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Some years back, when I was living in Michigan I worked as a respite provider for a family and their adult son, aged 20, Rick.
We established a routine for Saturday afternoons that consisted of going to the local library, walking in quiet parks and visiting other locations that minimized sensory overload.
Rick communicated his preferences primarily through nonverbal cues, making it clear he was ready to leave by standing near me with a collection of books or by
an exit waiting patiently for me to notice and follow.
Throughout the summer I spent with Rick, we often visited a local public pool bustling with families, a stark contrast to the serene environments we typically frequented. However, Rick reveled in the outdoor setting, surrounded by the summertime commotion.
What drew Rick to this specific environment was its unique capacity to accommodate his sensory needs. Amidst the bustling activity of children frolicking, parents cautioning about underwater vision, and lifeguards' whistles piercing the air, there existed a space where Rick could exert control over his sensory experience. This environment offered him the invaluable ability to modulate the volume of stimuli, enabling him to find equilibrium between sensory engagement and personal comfort.
While Rick did find enjoyment in occasional small hops off the diving board, the bulk of our time at the pool was spent wading in the middle, where he could comfortably stand with his shoulders just breaking the water's surface. This area was occupied mostly by people commuting from the diving area to the leisure of the shallower depths.
With a deep breath, Rick would submerge himself beneath the water's surface, relinquishing the weight of the world for as long as his lungs would allow. Despite being physically detached from the surface, he remained an observant spectator to the activities unfolding around him, submerged yet connected to the vibrant world above.
Behind his goggles Rick would studiously focus on the garbled shouts of children, cannonballs splashing and swimmers maneuvering around each other.
Beneath the surface, noise resonated with a distinct rhythm, its cadence holding a uniformity in quality. There were no jarring highs or demanding focal points, each sound blending seamlessly into each other, creating an immersive environment where no single element clamored for undue attention.
In what would equate to a gymnasium’s worth of water, noise enveloped Rick like a blanket, gently wrapping around him and permeating every corner of his senses, creating a cocoon of sound that provided both comfort and immersion.
I've always been intrigued by the term "penumbra," which refers to the edge of a shadow where light gradually infiltrates. Scientifically, it's the transitional zone between the dense darkness of the shadow and full illumination. Rick's time in the pool evoked this concept for me—a space where stimuli gradually come into focus rather than all at once. The pool's unique qualities allowed Rick to occupy an in-between state, where he was both immersed in the sounds and activities around him and yet also somewhat detached.
Discovering these in-between spaces, where one can engage with the world at their own pace, is a skill that may take years to cultivate. Be sure to invest in some good goggles!
Thinking of Rick underneath the water, at peace while stimulated I had some fun and had a AI image generator make some images with the prompt "A person made of electricity swimming underwater." A human experience imagined by a computer, a kind of penumbra space of it's own. Below are some of my favorite.
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