MSI Press Blog

Temple Grandin didn’t just overcome autism—she redefined how the world understands it. Mute until age 3½, she found her voice through speech therapy and later revolutionized livestock handling by designing systems that reflect animal psychology. Her autism gave her a unique visual-spatial thinking style, allowing her to “think in pictures.” This perspective helped her empathize with animals and advocate for humane treatment. She’s now a professor, author, and one of the most influential autism advocates alive. Autism didn’t limit her—it clarified her vision. Grandin’s legacy is both scientific and spiritual: a call to see the world through different eyes. Post inspired by Colette McNeil's books on autism:  Choice and Structure for Children with Autism .  Entienda el desafino de -no - en los ninos con autismo ,  and  Understanding the Challenge of "No" for Children with Autism   by Colette McNeil.  Read more posts about Colette and her books  HERE . To ...

   In a world that rushes, mindfulness invites us to pause. It’s not a trend or a technique—it’s a way of being. A gentle return to the present moment, where breath meets awareness and thought softens into observation. Whether you're walking through a Mission garden, editing a tribute, or simply sipping tea beside a sleeping cat, mindfulness is the art of noticing without judgment. 🧘 What Is Mindfulness? Mindfulness is the practice of paying attention—on purpose, in the present moment, and without criticism. It’s not about emptying the mind but about witnessing it. Thoughts come and go like clouds across the sky. We don’t chase them or resist them. We simply notice. This practice has roots in Buddhist tradition, but it’s found in many spiritual paths, including Christian contemplative prayer and Franciscan simplicity. It’s also supported by modern science, shown to reduce stress, improve focus, and deepen emotional resilience. 🕯️ Everyday Mindfulness You don’t need a meditat...

  They weren’t close before. Just two of my neighbors, one downstairs, one in the next lot. Young mothers in their mid-thirties, each with two children, each newly diagnosed—one with uterine cancer, one with lymphoma. Now they spend long evenings together. Drinking. Laughing. Talking about men, though both are married. Not about cancer. Never about cancer. They slip into a kind of fantasy hour—where the diagnoses don’t exist, where their bodies haven’t betrayed them, where they’re still the girls they used to be. Or maybe the girls they never got to be. It’s not denial in the dramatic sense. It’s something softer, sadder. A shared numbness. A counter-life. They get drunk too fast to talk about anything real. And maybe that’s the point. The rest of us—neighbors, friends, watchers—feel the pull. We want to speak. We want to say, Please don’t wait too long. But we also know they won’t hear it. Not now. Not in this fragile world they’ve built together. So we hover in the silence...