the light

 i revisited a dark season this week by accident. 

memory is remarkable. only a sliver will land us somewhere far away and long ago. i'm surprised i'm surprised actually- i should have seen it coming, but i think i assumed that because i was at work, because i was in my place of profession, wearing different hats then "mom", i would be safe from revisiting the trauma. that my role would serve as a boundary and would give enough distance to keep me from identifying, from imagining, from remembering her in those rudolf fleece pajama pants being tranasported to a locked autism crisis unit. 

but there i was on a locked crisis unit with a young person with autism in crisis and it all came flooding back. all the complex emotions. 

i remember zoe's pacing, her agitation, confusion, fear and her repetitive statement, "there must be a terrible mistake, this must be a terrible mistake." for how else could we be here? how else could things have ended up like this- with no other options but to fly across the world just the two of us, the rest of the family back in uganda, to try to find some help, some medications, some supports to calm her brain, her nervous system, her emotions. 

zoe means life in greek. and zoe is so full of life. there are so many things she loves, and so many parts of her person that i love. she is so much more than how she appears. she can seem simple and rote, but there is so much inside of her. she remembers the names of everyone who means something to her - the workers at trader joes from when she was 4, kevin who fitted her eyeglasses a few years ago, the names of everyone's pets. she can differentiate the different riffs from a disney movie and tell you which scene it's from if you hum it. she is direct to a fault and will tell you if you have wronged someone even if it was 20 years ago, and she will expect you to apologize. she loves to be tickled and she loves to tell jokes. she is a victim of her own "sticky thoughts" and tries not to let them get the best of her. she hates vacuums and loud sounds and babies crying and can't stand jeans or tags or tight things touching her. she makes me laugh and she has made me cry and i stand baffled by her often, trying to understand the inner-workings of her mind, but she is a light where ever she goes and she makes my world bigger.

as i read through this persons chart as one of his doctors, i saw his years of struggle, his diagnoses, and his humanity. all the things he says, what he likes to do, and eat,  and what he loves. the picture grew of this person, who like my daughter was a few years ago, is now, in crisis.  as i read, i knew that right on the other side of the wall from my office, he was having a version of zoe's rudolf fleece pants moment. he was trying to process, in whatever way that could be for him, that he was now in the crisis unit and that has to be scary. new people, new place, new everything and for people with autism especially, that's very threatening. 

i remember when zoe and i first arrived at the psych ER and we landed in a yellow locked windowless room, she instantly calmed down while i felt totally ramped up. i hated that room, i felt like i was being punished, no windows and locked. but for her it felt safe and devoid of stimuli. calming. no threats. just me and her and a mattress on the floor. secure. i was fascinated and i remember in that moment realizing that i didn't know what was best for her, i was too close to her, i was thinking as if it were me. i had to try my best to see things from her perspective.

when we got to the autism crisis unit and she was pacing in her fleece pants behind another locked door, a door i couldn't pass through, i was sure this had gone too far. i remember changing my mind after that locked door shut behind her. i ramped up. i panicked. i found the staff and told them i didn't think i could do this, maybe there had in fact been a terrible mistake, maybe i should take her home. the staff calmly asked if i thought i could handle her at home? did i think that was the best thing for her? i said "no" and "no". then, he said, you have made the right choice and you should leave her here with us. she'll be okay. i wept the whole 45 minute drive home in the dark on those wet windy new england roads and i cried out to God. i told him he had better have her in His hands. that this better be the right thing. that He better keep her safe. they weren't really threats, there were just groans of desperation.

when i got home i took a shower and got in bed and i called the unit and asked to speak with zoe- i was so afraid. afraid she'd be furious with me. afraid she'd beg me to come get her. afraid she'd be catatonic. the staff answered, "oh hey, zoe's doing great. 'zoe your mom's on the phone!"

  "hey mom. we are watching a movie. yeah, i'm fine."

i didn't think i had anymore tears, but i did. tears of such deep gratitude. she felt safe- again. after feeling so out of control with herself and her world for so long, being on that unit, locked and with other kids in crisis, actually felt safe for her. thank you God.

back in my office, we met with his parents and our team. his parents have been on a long journey, one that i know and share parts of. i could feel their love and their hope for their son. i know those feelings so well. i have sat in those meetings and been the one on zoom being asked the questions, entrusting my child to specialists and carers and hoping and praying that they will care enough about my girl to care for her as closely as possible to how i do, but knowing it can't be the same. as i listened to my team, i was reminded  that part of this transition for him is learning the boundaries so he feels safe. reminding me of zoe, and how she felt secure when she was removed from her typical life when life became too much. knowing that this unit is a place for him to get the help and support he needs to be able to live his best life. to get to his light, to make his world bigger. 

 

yes i revisited the dark season, but i was reminded of the light.

half empty nest

 and just like that there are two left. 

what a strange thing, raising children. they leave and it's kind of wonderfully awful and awfully wonderful. it's the goal after all to help them become independent individuals but just when they do and they go through all that teenage drama - stretching and pushing against you and pulling into themselves- they come out lovely and promptly pack up their things and leave you. 

it has been a strange summer. jude was away at camp in a leadership development program and so he was sort of already gone, but as the time time grew closer for us to pick him up, do laundry and pack up for college and drive him half way across the country, i found myself crazed. i was running around with his suit in my car, trying to find a dry-cleaner. i was worried he didn't have enough underwear, i was 'nesting' for his leaving. i think i needed a second maternity leave to prepare for his going- legit- it's actually harder in some ways then preparing for his intial worldly arrival.

i'm still in illinois, i haven't even gotten to the absence. we just said goodbye. 

in reflecting on this man-child, all 6 foot 9 inches of him, i see all the stages of jude. he wasn't little for very long and in some ways he was born an old soul. as a child  he was always kind and generous and very clear in what he wanted- he is not complicated and doesn't make things complicated. if he was upset, he was either hungry, tired or occasionally afraid, usually of something new. 

i released him long ago. it wasn't in a bargaining way with God, it was done freely with a deep knowing that he was his own, and he was of God and that i was just entrusted to do my best with him and painful as it was, it was a great gift for all my children. in his infancy, when we found out he had a brain tumor that was inoperable, there was nothing to do but pray and we did. it was a prayer for healing and it was a prayer of release. i had asked for 5 years to get pregnant and i finally had, a prayer answered, and just like hannah in the bible, i was going to acknowledge that my baby belonged to God- no matter what. and God gave us the grace to experience his full healing and also to keep ourselves from a sense of ownership over him and really over any of our kids. 

they are themselves, not extensions of us, not to fulfill things we failed to, not to represent us. they are themselves and hopefully very different from us. 

today i thought i would cry but i didn't. i love this kid (all my kids) more than anything on this earth, but i'm not sad, i'm so happy. he is right where he wants to be. there will be challenges, and there will be support and growth. he's got this.i'm so proud of who jude is, of the kind of man he is becoming. i will miss him for sure and i look forward to his next trip home and to hear about his world that now spins on with out me in it- what a beautiful thing!

the dogwood

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the flowers on the korean dogwood are almost gone. that beautiful tree perched like a white peacock at the edge of the yard where it meets the small forest of mostly maple trees. it only blooms for the month of june. so now there are only a few scattered white spots in a sea of green that is my back yard.

it is lush. it is the rainy season. apparently, this year, new england has a rainy season. it's as green as uganda in the rain but the shapes and sounds don't match. the bird song is different. the rain song is different. the roof material that it hits is different. ratios of pavement to dirt, different and the force and pause of there, are replaced by the soft constancy of here. 

i am not soft and constant. maybe that is my problem. 

i am longing for the force and the pause. 

today i feel like i have become a very old woman. my children are gone and my house is quiet and time itself has changed. just yesterday that dogwood bloomed now it has joined the rest of the them in their sameness. 

it's hard to feel like you don't belong.

i admit that i long for things that have past. places and times and ages. 

but this season right here, summer, it's as close as i will get, so i need to cherish it. rain or shine, because it is so full of life.

spring

today i am home sick, and i'm homesick. for warmth. green. the constant sound of birds. tan feet and flip-flops and the absence of layers. maybe it's because i was looking at old photos. maybe it's because it feels like winter lasts forever. or maybe it's because we left uganda before we were ready. i've had friends tell me that they reach a point where a season of life has come to a close and there is a knowing that that season of life is clearly over. it's a sense of closure that happens in ones bones. that's not the way our leaving was. we knew in our minds it was time to go. that it was the right thing to do, and that our hearts would get there but our bones hold a different truth. 

last year when i returned to uganda with my boys, i distinctly remember my bones settling when we landed. a long exhale and a release that i felt in my bones. like i was home. i remember feeling like i could just send for the rest of the family and so easily resume life there, the things didn't matter, my bones were back where they belonged. 

one of the 4 books i'm reading right now is michelle obama's latest book, the light we carry. she talks about her dad and the important lesson he taught her about being satisfied with what he had and where he was in life, not always comparing himself with others and what he didn't have. she talks about how this is a key to happiness, choosing to be satisfied and not always wanting something else. it's true and important. 

today the daffodils beside the steps have bloomed. the bluebells too and the grass is greener. there are buds on some of the trees and even though it's 40 degrees outside, spring is coming. i can't feel it yet, but i can see its beginnings. 

will my eyes fall on the forest of dry maples stretching bare to the sky? or the carpet of brightening green? the piles of brown fallen leaves? or the purple flower pushing through? 

it is a choice.

i will look for the signs and mark them, even if they are few. there is hope, it's moving toward the light.

ashes

 new england is doing her best job of reminding me of why i never wanted to live here. it's all brown bald bark and white sky with some dull muted greens thrown in and the hollow sounds of prolonged winter. the weather feels lonely. people seem either closed up in houses or going places in cars. there is no hanging around outside, no strolls, maybe just some brave brisk walks. i'm desperate for spring but i know it's a good 2 months away. 

today is ash wednesday. today begins lent. 

i love the church calendar. i love the provision of place and time set aside for reflection and attention when my tendency is to hibernate and disappear until spring. these seasons give purpose during times when it's  opportunity may be easily missed. 

advent invites us to wait in anticipation for the birth of Jesus, in a time of the year crazed with busyness and bustle and buying things, spending money and making cards and attending parties- all good things, but the joy and the peace and the love of the divine entering humanity is seen more clearly with advent.

lent invites us to draw near to God in preparation for easter, for Christ's death and resurrection. for me, i can be so hunkered down in the doldrums of winter, holding my breath for spring, that i can miss the life-giving Love of easter. Lent, when i enter the season, is a gift to me as i look inward at the winter spaces inside of myself. what parts of me have i let dry up? have i let wither and hollow? where has grief or sorrow vacuumed the life, the joy away? how can i let the Light in? the Love in? 

there is a humility in lent- ashes to ashes- from dust we came and to dust we shall return. it's a healthy humility.  there is freedom in acknowledging the truth of things, of our lack of control, our limitations. from this truth, i can invite God in- the indwelling Spirit- to bring that light, the vibrant greens and the joy, to water the wintering of my soul. 

the new england weather is humbling itself. it reminds me that life isn't always what i'd choose and that's okay, you put on a scarf and hat and go on. lent in the north east lends itself well to reflection if i let myself chose it rather than distraction. as i reflect on my interior world and my dry bits and wintery spaces, i will try to be gentle and draw near to God from where i am with eyes of honesty and patiently trust in the coming spring.