente, cómo las juntas en la membresía de la FGC se vieron afectadas por la rescisión de la guía por parte del DHS, así como las preocupaciones por las reuniones que se realizan con inmigrantes y solicitantes de asilo, explicó Crossno. El proceso de discernimiento llevó al grupo a tener claridad sobre unirse a la demanda.

“FGC tiene mucha suerte de que haya habido juntas que se movilizaron, discernieron y se comprometieron en cuestión de unos pocos días”, dijo Crossno.

El personal de la FGC se puso en contacto con los líderes de las juntas anuales de sus miembros para encontrar juntas mensuales e iglesias que declararan formalmente los riesgos que la aplicación de la ley de inmigración representaba para sus congregaciones, explicó Crossno. Las declaraciones tenían que provenir de congregaciones que no eran demandantes en la demanda anterior. Las declaraciones de los Amigos en la Junta Anual del Pacífico, la Junta Anual de Entremontañas, la Junta Anual y Asociación de Apalachia del Sur y la Junta Anual de Sur Central respaldaban la demanda, según Crossno.

DHS e ICE no respondieron de inmediato a una solicitud de comentarios el martes sobre el litigio actual.

Esta es una historia en desarrollo, publicada originalmente el 11 de febrero de 2025. Revísela con frecuencia para ver las actualizaciones.

The post La Conferencia General de Amigos (FGC por sus siglas en inglés) se une a más de dos docenas de grupos religiosos en una nueva demanda de inmigración appeared first on Friends Journal.

After nearly a month of blazes, firefighters contained the Eaton and Palisades fires in Los Angeles County, Calif., as of Friday, January 31, The New York Times reported. At least 29 people died in the infernos, which charred about 58 square miles of land according to USA Today. The Eaton Fire consumed more than 9,000 structures, according to USA Today. The Palisades Fire destroyed more than 6,000 structures, The New York Times reported. Most of the structures lost were homes. Both fires began burning on January 7 and are under investigation, according to the California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection.

Several Quakers in the area lost their homes and possessions. Other Friends did not suffer material losses but found themselves emotionally shaken by the wildfires. Quakers have offered each other practical and spiritual support in the wake of the fires.

Dan Strickland, a member of Orange Grove Meeting in Pasadena, Calif., stayed with his wife in the library of the meetinghouse after their home burned down. A parent of a student at Friends Western School (FWS), an elementary school in Pasadena, offered to let the couple rent a furnished apartment attached to the parent’s house for as long as needed.

“This was a real life-saver for us,” Strickland said of the offer of housing.

FWS staff and others organized a clothing distribution to benefit people who had lost homes and belongings in the fire, according to Strickland. Friends from the meeting tended the clothing racks.

Mayan dancers who were friends and relatives of a staff member at FWS performed at the clothing distribution to increase the event’s public visibility, according to Strickland. Many people in the fire zone as well as neighbors of the meetinghouse are from traditional Mayan areas.

Mayan dancers perform at a clothing distribution event for wildfire survivors that was a collaborative effort between staff of Friends Western School and Orange Grove Meeting, both in Pasadena, Calif. Photo by Dan Strickland.

To determine whether meeting members and attenders were safe, Orange Grove Meeting’s Pastoral Care Committee clerk Gary Bagwell used email, text, and Facebook to contact Friends who got in touch with others from the meeting. Bagwell also received a reassuring call from meeting Friends in Bombay, India, where they were traveling. One person whose house was in the center of the fire zone, and who does not use a cell phone, was initially unaccounted for.

“I actually went down to a refugee center looking for her,” Bagwell said.

A new attender of the meeting found a Facebook post by the woman’s children and Bagwell learned that she was 47 miles away from the fire area staying with relatives.

One of the people whose house burned down came to the meetinghouse kitchen after the fire and asked to reclaim mugs they had donated. The person explained that the mugs were a link to the past after losing all their possessions, according to Bagwell.

Friends from outside the meeting offered to convene meetings for healing but members and attenders were not prepared to participate in such meetings for at least the first week after the calamity, according to Bagwell. The meeting established a fund to share money with Friends directly impacted by the fire.

One member and one attender from Santa Monica (Calif.) Meeting also lost homes in the fire, according to Kate Watkins, clerk of the meeting’s Pastoral Care Committee. Some homes remained undamaged even though the dwellings all around them were burned down. One person who lost their home stayed with meeting members before renting an apartment. Everyone in the meeting has experienced trauma whether or not they have also lost homes or possessions.

“We are all fire survivors,” Watkins said.

Santa Monica Meeting’s Pastoral Care Committee and Worship and Ministry Committee met to review opportunities for Friends to donate and volunteer to assist people impacted by the wildfires. In the weeks since the fires, members and attenders have reached out to the meeting to request practical help.

The Pastoral Care Committee has primarily focused on addressing members’ and attenders’ spiritual needs, Watkins explained. People are frightened and shaken. The first Sunday after the fire, the meeting canceled meeting for worship with attention to business so Friends could meet for a longer period of worship. The meeting for worship lasted about an hour and a half. During the long period for sharing joys and sorrows, Friends spoke about fire-related trauma. The gathered worshipers sang the spiritual “There Is a Balm in Gilead.” Friends also convened indoors that day for a shared meal with the tables placed close together.

The first meeting for worship at Orange Grove Meeting in Pasadena after the fire was filled with Friends’ stories of the trauma of living through a natural disaster, Bagwell noted. One person was trapped in their house as it burned and they had to escape on foot.

“The pain of loss is huge,” Bagwell said.

Watkins searched for advices on responding to natural disasters but found none. She did find some advices on community to which she referred. Friends would benefit from Quaker-led workshops on responding to mass trauma as well as from advices about promoting spiritual support among survivors of calamity, Watkins noted.

Pastoral care involves ongoing mutual support, according to Watkins. Lack of such support can dramatically magnify suffering.

“God works through us so if ‘us’ isn’t there, I think it can be terrible,” Watkins said. “We are the Divine’s hands.”

Bagwell consistently relies on his belief in the oneness of God to sustain him and continued this reliance when responding to fire survivors. Natural disasters do not impact Bagwell’s relationship to the Divine. Such occurrences as earthquakes and volcanic eruptions stem from magma moving under the earth’s crust and do not have a supernatural cause, Bagwell noted. Bagwell does not believe in a vengeful God.

“I don’t have a sense of the divine personality,” Bagwell said.

Natural disasters are an exception to Friends Journal’s typical ethical restrictions on soliciting donations for sources. Here are some options to support those impacted by the fires:

• To donate to help Orange Grove Meeting Friends impacted by the fires, send a check to: Orange Grove Meeting, Jane Krause, Treasurer, 520 E Orange Grove Blvd, Pasadena, CA 91104; or send money via Zelle to treasurer@ogmm.org.
• To donate to help Santa Monica Meeting Friends impacted by the fires, send a check to: Treasurer, Santa Monica Meeting, 1440 Harvard St, Santa Monica, CA 90404. In the description line, please put “Fire relief.”
• Friends Western School has created an Amazon Wishlist for replacing items damaged in the Eaton fires and purchasing other supplies. Another way to support the school and some of the extra costs is to donate to the annual fund through their website.

The post ‘We Are All Fire Survivors’: Southern California Friends Support Each Other Through Loss, Trauma appeared first on Friends Journal.