I arrived Saturday afternoon and went to work painting. It is easy to think more clearly about what is bothering me when there is nothing but quiet, soft brushes, and bright colors to influence the contents of my head. It's my moment of Zen. For now, I take it in moments, since I am still learning how to live in the present. That is not an easy thing to do when you have to stay one step ahead of your kids. Sadness about the past and anxiety about the future don't make for a very pleasant present. Both Ian and Ainsley often get stuck arguing about the past or worrying about the future. If I am to be successful at teaching them how to take care of today, I'd better get better at it myself. So that is what I worked on. The now that is this moment.
Usually when I take a retreat it is because I have allowed stress to build to explosive levels within me. This time it was less about stress and more about grief. Just as I did four years ago when Ian was diagnosed, I have been grieving over the lost dreams for Ainsley's future. It takes time and many hesitant deep breaths to recognize that the dreams are still possible, but they will be achieved in a different way and perhaps a little slower. Time alone helps me face those deeper issues and send them on their way.
At home I rarely observe what is going on outside the house. When I have been temporarily relieved of the responsibility of monitoring my children's activities, I can stare out a window on a rainy day and notice the unnoticeable:
A train that pulls through the station and rolls slowly to a stop, then reverses and disappears into the valley from which it came.
A family dragging suitcases along the sidewalk.
Birds landing on tree branches, then pecking at crab apples.
A homeless man checking out the contents of a garbage can.
It doesn't have to mean anything . . . it just is.
After clearing my head and opening my heart, I drove to Denver to see my extended family. Being around relatives who make me laugh is good medicine, especially when they know I have been hurting. This part of the clan knows that no matter how difficult something seems in the present, it will improve with practice, lots of family to help you get over the bumps, and of course - home made biscotti.
I visited my cousin Brad. All I have seen of him over the last few months are pictures of his recovery in a hospital from wounds received in Iraq. He is an amazing human being. It never occurred to me that I would see him walking around his parents house, laughing, and enjoying life again so soon. He is lucky to be walking at all, but here he is, sharing Oreos with his niece, Grace.
When I walked into the house on Tuesday, Brad greeted me at the door. We hugged for the first time in 20 years. It wasn't one of those quick glad-to-see-you hugs. This was an embrace that let me know how thankful he is to be alive and able to experience the love of his family again. We talked a little about the war - probably as much as he could without slipping into the deep and terrible grief he feels at losing his best friend. We talked about my children, whom he has yet to meet, but who will love him immeasurably when they do. Mostly, we just sat next to each other and were grateful for the life we have, no matter how mixed up it may seem.
On my way home, it all started to gel. The grief I felt isn't about me, or Ainsley, or Ian, or Brad. It is about missed opportunities. I hate having regrets. Vowing never to have them does no good unless you actually seize the day - carpe diem! That doesn't mean I'll never be sad over losses. It means I must allow myself to experience them completely, and then let go. Even grief has a positive side - it's the healing.
Each day gets a little better, a little easier. I laugh more, cry less, and take deep breaths that don't have to struggle to enter my body. I see the genuine smiles on my children's faces and know they are there because of the strength in our family. Dealing with autism is easier when you focus on today and what you are making of the moment you are in. Helping my little Aspie's learn this may well be one of the best things I can teach them.
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