the secrets of simple things

standing still for a few moments by the window, I force myself to notice the world outside. And my heart is warmed-- a touch of healing.

There's been rain this week, and we finally raked an entire tree's worth of leaves from the yard to the curb, so now the birds are in Paradise-- our barren muddy yard their cornucopia of insect delight.

There are still one or two scarlet leaves in the towering maple, slowly floating to the ground, here and there, on a breath of wind in the early morning sunlight.

Birds flitting. Leaves falling.

I shift my weight from foot to foot, resisting the urge to get moving, be doing, and undoing, the pressures of work, family, life. The floorboards creak, protesting. In their voice, I hear the hundred year old bulwark of this house reminding me that there is nothing new under the sun. No new threat to my peace and security-- this is all part of the human condition: condemned, redeemed, renewed.

and the birds dance across my window

An old man strides down the sidewalk, intentional, but unhurried. He has that upright, lanky movement men sometimes use, every leg joint contributing to increased forward energy-- like a marionette, freed from his strings to pursue an independent purpose. Men's purposes are forever the same: love, security, fame, and sometimes evil. But only sometimes.

and the leaves are spinning lazily down

a downy woodpecker hangs head first from the dead limb in the dogwood. There must be a buffet of insect life in that old rotten branch I meant to cut off, but never seem to get around to. The bugs eat the dead dogwood. The woodpecker eats the bugs. Death to life, and death to life again. Ut semper.

and the whole flock riots joyously from limb to grass

You might not know what you think you know about me

(April is Autism Awareness month, so this post is specifically about the experience of neuro-challenged parenting, but I want to high five all the moms out there dealing with the so-called "Silent", or "Invisible" disabilities. Just because you can't see a difference, doesn't mean there aren't massive challenges in a parenting relationship.)

Before you judge the anxious, hovering mother... before you roll your eyes at her circling, helicoptering: ask yourself if you know how long it's been since she watched her child fall apart-- bursting at the seams because someone inaccurately described the flight patterns of various raptors, or made a certain noise frequency at the wrong time. It may have been yesterday. It may have been five years ago. Some things take a very long time to forget.

She may never forget her five year old throwing himself over the side of the Costco cart, nearly hanging himself by the seat belt in the process, because he dropped the empty sample cup that had somehow, in an instant and without warning, become the ultimate talisman of security and safety; its sudden loss signaling the end of all comfort. She may never forget her child's sudden dash from safety into far, far away-- whether it was physical, mental, or emotional. 

You become somewhat gun-shy after years of one completely unpredictable crisis after another. You tend to hover; circling, ever-vigilant. The warning signs are minute: the sharp intake of breath, the stare, the increased frequency and intensity of the knuckles drumming against the door frame, and there's a brief moment where the crisis may be averted. If you get it right, say the right words, follow the correct protocol, you may prevent the head-banging, the wailing, the running... or maybe not, after all. Sometimes there is no right way.

Before you call her permissive, a push-over, lenient-- judging her conciliatory, comforting response to a child seemingly out of control; ask yourself if you know for sure what that child is experiencing. Has a malfunction in your autonomic nervous system ever left you gasping in a wash of adrenaline-fueled terror because one of your shoes was tied tighter than the other? Have you ever been betrayed by your own brain chemistry, in an instant when an otherwise typically human variation in schedule, flavor, texture, or expectation triggers rebellion in the ranks of neurons and that variation suddenly looms, colossus-like, threatening all that is good and right in your world? Have you ever found yourself attempting to quell the three-ring circus of a creative brain stimulated by too many options and thoughts, never quite able to settle long enough on any one topic to express yourself fully?

Probably not. Probably your neuro-typical brain has never betrayed you to the nightmares of sensory processing disorders, autism, ADD/ADHD. Unless you are part of the 2%, you take your cognitive function more or less for granted. Unless someone you love is among the 1-in-10, you may have never considered the blessing of single-minded focus and smooth mental transitions.

So what can you do? 

Assume the best, or nothing at all. Smile. Be aware. Be willing to listen, ask intelligent questions, educate yourself, reach out. But most of all, remember; things may not be what they seem. Be kind. Be patient.

(these are all my words, they are not all my stories)

Lessons on Faith from Michelangelo's Pieta

One of the highlights of our trip to Rome last week never made it to photodocumentation on my Facebook feed. There are some experiences too deep to capture with electronic means and I find myself turning back to the ancient art of the thousand words...

On our third day, we toured St Peter's Basilica. I hadn't done a lot of research for that trip so I was caught off guard by the sudden appearance before my eyes of Michelangelo's Pieta. I recognized it instantly in spite of my ignorance. There was quite a crowd in front of it, but I pushed my way to the rail and stood, utterly captivated, entranced for several minutes. The next day we came back, and again the magic of that serene, pure white monument to the deep peace of complete faith, even in the face of tragedy, captured me entirely.



I'm sure you all have, as I had, seen this work of art in magazine and newspaper photographs, in travel blogs, on documentaries over the years. But let me assure you that none of those can capture the emotion of seeing it up close and in person. Michelangelo has broken with previous tradition and represents Mary as a young mother with her adult son, crucified, lifeless (for the moment) in her arms. But her gaze is not full of anguish-- she is not grieving, merely solemn. She does not clutch her son's body in despair, but rather her hand is outstretched, open, ready to receive. The expression on her face is one of peace, surrender, trust.

Our guide pointed out that experts have surmised that Michelangelo intended to portray not necessarily the middle-aged Mary, actually holding her dead son; but rather the young mother gazing at her infant son, yet perceiving what must come-- the vision of a second sight personified in marble.

When he said that I felt an instant connection with that concept. Aren't we all like Mary in those moments when our children are young, safe, loved, protected in our arms? Who has not looked down at their sleeping infant, in a moment suddenly burdened with the realization that in that precious bundle is contained a whole life, a future that needs must contain much sorrow, struggle, and grief?

May we respond to that realization with the humble faith of Mary of the Pieta-- hiding all these things in our hearts, in faith that the God we follow shapes their future. May we hold our children with outstretched, expectant hands; trusting His will for their lives.