Invest in the Broken

Perhaps "innovation" should be a stronger word in my vocabulary for this coming year. As my son destroyed another small gift I had just given him for Christmas, I thought many thoughts, but one that floated through I was chastising myself for buying him something that had the potential of being just another thing he destroyed within minutes.

Yes, he did it with no provocation except curiosity that I know he can't quite resist in such items, so why do I persist in purchasing them for him? Because I want to give him something that has potential to please him also. Maybe that moment of destruction also pleases him more than I know---more than hanging on to the thing and playing with it.

I, personally, don't get it. I do think back to when I gave a new doll given to me for Christmas a "hair cut", so I suppose that is some of the same. I remember taking a marker to one also. Beheading Barbies was always a good time, if nothing else to irritate my sister. He got a reaction from me and that alone is probably worth the price of admission. I could see my reaction was highly entertaining to him.

I made sure the item was only about $4 on sale and so my thought was if he did destroy it, I wouldn't be too broken up about it. It sure made a mess and may have stained the couch and his clothes to the point of no return, but we'll see about that too. To him it doesn't matter of the expense, who gave it to him, or if it is sentimental----there is no sentiment to him.

This summer he destroyed a garden gnome a student had given me and a garden statue that my husband had given me. I was rather upset and taken aback that he'd done that. The gnome was sentimental and that little statue I'd grown fond of being there all these years. Both were memory markers that I'd look at and think of certain times. They were in my garden and were mine. He took them and smashed them to pieces. I was angry. They were just things, but that he took them and just destroyed them for no reason was what was beyond my thinking.

The "Let It Go" theme song is playing in my head, but it is difficult to let go of wanting to hang on to times and things that represent something. So, what did this little $4 gift represent? Simply a gift from me. He hangs on to none of them that I give him or plays with much of any of them----he simply dismantles them and I put them into the trash can. I keep handing him gifts great and small and he keeps taking them apart to find what is inside.

I guess that is part of what he'll always do. He goes deep into any subject to find the furthest he can go on the inside. He wants to know how everything works. 

I think I should do what a friend of mine with his autistic son does and go to Goodwill and garage sales finding interesting electronics, toasters, clocks, etc...and hands him a few tools so he can simply "take it apart". As far as I know, this particular child has never put anything back together, but he is an expert at taking stuff apart and it makes him really, really happy. They are never short for screws, nails, or other such hardware in that family.

I do want to see him happy about the gifts I give him. Perhaps, I shouldn't care how that happiness comes. I want him to keep exploring what is on the inside. I think I haven't explored that enough when it comes to objects in my life, so often I don't understand how to repair them when they break. Maybe, he will study what he destroys and some day to find a way to put it all back together.

He is excited for his doctor's appointment tomorrow to discuss medicine with our doctor. His fascination at the moment is in the disease angle of it all not into the healing parts. I hope if he studies it in depth though, the healing will take place. If nothing else, he'd make a great surgeon, find what it is and cut it out! It is the sewing up part that will take a bit more practice.

P.S. I was going to post pictures of the broken gnome that I did take at one point when I was really mad, but I must have purged them in order to "let it go". Good for me!

Windstorm of emotions coming through....

Around Christmas friends and acquaintances always ask what my plans for the holidays are and they ask about my family. Or they ask if my mother is going to come see us, because they don’t know me and their mother is flying in and they have it on the brain. It is always a little bit of an awkward silence after I confess, “No, my Mom passed away “x” number of years ago.”

It was Christmas time, I remember the lights and decorations up as we drove through town in our tiny Missouri town after the funeral. The lights blurred in the reds, yellows, and greens like a water color as I cried my eyes out. I remember looking out the car window thinking, “Why is there so much color?” I wanted to drain it all away to match my mood.

It was surreal to think of her gone. For about 5 years after her death, I dreamed often she wasn’t gone. We weren’t close, but she was my Mom and there is something indefinable that I miss about her---her being here.

17 years ago today, Mom, you passed away and I was so glad you were out of tremendous pain, but I was also so sad to know you’d left, oh too soon. I miss you, Mommy!

Mother, December 10th

I sat down and it settled in

I scheduled work today to distract me

I was so busy until the children’s voices

rang out with today’s date

just a day to most

a birthday to some

a marriage proposal to others

a job promotion

an encouraging word

a first book published

a difficult test conquered

a love gained and lost

a mile walked or run for the first time

a dry pair of socks given to someone living in the pouring rain

a memory floating on a sea of mixed feelings

so deep like paint that is stirred after sitting

reveals its true shades

the beauty ready to be spread

part of a picture captured

created out of using

not wallowing,

thick like stucco

Delicate brush strokes

wire thin, part of the bigger picture

the date tells me this is the day

this is the day you left

you wandered off this coil

no longer to be called mother, sister, or lover

by anyone except in passing

many stories repeated at first

then the second verse

is a little less, but still conveys

your life story

and the third verse often skipped

is the heart of the song

I can’t skip it

I let it ring out

If only to myself

But sing as if everyone can hear it

And then finish on the fourth

As to the hope I find,

In knowing where you are

And where we might meet again,

On this day to myself, I sing the whole song,

this song sailing though

as wind gusts blowing

sometimes raging surprisingly powerful

to the delight of those

that speak not your name often

Except now

on this day

this date

today

we sing

Slow traffic and sunsets....

A few thoughts that were rattling around my head as I sat on traffic on the way home from Joni and Friends Camp in Southern Oregon. The whole experience makes me reflect on disability, faith, present, future, and always on God. How does all this fit together?

The poem I had in my head was a bit better than the one I wrote down finally when I returned home, but the bones of it are still there and reflecting what I was musing. A couple of the lines that I wanted did make it in there too. I am thankful for a place to reflect about the wonder of this journey with other families of faith that “get it”.

My Distant Playhouse

Rattling along the highway

Toward our home we live in and out of

Somewhere in the middle distance is a house

And in it is our stuff that keeps it all familiar and somewhat fun

In my rear view mirror, I am stunned

By a blaze of sunset burning bright

So intense it catches my breath at the sight

I can’t take my eyes off the brilliant colors drawing me in

To this day that was and what I never saw

Or could have been

Because before me is pure murky soup

The Pacific Northwest spitting and sputtering our day’s end

A silent close, hemmed in with fog

punctuated quietly with constant drizzle

Tires screech on the pavement

and I startle aware of the car in front

Breaking hard at the sudden slow down

Red angry brake lights

Grab my attention away from the day dream

As it often does

The scene of “what could have been” dancing picturesque

Until reality, slams on the breaks

As sound, sight, and sensations return

Telling me where I am and where I’m headed

Not for sex on a sunset beach

Oh no, my sights are set on this home

Somewhere in the middle distance

miles away through heavy traffic

I know there is a better home

At least, this is what I believe

I repeat it over and over again

Willing myself to tear my sight away

From wishes or wants

To what is and what will be

Keep driving and be faithful to the course

The slow-downs don’t matter as I will arrive

Beyond the traffic and all of it

I will melt into an even more perfect place

Falling out misshapen as I am

Out of that tight mold I’ve squeezed myself into

One day I won’t need maps or to pay such close attention

To details of doctors or behavior plans or diets or displaced dreams

Far above the low lying clouds I’ll be

And I’ll know face to face God loves me

See clearly His wonder, beauty

I’m held fast in His grace

By his side

I will have won the race

Others with me too

Like my little Boo

There we all will be ordinary people

Yet still very special with no needs at all

Living a thousand years in a day

In our home at play

Speaking Up

UPDATE: This is still a good essay of what I believe about writing for autism and what goes on between those writing that are autistic and those close to it i.e. parents of autistic children. In November, I am headed to NYC for the first time, to see a play written by autistics.
 I am excited to see what this brings to my life, process, and understanding of autism. In the two years since I wrote this post, and the five years since I presented the play Hunting Dinosaurs, that took me several years to write. I have dabbled at stretching the play and changing it as I said below, but I have still stalled out. I hope seeing through new eyes this play in New York will shake loose my writing and blend together all the years since to something fantastic coming out.
____________________________________________________________________

All people have feelings. Not all people are heard or valued or seen as valuable. I wish with all my heart I could change this and all persons would be valued and felt their worth. It is hard to communicate honest intentions on the internet, but in days gone by it was just as difficult as it is a human flaw to struggle to communicate clearly. To empathize through a few words is an art and a delicate balance.

In this day and age when opinions are like popcorn, it is so easy to fall into a strong voice that pulls you one way or the next not really having any experience with whatever that voice is telling you about. We munch on the delicious popcorn until we often are sick and vomit it back up all over each other and then it isn’t as good as when we ate it, is it? This is how the broad subject of autism, if I can even call it a just a subject, feels like sometimes when it is discussed en masse. It is discovered, defamed, some find it dreary or pitiful to talk about, but how few seem to know it up close and personal, but oh yes, everyone has an opinion about it more and more.

I struggle as a parent of an autistic child when reading angry blogs of autistic adults. I do read them even though there is a lot of blame, shame, and bile thrown at the feet of parents. Yes, these are the people living day to day with autism. They should have plenty of opinions, but where I shudder is when they seem to want to be the voice for the entire spectrum. It is called a spectrum for a reason. There are people that are at every stop on that broad spectrum. Still, it is those angry voices make me want to gather up all those hurt souls and comfort them. To tell the screamers that they are valued and that I do recognize their voice, struggle, and often brilliance. And some of them, I suspect are valued greatly, even though they scream about how they were parented; they are valued by those same parents that seem so very evil to them. There are evil parents out there and not all parents of autistics are saints, but to throw all of us in one bag just as autistics they say they have been thrown into one bargain bin is wrong.

We are all people. We all have rights, feelings, and voices. Some autistics use those voices very well and some, well, scream a lot about being wronged just as much as parents “complain” about their life bringing up an autistic. Autistics call parents that complain disgusting and assume that the parents just want pity and attention. This is a delicate subject that yes, some writing is for attention seekers, but some are trying to honestly figure out what to do and so they report what goes on through their own eyes trying to see through the autistic in their household’s eyes. I know because that is what I do.

What about the autistics that have no voice? None. They don’t write, they don’t mature, and they don’t have that capacity to scream about their lives, because they live day to day to day surviving. There are those that exist on the spectrum. Their voices are locked up or hidden or undiscovered by those of us that do have voices. Who speaks for them or with them?

I see tireless parents advocating for those autistics that cannot speak. Assistants, doctors, and therapists giving over their voice for the voiceless and gladly doing it-----not for praise, or honor or some prize, but to find the person inside they have come to love, honor and respect. These unsung heroes do exist----the voiceless autistic and the one who selflessly cares for them do exist. I know them. They are both such strong people that I admire. One struggling against the body and brain they are in and the other trying so hard to help that body and brain of the one they serve and fiercely love to function better. A little progress made is triumphant. I hope technology advances to the point we can hear those voices. There is a voice inside each and every one of them. I see it.

I once wrote a play about three very different kinds of voiceless autistics and the three different outcomes of them with their parents. I was praised by many who knew nothing about autism and some that knew a lot. Then there was a group of autistics that accused me after the play ran of not knowing or writing about autism at all. I was asked to write for the voiceless specifically by a loving parent and I was screamed at from afar by an autistic that had not seen the play but had it reported to him by an unreliable witness. And that group of autistics, which none of them had seen it, blogged and blogged and screamed and screamed until I was overwhelmed and shut down and stopped working on my play.

We each come from a different perspective and understanding. I am not autistic, but as a parent, I have some understanding of autism. I say some. I am not at all an expert on the subject. Some things I merely guess about from observing my son and listening to him and to others on the spectrum that I meet. But to say that parents should have no voice or opinion or even say they don’t know anything about autism is ludicrous. I wish more autistics that do write would write about what it is they face, see, feel, and need. More first-hand accounts are what we need and then we parents can stop guessing. I did challenge the screamers to write their own play and I’m still waiting for it. I’d support it in a heartbeat.

Like I said, I mostly read complaints about what they’ve perceived as wrongs and how they are not listened to. I’m listening and so are a lot of others that really want to know about what autistics think on a day to day basis. What would make this world better for autistics, right here and right now? That is what I want to know. How can parents bring their autistic children up to be strong advocators for themselves? What do we parents need to know? I don’t want to hear a litany of complaints----I’ll stop it if you will----I want to hear if autistics have solutions or suggestions even of what I can or could change or that needs to change for autistics to feel freer, fuller, and more at peace. This is what I want to know.

I really do want to know and I need so desperately to know. My son can’t tell me. He’s getting better at communicating, but not yet. He has a lot to say and I listen to all of it. I wait to hear what I can do better to help him. I hope he can tell me without feeling the need to shout me down to do it. I love him and want the very best for his life and childhood. I want him to learn his worth is priceless just as he is now and always. I am listening. I am waiting for his voice to shout good things about being autistic and to know that is has great value all over this world. I say yes to integration, not separation and yes to accommodation not intimidation or exclusion. We need to find more ways to bridge the gap as it is deep and wide in more ways than most “typicals” realize. That I do get more and more and more.

Listening to the underlying words that were being screamed at me about my play, I think I heard the issues. I hope I did and do. I have wrestled with it for two years. As I begin to rewrite my play and stretch it and knead it into another shape, one that I pray is better and has a stronger voice that advocates for those without voices. I hope it speaks for autistics to live a good life, and that the rewrite will come down so firmly on the side of hope there can be no misinterpretations. I often go back to slog through all the popcorn to find the kernels of truth that created all this fluff to begin with. What needs to be said? What is that voice? Can I try to write as honestly as I can and represent what I am not, but what I care so much about? I will try. Pray with me as I try. As it needs to be said.

Musical Memories

Last night my husband and I got to go out on a date to the Seattle Symphony. It was glorious music of Purcell, Handel, Bach, and Vivaldi. Incredible healing music after the week we'd had with our son's school and just trying to make decisions and the hectic life of work this week. We were both so tired, but sat there soaking in the sumptuous sounds surrounding us. I can go on and on about the skill of this world class symphony that we have in Seattle, but there was much more that stood out to me.

Sense memory is a powerful thing and mixed with the beauty was recognition of where I was when I first heard some of that music. The Bach took me back to me slipping on my headphones after class at boarding school to lie down for a nap. I'd often listen to Handel or Bach as they would support my flagging energy into a deeper comforting sleep. Don't get me wrong, I loved the music, but I was very ill at the time and in a lot of pain with a stomach ulcer and so feeling isolated---it was comfort and renewed my energy to hear that music.

The Vivaldi was a surprise as my oldest brother David's face popped into my head as soon as the music began. I didn't associate this piece with him, but should have as I realized I first heard it when he was in college singing with his college choir. He was so happy after that performance and during it singing away in the tenor section. He talked about how fun it was to sing the "Gloria". As I was listening last night, my subconscious recognized it first as small tears leaked out of the corners of my eyes and down my face. I could see him in my minds eye being happy and it made the music so much sweeter.

One of the Vivaldi pieces, a duet by the glorious soprano and alto soloists, "Laudamus te" was sung at our wedding also. That was a wonderful reminder how music can bring you to a time of remembering those beginnings that set you up in life. I leaned into Martin as he smiled at me with the recognition of enjoying this moment together.

I'm still thinking about that music as I get  ready for bed tonight. Thinking about what we are singing at church tomorrow. What does that mean week after week? Where does it take my spirit? I look to lean into the sound and support of the music to bring me to a renewed space---a place of comfort.

"Highest renew your goodness
every morning from now on....
He will increase in us
what he has promised us out of grace,
so that we trust fast in Him,
abandon ourselves completely to Him,
rely on Him within our hearts,
so that our heart, will, and mind
depend strongly on HIm:
therefore we sing at this time:
Amen, we shall succeed, if we
believe from the depths of our hearts.
Alleluia!"

----Bach : Cantata No. 51, "Jauchzett Gott in allen Landen!" BWV 51 (Sung by a bird-like soprano beautifully---Ms. Amanda Forsythe---I applaud you!)

If only chickens could be assistant animals....

Yesterday was focused on one thing, the meeting at school to reinstate our son. Now, if you have a kiddo who isn’t in Special Ed, you might be thinking that we met with one or two people. Oh no, there were seven adults plus Martin and I around that table. It was tense just listening to the carefully laid out meeting and account of exactly what happened last week. It is hard to listen to missteps and new information and not feel ambushed by this information.

What was the upshot of the meeting? That we put yet another new plan in place to try to help the boy know what the plan is ahead of time so he doesn’t get surprised at how people react when things go awry. This time the plan is of a specific script that is followed, like a flow chart, for him to know what will be his only two choices each step of the way. Plus, they are talking about having a safe place for him that is a sensory soothing tent (one of the ideas floated) that he can go to escape and cool down. This plan sounds good. It really does, but it was all the talk around it that gave us pause.

I sat there listening feeling heavy about the way we all talk about my son. I was so glad we had gotten a hold of a babysitter and that he was far away from this room. I know he has always heard us and others speak right in front of him as this is the nature of therapy, school, and daily encounters with the world around us. One therapist encourages me not to put too much adult thinking upon him as she points out he had the emotional thinking of a toddler most of time, especially in moments of stress. However, it is his moments of deep insight that tells me so much more is going on in his mind then I can even guess and it drags his intense emotions along with it when he strikes at an idea often.

He talked to me about his worries the night before the meeting. Right before bed he was just lying with his face down in his bean bag chair not saying a word. I always know to check on him when he is super quiet.

ME: Are you listening to the chicks?
(He rolls over and looks at me and then into the chick’s box then flops back down into the bag.)
ME: Their soft peeps are nice, huh? Relaxing.
BOY: Yeah. Yeah…you…you…you know chicks are relaxing. No chicks at school.
ME: Yes, but you can come home and relax with them.
(He rolls away and puts his face back into the bean bag)
ME: Can I ask you something?
BOY: Yes.
ME: Are you worried about school? You seem worried.
BOY: Mama, I am worried.
ME: About school?
BOY: Do chicks go to school?
ME: No, they grow and learn by living and God made them a certain way and they just know it. They know what to do naturally. They have pretty tiny brains. Do you know why you go to school?
BOY: I don’t know.
ME: We’ve talked about it before, but okay, it is for you to learn things you might not learn on your own---to stretch your mind and hopefully make friends. And you train to have a job one day.

BOY: Does…does everyone have to have a job? What happens if you don’t work?
ME: Well, not everyone has a job, but those that don’t have to be taken care of somehow. People have jobs to have money for one thing.
BOY: What is money?
ME: You know what money is. It is the currency that we use to pay for things we need or want, but hopefully mostly needs.
BOY: Does everyone have money?
ME: No, not everyone has money, but we all have to live somehow. We pay for this house with money we earn from our jobs. We pay for the food we eat and what the chicks eat. We pay for electricity to run the computers, radio, and things like these lights. That all takes money which we get from our work that we get paid to do and we went to school to learn what to do for our jobs.
BOY: What…what if…if…if I don’t get a job?
ME: I think you can get one if you want to. I believe you are capable of doing anything you set your mind to doing including going to school and getting a job.
BOY: I don’t know.
ME: I believe you’ll have a job one day when you are ready and I know whatever it is you’ll be good at your job. Very good!
BOY: What is a job?
Then we talked about all the possibilities of career paths and what he is studying at school that possibly relates to meteorologist, video game composer, or historian plus several variants of this. Then he brought it back to the chicks.
BOY: Mama, I can’t have a rooster unless I am on a farm. What would happen, if I were a farmer?
ME: Then I know you’d have a few roosters around.
BOY: What happens 21 days after a rooster is there?
ME: Chicks!
(At this he smiled and I got him to start on his bedtime routine).

As I was putting him to bed, he asked me about the meeting and why he had to have a babysitter. I told him I didn’t want him to feel horrible about us talking about him and him hearing all of that. I told him we would talk about what happened the other day and what to do about him getting through fourth grade. I told him he could come and in the near future he probably would participate in these meetings. He decided he didn’t want to come after all.

In our meeting I was surprised that the principal said that he hadn’t seen behavior like this from a child in the fourteen years he had been at this school. Other “experts” in the room also expressed similar statements saying how our son is redefining what is needed in place for the district. This comment had a harder edge to it then I was used to hearing. It is not something you want to hear about your child.

It sent me down the path of if they talk this way about him in general, what do his peers think? How does this prejudice other teachers or aids that don’t know him well, but encounter him occasionally? At this point they were batting around the idea of not reinstating him until they had an all staff meeting essentially to talk about how to handle him. (Remember, there are only five weeks left in the school year). They were talking one, two, maybe three weeks out---then school would be essentially over.

This really made me queasy and I wanted to shout, “He’s one little boy! He’s not toxic waste that you need to have disposal procedures in place! You sound like you’re ready to throw him away!” But, I didn’t and someone sensible squashed the idea of this all staff meeting. Instead a memo will go out with who to call to help if it looks like there is situation with him and a few words about not engaging him. That still felt….ugh….just ugh….

These conversations made me feel the weight of his worries settle in from the surrounding school walls. It felt closed off not open to life and light that I would expect in this setting. I understood where his thoughts of jail come from now---to be imprisoned by what others believe about you.

It gave me a real “aha” moment about autism in general and what are the indescribable barriers that many who are autistic adults talk about such feelings. Many analyze their young adulthood and look back on what it is to grow up autistic—where everyone talks about you. Many express great anger about it and decry the feelings of “less than”. I see what that must feel like.

My tears never came though, I felt like crying, walking out of that room. My grief felt dry and hot---fueled by anger at everything I felt at what I’d heard. I could hear my son saying, “That’s not right! That’s not fair!” So many times I’ve asked him, “What’s not fair?” And he would just make sounds because he had no words to answer. I had a tiny rain drop of understanding that it all isn’t fair in that the world works in a certain way and the only way he can see to go is not even part of this path, so he thinks. He’s right; I can see how that seems unjust. 

They are going to try to put everything in place that he can get back to school in the next two weeks. The autism district experts are trying hard to get it by middle of next week as they know as time marches on him wanting to return at all also fades with time and it is at a pale sliver right now. At least they are helping us shape how to hold onto any progress he makes over the summer.

 I just hope we can get all this theory to possibly work for my boy's sake. In the meantime, he'll continue having what lessons we can get done together while holding chicks on our laps and listening to those soft quiet peeps we love so much.

The Last One for Poetry Month….NaPoWriMo #38 & #39

Well it was April 30^th when I wrote the first one, but in a flash I had to write the second one and I’ll be posting now just after midnight….oh well. It was a good month! Here is a super simple poem to end on and then one of my signature rambles in the moment. The month always goes so fast chronicling it this way in poetry. I write a lot even when it isn’t April, I just don’t post them all.

We went to the UW Planetarium tonight for a presentation on the stars and planets. It was nice as it was a special night where families with autistic children could come in for free and hear this presentation and it was supported by the Autism Center there. So it was noisy and had a lot more little ones than I expected, but most of the kiddos were into it and that was fun to see.

I wish I’d had paper with me as I was thinking of doing a poem on the planets, but it had melted away by the time I arrived at home. Instead, I just wrote what I see at night here on a really great star night and then a bit of observation during our "Night Event Under the Stars".

Seeing Stars

When I look into the night sky

I see slurry of cumulus

Blurring out the moon

And all that might be hidden there

I stare intently searching the heavens

For a light or glimmer of life forms

That could be starring back at me

There is a small break

And as one that spake

A new creature tongue

There tenderly hung

Is one tiny particle of light

Shining so bright

Against the odds

Of obscuring obsoleteness

In it I pin my wish

Of another point of light

Laser beaming through the blackness

And coming up for air

That I might too

It happens like the dawn

Slowly the clouds pull

Away the magic curtain

Revealing a most grand treasure

Spread as King Midas might do

Extravagantly scattered pearls

Lining a vast ocean floor

I swim in the richness

Filling up my soul

Pouring over them

From my small spot

But feeling so gigantic

With the universe

And all the galaxies

Mapped out before me

It Happens Under His Stars

Dark eyes and tiny face

Looking up into a projection of space

You cry when they move

And when it stops, you are mesmerized

My son is leaning on me

Hearing the noise of little babies and toddler screeches

He digs into my shoulder

Squeezing my hand

Straining to hear what

Is being presented about Jupiter

I stroke his smooth, soft locks

Hoping my heartbeat will drown out

The sea of tension rising in his body

As the running little boy and sobbing babe

Peak in intensity

He hunkers down against me

Indeed finding my steady beat

This seems to defeat the cacophony

And he sits up ready to comment on Uranus

But Pluto is the one he has questions about

As the knowledgeable grad student

Called it once a planet and then not

My son gravitated towards

“What is the criterion please for a planet?”

The student didn’t really have a good answer

This made my son squirm

like there were ants literally in his pants

He wanted more facts to the matter

Hard as the planet’s surface

To chase the uncertainty of this place away

To paint a sure picture of what is in space

And tune out the other noises

That crumble his inside structure

Facts hold it all up

Like steel girders that

Are the bones of the building

Are inside his brain

But run all the way to his toes

There was another little boy

That was competing for knowing

All the facts by the naming the planets

And what they were composed of

The other little professor complained

That my boy was too quick to answer

So my boy stopped answering

And pulled my arm tighter around him

As he bit his left index finger knuckle hard

As if to say, “I can’t help it, sorry.”

I didn’t want him to be quiet

I wanted him to keep going and going

Like when it is just the three of us

And he is telling us parents

Every single thing he knows about

The universe, history, weather, or video games

It is his to dispense

With a sense of himself

He can feel himself in space this way

It helps him to know he is really here

And that his opinion and knowledge matters

No labels, no barriers, and no one else to tell him differently

He can see it all at once

The big, huge, gigantic picture

His universe on the inside

That tumbles out daily

In facts, figures, and fitful flights of fancy

It is freedom of the highest order

His vast galaxy

Till the Cows Come Home….NaPoWriMo #37

This is a poem that is in the unfolding drama happening in Martin’s office at the moment. Yes, it is two hours past bedtime and the boy is still struggling to finish homework. It is his own choice as it isn’t due tomorrow or required, but he started a unit and by golly he is going to finish. We’ve already alerted his teacher via an email that he’ll be in later as he’ll need to sleep a little bit more.

Homework Haze

Your eyes droop

Your shoulders stoop

As you slide into your hard thinking chair

You have a task to do, but you stare and stare

I’m wondering if anything is there

Do you have the energy to finish?

But even though you are visibly diminished

From somewhere you push on

And I’ve seen you do till dawn

Because whatever it is that is in your mind

Is the only thing you can seem to find

To focus on and you will not let it go

Rubbing your face again

To find a new trace

To get to the end

You will not bend

It is the only thing that matters

Even though your brain is in tatters

You are shattered to try to think

I see you sink

Bringing you to the brink

Of nearly giving in

I think it is not a sin

But to you, it is a must

Even if it turns you to dust

It is two hours past your bedtime

Tomorrow we will not be in our prime

I hope whatever pushes you so here

Will get you where you need to be Dear,

The determined often win the race

I pray that you will always keep pace

Observations are a very good place to start…NaPoWriMo #36

I had nothing in my head tonight to write about, so I looked around my office and just started typing. It is half way a blog post and half way a poem. Grrr...now past midnight tweaking pictures even though this is my April 28th poem.

 My Son’s Present Art

Little drawings from little hands litter my office

They are time capsules that help me escape the rocket fueled present

That launches from the now into the space unknown to planet future

A pastel flower garden where the flowers all look like small suns

Was given as a first present on a Mother’s Day

My boy had always loved to give me flowers

Many hours that year we had spent planting and digging

He beamed with such pride to give me something

He had painted and knew I would love

A fiery furnace of an exciting Sunday School lesson

Is scribbled and so earnest on my cabinet door

I remember the flood of detail my boy tried to tell me

The words he could get out were about the fire and the angel

If there was no picture, I wouldn’t have understood his story

I looked at it with him and we went through it together

Finger painted hand prints from a desperate summer’s day

We were rained inside scratching for something more to do

My son didn’t want to do anything, but he let me take his hand

and put it in the paint then to the paper

He smiled, but wouldn’t do it on his own

He would hold his hand hovering there

Daring me to take it and place it just so

A computer printed, but hand drawn birthday card

That is a portrait of me with a Hershey’s kiss floating nearby

He presented it with a kiss and hug

So proud he and his father had kept this surprise a secret

They had pulled it off and then the next year I wanted a card,

But was told by my son, “no”

This helps me to know to not expect,

But to wait for what he truly wants to give

A coffee can decorated with shaky interpretations

Of butterflies and bees now houses a yellow miniature rose

We planted a sunflower in it that year you gave it to me

And that flower quickly outgrew our humble can

We planted it in the garden

Where it bloomed most of the summer that year

And now we include a few tall sunflowers every year

A tissue paper heart window that clearly

Someone else helped those little hands make

I found it shoved in his backpack and smiled

No presentation to me, nothing special

Just a memento of the season

But a heart with my son’s name had to go on my wall

As he has my heart in so many ways

The paper sack frog that hangs on the mantle

Is so faded from enduring at least three years now

I go to take it down and I can’t

There is something that leaps to my throat

When I touch that darned pop eyed faded frog

That he never played with

and I’m sure someone else cut out

as his scissor skills are shaky still

it is something about it

holding out it’s little hands

wanting to embrace everyone

that warms me to see

wondering if someday he

could leap forward

and run at life

like this little frog

there are signs

and simple maps

that bear his hand too

all pointing at what he is

and can be

this is his art

this is his heart

this is a great start