personal space
April 23, 2013 § 12 Comments
Last Thursday the rain dismissed us of electricity. During the daylight we nestled near the windows, my daughter keeping a flashlight in hand for dark corners. We spent the day finding and creating distractions, disconnected from technology and in harmony together. By the time our power cast reflective pools of light across the water outside, I had ceased looking outward.
In the days since I have questioned so many simple habits. Unfolding my laptop, familiar keystrokes echo emptiness. Social media feels overly orchestrated, trivial updates in the face of world events seem to distort measurements of self and the space I consume. Not normally one to linger in darkness I cannot seem to shrug the uncertainty of my own written presence any more than I can let go of the silent belonging that accompanies scattering pieces of my life into the wind.
Today I wonder if it might be time to gather my thoughts into a more personal space, somewhere between the comfort of coarse paper pages.
washed away
April 19, 2013 § 6 Comments
This week read like a child’s rhyme, a trick of prose between iambic pentameter. Tuesday’s child is full of grace, Wednesday’s child is full of woe, Thursday’s child has far to go. Yesterday my mood matched the sky cluttered with heavy clouds, shadows and foreboding darkening the dawn.
After two days of carrying conflicting emotions for what I could not control, I found myself watching flashes of lightning and measuring the endless, lazy drips seeping into our home thinking of the universal vulnerability Mother Nature gifts us. Looking to the sky my blessings became greater than my grief.
Without power I gave thanks for my roof, warm clothes, and blankets. While the storm battered trees and flooded the streets, I gave thanks that my children were home safe and distracted by the novelty of darkness. Then the voice of a friend reminded me that for some school was a welcome safe haven from homes flooding and I became more mindful of others’ burdens. My simple comforts became almost indulgent in their reassurance.
Tuesday’s trouble is never far from my mind and Wednesday’s worries are still present, but today I am holding tightly to my blessings least I allow negativity to wash away my gratitude for what remains: hope, home, and health.
invisible ink
April 17, 2013 § 2 Comments
A simple apology in my daughter’s hand, written on the bathroom mirror. Stepping out of the shower I uncovered a humble message hidden in the folds of steam: I love you. Sorry mommy.
She had forgotten to turn on the bathroom fan and was worried about the bathroom her father built, understanding the importance of caring for the space of our home. Old enough to be a part of the care of our rooms, her mistake was less important than her budding awareness of responsibility.
I suppose the greatest lesson in the language of apologies isn’t just finding the words, but how we craft our message. Sometimes the most sincere apology comes quietly, sincerity and humility punctuating words all to often generically recycled and empty.
My husband and I tell both children, Sorry means I will not do it again. The apology marks a moment of awareness and conscious choice. Reading my daughter’s words I acknowledged that sometimes it is enough to know they were listening, storing a new lesson for another time.
self & standards
April 16, 2013 § 6 Comments
For those rare friends who have followed me among my thoughts, there is an unfortunate pattern of peer centered heartache that accompanies my son’s experiences as a student. Invisible handicaps create false expectations of sameness and unfair intolerance for differences. I try to navigate this space patiently, guiding my son into awareness of his differences and tolerance for other’s ignorance. Some days are easier than others.
Today should have been a happy day. We gathered as a family in the early morning light to welcome my son’s birthday, a calendar milestone, over cake and cards. Knowing my husband had to leave town for work it was important that we marked this moment collectively before scattering into the day to our own agendas. I agreed to steal a moment from the day to share lunch with my son, just the two of us.
I spent part of my morning distracted by the happy busyness of reading with my daughter’s classmates. The quiet joy was punctuated by an unexpected fire drill and I marveled at the choreographed calmness of the elementary aged children not yet aware my peacefulness would be jarred by the silent alarms that sound in our hearts.
At noon I felt the trouble before I could see it. My son was guarded, eyes breaking contact; arms moving mechanically, jutting at the sides like he was pushing at the air around him. He moved with intention away from school, breathing only once we were alone, outside the building. In sentences, broken and rambling fluidly among tears he gave me his heartache whole. I gathered pieces of the harm into a linear thought, extracting connections with questions and trying to lend comfort.
Then, with the wisdom that so often makes me a student of my son’s character, he said: I don’t understand. People say that when I am 30 these kids will respect and admire me for all the things that make me different. So why don’t they like me now if they will later? If there’s nothing wrong with me, what is the difference?
I wanted to say that children mature into adults who learn to appreciate diversity through experience, but I have sung similar refrains of hope and encouragement in elementary school expecting middle school would be better. Time has not made children more accepting, instead we have become exhausted by the tiny injustices, old harms, that accompany us into new experiences.
Rather than explain away misbehavior as predictable, common place, or normal adolescent error I am starting to ask for special treatment. Themes of misconduct, consistent and intentional, dare not be explained away as a phase or rite of passage. Unacceptable norms demand exceptional moments of nonconformity.
Tonight I am redirecting our discontent into a celebration of the wise soul who sees the world for how it should be, not limiting himself by the standards of others. Marveling at the gift of conscious living his life has given me.
thirteen
April 15, 2013 § 2 Comments
I am not one to dwell on numbers. Symbols of time feel inconsequential, tallies and record keeping unweighted against immeasurable, everyday moments. Until today. Tomorrow my son will turn thirteen and I am at a loss for words, my emotions categorically scattered and my thoughts anchored to a simple, unavoidable awareness.
My heart keeps tripping over old memories and small victories, twisting and twirling around years that seem to have passed too quickly to have been properly measured. And yet there is no miscalculation.
As he sits somewhere behind a desk, distracted by the routine activities of his school day, these are the thoughts that crest on waves of memories as I speak, silently, to the little boy who is ever-present in my day. To my son,
I love that your childhood stuffed rabbit has never been shuffled into storage and that we as a family collectively reference him with love.
I admire your ability to forgive others for unkindness while holding yourself accountable for demonstrating kindness.
I respect your efforts to assimilate into others’ expectations without sacrificing your sense of self.
I love that you are in no hurry to be grown, while fiercely passionate about being treated as an equal to adults.
I admire your ability to memorize information accidentally and your efforts to master that which you do not know naturally, with intent.
I wouldn’t change the difficult pieces of your story to script a simpler experience.
I am a more compassionate individual for your company; gentler for your strength, stronger for your vulnerability.
I wish others understood what they cannot see, the beautiful contradictions that spell both struggle and success.
I love that even as your shadow falls near my own, we don’t have to see eye to eye to share one perspective.
I wish I could create a tidy list of thirteen thoughts from the countless memories that accompany this moment to honor each year you have inspired me. Instead words fail, where love cannot. This day sweeter for all the days before and a new tomorrow.
food for thought
April 11, 2013 § 2 Comments
This week my husband and I traded our familiar foods for a suggested menu of vaguely specific meals intended to cleanse our bodies. I agreed to the experiment in self-control, setting aside my reservations to make room in my kitchen for curiosity; a challenge to create meals within a proposed guideline while still gifting us a sense of satisfaction and pleasure.
In much the same way I prepared food for the day ahead, I reserved a brief moment each day to catalogue my thoughts.
Day 1: My initial emotions are an amusing contrast of frustration and awe. I am acutely aware of what I cannot have, textures and flavors made more enticing once forbidden. On the other hand I lingered in the produce corner of our grocery store, gathering new items into my basket for the days ahead, marveling at the colors and textures of unknown fruits and vegetables.
Day 2: So often, in my experience, food is a source of comfort or escape and within this new experiment consumption has become more intentional. I am more cognoscent of pleasure and unrest. This experience has only just begun, still I hope to incorporate my renewed sense of discovery into family meals and greater consciousness into my offerings.
By the end of this day I began studying the limitations of the week ahead for loopholes; weighing my commitment to the experience against excuses for failure. Underneath this suggestion of compromise is a familiar question, at what point is failure more substantial than the attempt? To fail at the beginning seems to suggest an inability to embrace discomfort; to let go in the middle implies a weakness in conviction; to excuse myself from completion, a failure to endure.
Day 3: The first two days required a singular theme of either fruits or vegetables, today is a medley of favorites from both categories. I am surprised to find myself less distracted by the limitations of the remaining days and more mindful of the days to come after this experience, shuffling the contents of my pantry and kitchen into new expectations.
Day 4: Today is the day we are allowed milk, but I have been disloyal, sneaking soy milk into my coffee from the beginning. Like a toddler toting a blanket on a long trip from home it was a comfort I could not, would not, cede. This may be the most telling detail, my resistance to conformity beneath the suggestion of submission.
Day 5: This morning we began with protein. In much the same way I often chose fruits, vegetables, and milk that are both preferable to my palette and more easily tolerated by my body, I elected to substituted chicken for steak. I was surprised by how heavy the meal settled on my stomach, making me sluggish and drowsy. I would be hard pressed to sacrifice meat entirely from my diet, but the difference in my body’s response is not lost on me.
Day 6: Yesterday’s food is still heavy in my body. I have returned to vegetables as my primary source of nourishment, adding smaller portions of protein. I carved out time for gentle exercise, using movement as a substitute for the restlessness and discomfort I feel. Stubbornly I am clinging to my commitment of completing this shared experience with my husband.
Day 7: Our menu today consists of brown rice and vegetables. My agenda for this afternoon involves creating a menu for the weekend ahead that encompasses greater fresh produce in harmony with protein and a birthday indulgence for my husband.
Looking back over the week there was an ever present, unspoken mindfulness that the extreme exclusion of specific foods and nutrients created a threat of imbalance that undermined my confidence in the program we followed. It is doubtful I would do this again and even more unlikely that I would recommend it to others. Still I take from this experience moments of humor and greater consciousness for my food. It is also important to note that while we honored our daily routines of sharing meals as a family I intentionally excluded my children from the restrictions of our diet.
This particular post is a break from my motherhood excerpts, I wrote this merely to capture my perspective of an experience with no intention of endorsing or guiding other’s choices.
wheels & wings
April 6, 2013 § 7 Comments
My husband and I used to talk in muted tones of wishes we dared not draw in permanent sketches, simple childhood exercises in play that seemed just outside our son’s ability. We watched other children peddle to our neighborhood park while our son’s bike sat like a mysterious relic misplaced and unused in the corner of our garage.
This week sunshine interrupted gray skies, stretching the days further into the evening. The school bell signaled play, the park and sidewalks clustered with children meeting beneath the sunshine into unhurried, animated conversations. I watched all of this unfold, no longer lonely for our son’s image among his peers. I had accepted his unique interests alongside the social challenges that accompany these moments, settling into the casual company of individual friends.
Yesterday our son asked to bike to our neighborhood park to play with his friends and I found myself re-sketching expectations, cautious and hopeful, but also uncertain. No longer elementary age, our experiences with neighborhood children carry a burden of complicated history. Friends have acted unfriendly, sometimes unintentionally and other times maliciously, our son included. They have erred collectively and the uncertainty of their kindness makes me question the certainty of their company.
We have given our son wheels, but not wings. The ability to play without the freedom of letting go. So long have I hovered over our son, navigating the unspoken language of play that I am intimidated at the suggestion of letting go and inviting harm. Aware that the months and years have led us to a moment when I should stand more confidently among experiences, I am instead uncertain. I can feel the harm behind my doubts as I hold our son within arms reach.
Today I am trying to gather the lessons we have outlined, remembering that the times we have accompanied our son in difficult moments were in preparation for footsteps that would fall further from our side. Trying to gather old hopes into new opportunities to be among friends as a friend, exceptionally normal moments on wheels and wings.
center stage
April 5, 2013 § 5 Comments
I watch my daughter, fascinated in equal measure by her natural understanding of her world alongside her sensitivity. Unconscious of a natural gift of comedic timing she litters my day with humor, only to curl defensively against sparks of laughter. Eager to avoid the center of a joke she dances in the margin of her limelight. I am a captive audience to her performance, a tragedy of comedy, laughter and reassurance chasing after the same performance.
awareness & acceptance
April 2, 2013 § 18 Comments
Today many will adopt social media identities in acknowledgment of Autism Awareness. Some will debate the value of aligning families and individuals with established campaigns to elevate consciousness with readily recognizable puzzle pieces; gathering individuals into a unified banner of blue. For our family awareness and acceptance are themes we celebrate daily, privately, among those individuals who see us not in shades of blue or missing pieces, but as individuals who are complicated and complete as is.
My son was the same little boy post-diagnosis that he was in the minutes before the word Autism seeped into our vocabulary. His life is linear, sometimes spiraling in its changes, but seamless in its fluidity. Incorporating our son’s diagnosis into our lives created an opportunity to understand pieces of our son more clearly and to lend support to enrich his experiences. We know him, first and foremost, by name not by complicated acronyms that outline needs.
In honoring the lives of those touched by Autism and the extensive collection of family, friends, therapists, and physicians who walk among us, I would ask strangers to open their minds to awareness and their hearts to acceptance with small acts of patience and compassion not only today, but daily.
return to routine
April 1, 2013 § 2 Comments
This morning I begrudgingly answered the determined prodding of my alarm. Coffee in hand and sunlight streaming from the windows I fought the urge to tumble back to bed beneath covers still warm from sleep. In the quiet minutes before nudging my children from their own cocoons of tangled sheets I cast a silent wish into the morning light for one more day of everything and nothing, togetherness outside the normal and necessary obligations of routine expectations. Then, I shuffled my sleepwalking dreamers blindly through familiar tasks allowing them space for unspoken resistance without ceremony or humor; missing them long before saying goodbye.
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