Simple Beauty

I fell in love with a show recently and I wanted to tell you about it. The show is called, “Love on the Spectrum.” It’s on Netflix and it is based on the Australian show by the same name. The show follows several individuals who have Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) in their quest for love. We all know finding a compatible partner can be challenging. I’ve also heard a common refrain from younger people that today’s culture has added a few extra barriers to true intimacy that their parents didn’t face. The producers of the show would likely add that having an ASD diagnosis adds yet another layer of challenge to the dating game.

The show is not without criticism. But I don’t care. I don’t care that the show doesn’t depict a complete representation of the individuals with ASD. I don’t care that some people with ASD hate the show. I don’t care that the show is accused of over editing and promoting potentially sexist trends. To be clear, in case you’re wondering how I feel about the criticisms of the show, I don’t care at all.

Here’s why. The show is beautiful to me. Simple as that.

A long time ago in a culture far, far away our society had a term for the people who star in the show. The were called “simple” or “simple minded” due to their perceived lack of social skills and perceived limited intellectual abilities. Many people have made the same observation of children: Patronizing their ideas and oversimplification of (seemingly) complex human problems. In fact, an early term for ASD is introduced in a 1964 work by Bernard Rimland titled “Infantile Autism: The Syndrome and its Implications for a Neural Theory of Behavior.” We’ve come a long way since then. Besides, 1964 was a very, very long time ago. I’ve read we had dinosaurs still roaming the planet then! Thankfully, we are much more evolved now. If only I knew someone who was born in 1964 I could ask them. I’ll just read about it on a cave wall somewhere.

There are many things that are not so simple for people with ASD. The barriers are huge everywhere you turn. Social and vocational barriers. Educational barriers. Navigating the bias that permeates our society. Many experience barriers around communication. Often, their giftedness is overshadowed by their limitations.

But, with this population, there are moments of simplicity too. In this context, a good synonym of “simple” could be “pure.” As in, “without blemish or interference.” In therapy, when a client feels safe and heard, I get to witness brief moments of purity. Authentic emotion, not skewed by fear, not motivated by manipulation, not altered by the past. But with clients on the spectrum, this is more difficult due to the fact this population is at a much higher risk of past trauma than those without the diagnosis. But this purity, this simplicity, can still occur. And when it does, it is a masterpiece.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and for me, the most beautiful things are the most simple things. Shaker furniture (’tis a gift to be simple), baking bread, a glance, a gesture, a conversation without words, a touch that communicates a volume of information. In music, for me, it’s the space between the notes. Yes, I’m impressed with people that have mastered a particular instrument. But if we are talking about beauty, well, then I’m drawn to negative space. On the canvas, the koto, the conversation. Simple and pure.

Here’s an example of what I mean: The best sermon I ever heard (and I’ve heard a lot of sermons in my life) was delivered by Juan Carlos Ortiz at his church in Argentina. He approached the podium to address the congregation and said, “Love one another.” Then he sat down. That was it. Simple and pure. There began an uncomfortable silence in the congregation. Worried looks, as the parishioners were used to expecting much longer monologues. After all, they paid for it. He rose again to the pulpit and repeated the phrase and returned to his seat. A beautiful thing occurred next. A seismic shift of the tectonic plates of passive religion and spiritual prostitution. All from simple beauty. Years later I had the opportunity to have dinner with Ortiz and another edgy pastor, John Wimber (Quaker, member of the Righteous Brothers, then Vineyard founder). Wimber talked a lot. Ortiz just smiled and simply ate his food. I really liked Ortiz.

Another example: I was leading a group counseling session for adolescents in rehab. For those that don’t know, if you get to rehab in adolescence you’ve seen some shit. I had 18 kids in the room that night. Instead of teaching a lesson, I wrote on the big white board in big letters: “People I have lost.” I sat down and waited. After a few minutes of silence, one of the kids got up and wrote on the board the name of his Uncle who had died from a drug overdose the year prior. One by one, the kids got up, picked up a marker, and wrote the names of other family and friends who were no longer with us, all taken too soon from the earth. 45 minutes of silence from this group of adolescents was miracle enough. But as we neared the end of the silent session, one of the residents got up and wrote in big letters on the board: “Myself.” Then he sat down. That was it. Simple and pure. I can’t possibly convey for you the power of that moment. Except to say we were all changed in one way or another.

There are some moments like this in the show for me. Moments when the person says a thing that is the most true thing in the world. There are conversations and glances and touches and expressions that do not seem to be shared to gain views or influence or income. But there is one moment that made me yell at the TV with happiness (which was simple and pure on its own). Now, sometimes I’ll talk to the characters on TV in other shows. But I don’t yell. Typically. But there was a moment, and it was pretty brief, when it felt like to world stopped: David kissed Abbey, and then kissed her again. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything quite as beautiful on a TV show in my life. And I saw the last episodes of M.A.S.H. and Friends. Paragraphs of emotions came pouring out, but not a single word was said. A lifetime of longing and wondering, an unsolvable jigsaw puzzle, in that moment, found its last piece. The space between the words and the expectations and the disappointments and the traumas. The space between the scripts and the lights and the cameras. The space between was filled with a note that couldn’t be heard. It was so quiet.

Except for my dumb ass yelling at the TV. And I’m not sorry for it.