Wake of Echoes

Last week, I prepared my third blog post for Autism Awareness Month.  I wrote it, edited it, let it marinate and edited it again.  But I never posted it. I wrote about my frustrations with the way the media handles autism.  My position was that journalists – mostly fed by corporate and not-for-profit press releases – are not properly focused when reporting on the spectrum community.  In part, I wrote: That’s where the negative perspective is born:  a perfect marriage between two industries mostly concerned with their own survival.  While those writing press releases and newspaper articles try to justify their own existence, the only people putting the child first are those living on the spectrum every day… You can’t avoid the message the media are selling, which has included the following suggestions: Vaccines cause autism No it’s the environment Kids aren’t being diagnosed early enough Early diagnosis isn’t enough Autism is a growing epid...

“Wash your hands for dinner!” Drew comes toward the sink and then takes a step back. “Mom.  I can’t.” I look at the faucet, covered in soap suds. “Hang on,” I say, liberally dousing it with water until the bubbles are completely gone.  “There you go.” He steps up to the sink and washes his hands. Bubbles.  He can’t even stand the word.  The sight of them makes his stomach twist.  He forces himself to tolerate hand soap, but prefers hand sanitizers that don’t create suds.  I shudder to think about how he washes his hair – or doesn’t.  There was a time when I would have tried to understand – tried to rationalize it for him.  They’re just bubbles.  He likes clean things – what’s cleaner than a soap bubble? I don’t do that anymore.  I’ve learned that sometimes it’s best to jump on the spectrum with him. How can I say that?   Isn’t drawing him toward a typical life view the best thing for a kid who’s so “high” on the spectrum tha...

   I stop and start. I type words and delete them all. Words usually matter, but not this week. A child has died and there are no words that will make it untrue.    Tears fall. Days pass and I feel unworthy to shed them. I didn’t really know her. That wasn’t my privilege. Pain is real, God reminds me, even when it has nothing to do with me.    So even though I have no right to mourn, I do not fight my sorrow. I hope it is a result of prayer – that God is easing rightful grief by placing some of it on me.    But platitudes are meaningless. Flowers can’t be spared for language; they are needed for her grave.   She is a light returned to God, but her parents are still here, feeling everything and nothing all at once.  Numbness gives way, sleep is impossible.  When it finally shrouds, it bursts with nightmares – none worse than the reality morning brings. Nourishment seems pointless; when finally taken, it’s swallowed with guil...

There’s a mesquite tree on the west side of I-10 halfway between Phoenix and Tucson that I will never forget.   We bonded several years ago – I left my mark on him, and he left his on me.   But our brief encounter was not the most memorable part of that day – that came much later under a desert sky when my favorite singer returned to the stage after a stunning performance and played an encore just for me. It was Mother’s Day, May 9, 2004, and my husband and I decide to pass on the tortuous three-hour wait outside Olive Garden for a mediocre lunch and a wilted pink carnation.  We had bigger plans.  We were going to Tucson to see Josh Groban in concert. After dropping the kids off with the in-laws in Sun City, we high-tailed it out of Phoenix, stopping only for a quick bite at In-N-Out on the edge of town.  Thirty minutes later, I was sucking air through my straw, rattling ice in the bottom of my cup and staring at a long line of red tail lights in fr...

The heart of a woman goes forth with the dawn ... In the wake of those echoes the heart calls home... -- Gloria Douglas Johnson    I love novels; the depth and length that allows me to reside, for a while, in a world far away; the pace that I often feverishly rush, the tone that can fill my insides with heartache, pity or hatred. I can linger in a novel. There, I am gently led to the truths in my heart and then given a soft place to sit and ponder. Revisited, it will show me new surprises, hidden alleys, secret gardens. But poetry is different. It doesn’t allow me to hide within. No lush summer vegetation that produces crates full of nouns and verbs; lexicon bushes, etymological trees. Instead I find a stark copse of winter Aspens, each chosen carefully to cut and sting. Poetry doesn’t meander. There is no sight-seeing along her paths; instead I am led quickly to my own reflection. There she says, “look, see what’s inside.” I...