Autism and Ancient Oceans
A
part from the arts, I doubt there is any profession that has as many ways to describe the colour grey as geology. For this science, grey is a universe of subtle colour- it shines and sings, eager to spill the secrets of the Earth. For me, though, grey rocks go even beyond that, shaped by my autistic and synesthetic experience, the latter enabling me to literally hear colours. While an undergraduate student, I visited the Scottish island of Skye, a beautiful wee island built from over three billion years of Earth history. One chilly April morning, our class was trying to decipher the secrets of the Jurassic rocks in front of us. To everyone else the rocks looked grey, their details hidden from rookie students. But I could see a pattern of subtle changes in colour and texture and I could hear the sounds that those colours and textures made. In one layer, the rocks appeared in deep dark greens, blues, and purples. I had an image in my mind as of flat stacked shapes, like plates or dominos. I could hear the abstract sensation of sounds: low and droning, coming and going in slow lazy cycles that moved back and forth with a pressure that was both gentle and crushing. In another layer, I heard a sound like static mixed with the roar of a distant crowd and a rapid rolling clacking. I could see spark-
ing white and silver glints shooting through a shifting mass of warm yellows and curving pale blue shapes. All this was wrapped up in a feeling of energy and tumbling over and over. One of our instructors came over to check on our progress. I gave her my interpretation of the rock examination: there was a change in the ancient sea level. The lower layer, the one with the dark colours, was deep water, out at sea. The upper band, with the sensation of tumbling, was shallow water closer to the shore, maybe even a beach. She told me I was pretty much correct and asked how I could know. I tried to explain but, in the end, I simply told her, “it’s just what the rocks are saying”. My friends thought it was a pretty neat trick, and our instructor shrugged and said, “some people are like that”. Over time, my instructors noticed more interesting traits about me and eventually, I was diagnosed with dyslexia, dyspraxia, dyscalculia, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, and sensory sensitivity. I had always struggled with various tasks - my perception of time is fluid at best, and I am unable to perform Maths at a level much above primary school, as the numbers just won’t stay still. It’s one of the reasons why I had to postpone my degree until my late twenties. I still struggle with things like telling the time and often forget how to tie my own shoelaces. But this might just prove to be an asset for my scientific experience. I started my PhD at Oxford looking at 1300-million-year old piles of mud that cover most of Northern Australia. The project was meant to be a warm-up, as these rocks had already been studied before, so they should have had nothing
