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Posts Tagged ‘experience’

What Do You Want To Play—Who Will We Be?

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 10, 2014| 3 Comments »

If you see the world in black and white, you’re missing important grey matter. (Jack Fyock)

Ella’s charm draws to her at least seven children from the YMCA pool.

“Will you play with me?” one girl asks, and Ella nods.

“What do you want to play?” the girl asks.

Ella hesitates.

“How about pretending to be frogs?” I suggest, slowly stepping away, giving the kids space around my precious granddaughter.

“Yeah,” this leader girl answers. “Frogs!”

“Hop. Hop,” Ella says moving along in the shallow water.

One boy with black curly hair shows me his swim vest, his ebony face bright with pride. “I brought it from home.”

“Looks great,” I tell him.

“Are you her mom?” one blonde girl asks me. I grin, grateful for her edited eyesight.

“No, I’m her grandma.” I wonder if grandmothers are supposed to hop like frogs in shallow water.

One look at the clock tells me this time will be short. Ella and I need to meet Grandpa in the lobby in about twenty minutes for our picnic lunch before Ella goes to afternoon pre-school. “Ten minutes and then we have to get dressed,” I tell her. “I brought tortilla chips today.” They are one of her favorite snacks. I hope they are enough encouragement to get her out of the water.

“No,” Ella responds.

“She can stay here,” one of the children offers.

I smile at the boy’s innocence.

“Is she a baby or does she just talk like one?” another boy asks. His voice indicates no condemnation, only curiosity.

“She isn’t a baby…but she is learning…” I answer, without any hint of censure in my voice. I don’t explain the what-or-how-of-her-struggles-or-accomplishments. The boy doesn’t pursue the issue with further questioning. Besides, I’m not sure how to answer. Each person learns at a different rate anyway. Ella has been reading for months, at least. Someday I hope to catch up with her when it comes to acceptance of people as they are. However, fine-tuned tongue movements and some motor skills may take her a bit longer to master.

Our little girl is a fresh five-year-old. She has not yet faced the full brunt of prejudice inherent to the life of anyone born outside the so-called norm. The little folk in the pool have not yet learned to recognize the facial characteristics of Down syndrome. Besides, our granddaughter wears them beautifully with her sunshine-white hair and huge blue eyes. They defy the brightness of a perfect summer day. Her smile could melt an iceberg. The children seem to recognize that gift intuitively, knowing she is real and a dependable friend.

The children wave good-bye. Our Y friends stop by our lunch table to say hello, more to Ella than to Jay and me. And that is okay. Ella isn’t worrying about what happens tomorrow—or the next day. She cries when she needs to cry and the tears end easily. She laughs when she recognizes the humor in life. And that happens often.

I’m not saying that every day is easy. But few things that are worthwhile come without effort anyway. I guess Ella is my constant reminder that the world in black-and-white misses out on a lot of color—as well as grey matter. Later I have the opportunity to leave the house to go to another exercise class, if I want to go. But, I don’t want to miss an extra minute with Ella. Not today. She may have a life lesson I will need to use later.

flying turtle

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Lively Conversations on a Dead Cell Phone

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 2, 2014| 1 Comment »

Innocence is one of the most exciting things in the world. (Eartha Kitt)

My old cell phone hasn’t had a battery for who-knows-how-long. However, five-year-old Ella picks it up and brings it to life with her imagination. She mimics the motions she has seen in adults, complete with subtle movements and voice tones. When her conversation has ended she closes the flip top slowly, deliberately. I’m the follower in this scenario, the fortunate observer. Ella understands but is not able to fully verbalize what she knows.

I guess the phone has rung again as she says, “hello,” hands the blackened screen to me, and adds, “It’s Dy,” short for Daddy.

She grins when I say that he is playing baseball and not at work. Daddy is working, but explaining an office setting to a five-year-old doesn’t create fun play.

“Should he stop at the store and get bananas on the way home?” I try for mock seriousness and hope she buys it.

“Yes,” she answers.

“What else?”

“A bike,” she adds.

I refrain from laughing. Nothing seems random in a child’s world. After we finish with several quick turns saying hi, bye, and what-are-you-doing-now, we enter a pretend playground where Dora, the Explorer; a tennis ball; and a plush ladybug all take turns going down a plastic slide. Reality is suspended for a while.

And I feel strangely free, privileged, invited to this spot on the floor surrounded by toys on an ordinary Thursday morning.

The folk who read my blog regularly know that my youngest granddaughter has Down syndrome; Down syndrome does not own my granddaughter. She continues to play as I get her ready to leave for the day. I have trouble getting her shoes on properly. They need to give her adequate ankle support. She seems to understand my frailties and doesn’t fuss. I thank her for her patience and wonder how much she intuits. This little blonde with the huge blue eyes is amazingly easy to love.

I envision her at Daycare after school some day as she plays with a toy phone. Does she ever say, “Hi, Mawmaw?” This isn’t the kind of thing I am likely to know. My hearing isn’t that good within the same room, with amplification, much less from one part of town to another. Nevertheless, I smile thinking about it.

She smiles back now. That’s more than good enough.

the world as it should be

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The Art of Rising Above

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on September 24, 2014| 2 Comments »

Art is partly communication, but only partly. The rest is discovery. (William Golding, novelist, playwright, poet, Nobelist, 1911-1993)

If this airplane were a roller coaster I would be clutching the sides of my seat and gritting my teeth until they were ground to the gum line. I would not be screaming because it multiplies my terror instead of dissipating it. The edges of cliffs or even a mezzanine with a low railing are not my friends. However, as I buckle-up inside an airplane I’m exhilarated, not intimidated. As the plane rises, surreal beauty appears outside the window. Reality takes on a different form when seen from above the clouds. Neat. Manageable. Set into squares that mimic a child’s crossword puzzle—with interchangeable pieces.

The outline of streets, trees, buildings, livestock and lives melt away. I take a picture from the window shortly after we take off from the Dayton airport, the beginning of an adventure, also called a family wedding and vacation.

The scientist could explain the view below in exact, predictable, discernible, terms. I value learning about how the universe works. However, my natural perception tends toward the artistic and spiritual—I am viewing the metaphorical.

I look at the vague blocks and circles of green or brown below. They remind me of rigid opinions. Whenever people are lumped together behind a false label, faces disappear: all poor people are lazy, sloppy, and ignorant; the individual born with a disability couldn’t possibly have talents. All Republicans are money-hungry; all Democrats are fanatical leftists. But, I don’t want to stay with the negativity of false images, even if the metaphor feels valid.

So, I look into the circles and blocks of color below and discover unity despite chaos. Destruction, construction, gardens, landfills, saplings, boulders, sewers, fresh water, predators, and saints join to form uniform patterns. I consider the value of relaxing and letting go. I can never be a pseudo grand-puppeteer. I believe a Higher Power exists; I suspect I’m not suited for the job.

The flight attendant begins the standard safety instructions. Our journey through the sky continues. In a few hours the action below will reveal itself again. I pray to step into the confusion of the next airport with a sense of confidence, with a knowledge that all can be well in its own way. I am a part of the universe; the universe is a part of me.

air shot

 

 

 

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Clearing the Way

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 15, 2014| 5 Comments »

Do what you can, where you are, with what you have. (Teddy Roosevelt)                      

I am in the process of returning the smaller items to their place in our house after our floors were refinished: the good dishes, books, our beloved wooden bird collection, and family photos. Our second floor storage area is temporarily in danger of mimicking scenes from Keepsake, by Kristina Riggle. Trish, the main character, is threatened with the possibility of losing custody of her son, injured by boxes stacked to the ceiling—although she will not admit that she is a hoarder. She doesn’t have time to organize. She tells her son, “Mommy isn’t perfect.” Her son accepts their life as normal.

No one, fictional or shouting into a microphone over public media, has arrived at a be-all, know-all state. My husband and I could have hurried less when we shuffled our possessions out of the way of the going-to-be-there-tomorrow work crew. However, we were also packing for a trip to the west coast as well as babysitting for our youngest granddaughter. Now I look at the boxes, stored by what I could name the Helter-Skelter-Give-It-To-Us-And-We’ll-Lose-It Storage Company­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­. Where should I start? One step at a time seems the only way to go. If I attempt to embrace the whole I could give up before beginning. I have decided to simplify, choose only a few items for the windowsills, breakfront, and coffee table. But which items?

To discover what matters and what doesn’t—this is my current focus. As I read Riggle’s story I see layers unveiled: dirty corners inside rooms and hurt corners inside lives. I can view a situation and think I know what is there, yet be unaware of how the essence of it works. Deciding what goes where is relatively simple; why people do what they do may or may not be.

I decide not to rush. The need is no longer present. The floors are finished and gleaming. On the haphazard second floor I am mining for gold; there is treasure in this pile of stuff. In a corner I find a pitcher painted by my husband’s grandmother. I never met her. She died long before I dated my husband. Her work is exquisite. She stopped painting after she married. As an individual with a creative nature I am saddened that she saw it as an interference in her role as wife and mother.

There is no point in investigating what cannot be changed, except perhaps through a wildly disguised fictional story. Her beautiful pitcher hid on top of our breakfront for years before we had our floors refinished. I decide to give her work prominent placement, closer to the bright floor, to where we live—a metaphor for cleaning-up the basics first, choosing the best and starting from there.

As I position the art on the open surface I pray that I live each day well enough that I leave something good in a corner that repels the dust and shines out.  Distant tomorrows are not my business. Using this moment well, is.

 

Isabelle's pitcher

 

 

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When I Grow Up…

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 9, 2014| 1 Comment »

I am different, not less. (Temple Grandin)

 If I could I would shout Temple Grandin’s statement across the Internet, national news forecasts, and local gossip networks: “I am different, not less.” Autism did not prevent Grandin from earning a doctorate degree. Actually, when I grow up I hope to be just like my youngest granddaughter, Ella. She has Down syndrome.

Some people turn away when they see someone with a disability like Down syndrome, as if the tripled twenty-first chromosome were contagious, or as if communication with an individual with a rounded face and slightly slanted eyes were similar to interaction with an alien from another planet. Organizations such as the National Down Syndrome Society have helped alter that notion. Efforts to change attitudes toward folk with other disabilities continue. The Autism Society explains how a person with autism perceives reality.

I have to admit that I have learned more from Ella than she has learned from me!

Our little girl has charisma. Her mission begins with a smile that reaches into the heart, an acceptance that doesn’t judge. When Daddy and Cousin Kate stopped by the daycare center to take Ella on a trip to visit her great-grandmother, the other children formed a circle around her, keeping Ella captive. They were unwilling to relinquish their princess. Daddy needed to trick the children into a race so that he could grab his daughter and run.

Ella does not present herself as better—or less—than anyone else. True, her life has barely begun; she needs to double her age to reach double-digits, but I have never seen any signs of ego, impatience, or striking-out-in-uncontrolled-anger. Oh, she knows the word no and uses it often, but not as a weapon. She seeks independence the way any other child does.

Our granddaughter has had three surgeries, two that were serious; she is terrified of medical settings. However, after each visit she recovers into her smiling self with remarkable speed. She lives in each moment; now is the only time that offers usable power.

I study a photo of the toddler son of a friend. He, too, has Down syndrome. He has had multiple surgeries. Nevertheless, he grins at the camera as he waits for his breakfast. I think about how few adults would respond with such enthusiasm. Not only would they be repeating poor me as if it were a refrain in a popular song, they would be wondering why they had to wait to be served, considering all they need to endure. Most folk with a tripled chromosome don’t see themselves with the sun rotating around their needs.

I catch myself fussing with a bouncing cursor that reminds me of a drunk fly circling spilled honey; my irritation almost reaches uncontrolled cursing of another kind. This should not happen!

Yeah, well, I’ll figure it out, eventually. In the meantime, today is a day to celebrate, September 8, 2014. Ella is five-years-old. (Posting won’t happen today, however. I need a day or so to let the words settle before I edit them. I cannot claim perfection on any level. I don’t even feel free to be totally me no matter where I am; Ella is still giving me lessons in that area.)

I am sharing a photo of her birthday cake, not because it is beautiful, but because it is delicious inside and a tad ordinary on the outside. I have never taken a decorating class and probably won’t—I have a tendency to eat too much of the art form. The layer-fit alone disqualifies my creation from any cooking magazine, but I bake from scratch and the frosting contains fresh strawberry.

Happy Birthday, Ella! May we celebrate the differences that make any ordinary individual spectacular.

Ella's birthday cake, five years old

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Where Earthquake, Fire, and Comaraderie Meet

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 2, 2014| 2 Comments »

I’ve lived through some terrible things in my life, some of which actually happened. (Mark Twain)

In the wee hours of the morning a six-point earthquake hits the Napa Valley; San Francisco responds with some twitches strong enough to sway a skyscraper. Jay and I are on the eleventh floor of a hotel—we sleep through the rocking. We don’t discover what we missed until the next morning at breakfast when the other members of our tour tell us what happened. Many of our fellow travelers wondered if the building was cracking. We haven’t been watching the news, and we don’t plan to follow it; this is our vacation.

However, the wine tasting event, next on the agenda, is canceled. The roads to Sonoma are torn like cheap cardboard. Since I drink un-fermented juice, I’m not as disappointed as some other folk could be. I had planned to celebrate the artistic twist of the vine and the shine of the grape against the sun. Fortunately the wine drinkers have a sense of perspective. They show greater concern for the people affected by the quake. I don’t hear any grumbling.

Our adventure has barely begun. A car fire on the expressway ignites a wildfire that closes a major expressway—the one leading to our next stay.

Our tour director, Craig Cherry, maintains a sense of humor. He and our superb driver, Jeannie Williams, map out another route, hours out of our way.

Then comes strike three, more literal than anyone would like. A rock flies from a truck into the windshield of the bus. Tiny shards fly everywhere. One hits the leg of a front-row passenger. She is too shocked to react. The window crack grows from a small line into a much larger one. The window could shatter at any time.

Jeannie and Craig find a close convenient store large enough for us to wait until a new bus arrives. The wait in ninety-nine-degree Fresno is amazingly short. While our tour guide and bus driver work we build camaraderie: jokes; shared life stories and ice cream; unusual items on the shelves; “Can you believe this gizmo makes popcorn in your car?”

When the remote control to the DVD player is missing batteries, Craig announces, “I’ve got to be on Candid Camera!” We are all old enough to remember the program. Fortunately, someone toward the back of the bus has two double AA’s.

By the time we arrive at our destination we aren’t comfortable. We’re stiff, tired, and a bit dazed. But, chances are that if any one of us are asked if we remember the Globus California  Tour of late August, 2014, we will smile and say, “Oh, yeah!” with a smile the size of the state. Sometimes bad circumstances bring out the best in people. Thanks to Craig for his leadership. A little humor and a lot of patience make all the difference.

(photo taken from the bus of a burned section of forest, fire caused by a lightning strike)

burned forest in California

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A Dog Named Spike

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 20, 2014| 2 Comments »

A dog will teach you unconditional love. If you can have that in your life, things won’t be too bad. (Robert Wagner)

I’ve often said that I won’t be allergic to dogs and cats in my next life—as if I had a genuine grasp of what a next life looks like, embraces, or involves. I don’t always know where my cell phone is, much less the substance of the infinite. However, I really would love to squat down and call, “Come here, Spike,” and then let my grand-dog lick my arms, neck, and  face—slobber all over me if he wanted.

Spike is an example of acceptance and unconditional love.

My youngest granddaughter is sick. I’m bringing dinner to her daddy’s house. My visiting time must be limited. I can manage short encounters, but as soon as I feel the slightest chest tightness I need to leave the premises, as in immediately. Itchy eyes would be difficult enough; I need to give up breathing to enjoy the presence of a fur-bearing creature. Fortunately, the weather allows us to eat on the patio. Outside, Spike can shed all he wants and the air absorbs the allergens. And I can appreciate him.

He looks for morsels of dropped food, but doesn’t growl when no one gives him a handout.  He already had dinner.  He stops by my chair and looks up, dark eyes begging to be petted. I smile and congratulate him on his many virtues, but don’t make contact with his soft fur. He moves away, patiently lying close to the table and waits for attention.

I think about how unlike Spike I would be in similar circumstances. So you’re the snooty type. Okay, suit yourself. I don’t need you either. Perhaps my grand-dog sees deeper than I do. He settles next to Ella and her daddy as he cradles the suffering little girl in his lap. Maybe Spike is sending positive vibes.

It’s hard to tell what he understands. I don’t speak dog. The folk who have a loyal pet are both fortunate and blessed.

 

Spike is a tad larger, black with white markings, but his expression is similar to this dog’s.

sleeping dog

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One, Two, Three, Breathe…

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 15, 2014| Leave a Comment »

You can’t depend on your eyes when your imagination is out of focus. (Mark Twain)

I drive alone in silence and savor the freedom. Certainly traffic brings noise, but that sound is outside my jurisdiction and it isn’t emergency-vehicle or passing-train loud, at least at the moment. Sometimes I crave space simply to be, to make a detour if I want, shorten or elongate a trip on a whim—celebrate a day without obligations or deadlines, with only open blue skies and a sense of the continuing now. I love hours when words and I work together at the computer, sometimes leading to a story, occasionally discovering a truth. That takes a certain amount of love-for-the-hermit’s-life.

I haven’t traveled far when I recall an incident with my youngest granddaughter, as she dressed herself with an infant bib, at least three long necklaces, a length of cotton batting, and sunglasses. Since her speech is limited I’m not sure whether she played the part of a princess, actress, or model getting ready for a shoot. Then I recall treading water with my older grandchildren, the joy we share as the warm water caresses us, the games we play as the deep end of the pool supports us with a little kicking and a lot of laughter.

I am hit with the fact that this moment of freedom isn’t really where I want to live forever. I just need to breathe occasionally and observe the whole. Chances are I’m going to be exhausted after spending a full day tomorrow with grandchildren again. Perhaps living perpetually alone could become a tomb, not the utopia I desire. One, two, three, breathe… Real life is about to return in a matter of hours.

time alone PIQ

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One Small Part of the Whole

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 9, 2014| 1 Comment »

How much does one imagine, how much observe? One can no more separate those functions than divide light from air, or wetness from water. Elspeth Huxley

My granddaughter Rebe and I go to a small local park. She has brought four of her children, dolls of varying sizes crammed into a single doll carrier.

When we arrive we see another woman holding an infant surrounded by five to seven children as well as a dog tied to a bench. The older children seem to be attending to the younger; I assume that the group is part of some kind of daycare but don’t ask. The woman has enough to handle.

One young man, who could be twelve-years-old tops, attends to a boy on a baby swing. The smaller child appears to be approximately two.

“Is he your little brother?” I ask.

“No, he’s my step sister’s baby,” the boy says. He stops pushing the little one on the swing and grabs an adjoining swing. When the baby swing slows and the little boy whines, Rebe pushes him.  I had considered pushing the little guy, but decided to wait until he became accustomed to my presence. Sometimes children are afraid of strange adults. Kids accept kids immediately.

“Thanks,” the older boy tells Rebe. He pumps his swing higher and then quickly lowers himself when my granddaughter decides to play elsewhere.

“You take good care of him,” I say.

He looks at me as if forming an unspoken response, but doesn’t share his thoughts. Something in his eyes startles me, a look suggesting complexity beyond his years.

A few minutes later the woman carrying the baby, leads the other children toward a shelter down a slight hill. The boy jumps from the swing mid-air, and then hands the little boy a cell phone, perhaps to distract him. “Got to go now,” he says.

The child in the swing shakes his head.

“Come on,” he says gently. “We have to go.” He lifts the toddler from the swing and puts him in a stroller.

I smile at the boys, in a reserved kind of way. I don’t know this pair’s story, not sure what I need to say—In fact, I sense that the caretaker doesn’t want to talk. I don’t know the boys’ names! Perhaps the older child is babysitting for an hour. Perhaps this situation is an everyday, overwhelming task.

The older boy pushes the stroller out of the park.

Rebe runs to the slide with her dolls and drops them down, one at a time. Our middle granddaughter hasn’t begun first grade yet. Her everyday world is relatively simple.Today she creates scenarios where we need to dive from play equipment into shark-and-alligator-infested water. Rebe magically turns into a mermaid. Then without warning, our six-year-old innocent child becomes Rebe again when she decides it is time to leave for lunch.

I am grateful for one-on-one time with my granddaughter, yet sad because I was not prepared to meet the young man and his step-sister’s son at the park. Perhaps I could have been helpful, perhaps not. Life’s whole does not belong to me.  Rebe tells me later that she loves me as much as the whole world and back again. If I could have one wish I would zap that kind of love around. But, I don’t know any genies, so with just one day at a time, guess I’m going the slow, uncertain route.

In the meantime I trust the evidence and my gut. Sometimes I will be right-on. Other times I won’t know one way or the other. I am only one small part of a very large whole.

everyone fighting a batle

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One Story: Seven Questions

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on August 4, 2014| 3 Comments »

No, no! The adventures first; explanations take such a dreadful time. (Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland & Through the Looking-Glass)

I’ve been invited to play a game, my favorite kind, a writer’s game. I’m taking part in a blog tour. Sarah Wesson extended the invitation. She writes: Earful of Cider: The Caffeine Gnomes Demand Tribute. Her answers to the seven questions for the tour can be found there. Her writing is worth the click. Sarah is a word chef who serves insight as a main course with side dishes of well-seasoned humor.  She listed the seven questions and answers one at a time. I will reply to all in a single paragraph. I have a self-imposed word limit on my entries. Moreover, my focus is positive thinking, not the art of writing. Anyone who wants to check on the thoroughness of my responses can look up Sarah’s blog—actually I hope you do.

The main character in the fictional short story I bring to the tour comes from the recent past. He lives in an unnamed town, somewhere in the United States where wild rabbits run free from one yard to another, behind bushes and trees, present one moment, disappearing the next. Carson is in third grade. He needs to keep the events of his foster home environment secret because he is afraid he could make his life even more unbearable than it already is. All he wants to do is survive. At least that’s what he thinks he wants, until he meets Robin, the peculiar girl with teeth aligned like the boards in a crooked fence. She has a wobbly walk and an upbeat attitude. “Among the Rabbits” should appear at Piker Press on approximately August 18.

I tagged Greg Petersen and asked him to introduce his character approximately a week from today. If the surname sounds familiar, that’s because he is my son and a writer who happens to have a keen insight into the human situation. Below is his bio:

Gregory Petersen is a writer, editor, comedian, coach, husband, and father of two beautiful daughters.  His novel, Open Mike, was released by Martin Sisters Publishing in June of 2013,  and his next book, Dreaming Out Loud, is close to completion.  He has performed at The Funnybone, Go Bananas, Wiley’s, as well as several charitable and corporate events.  When not writing or performing, he is following The Cincinnati Reds, training to run another very slow marathon, or goofing off on Twitter (@gregjpete).  He was born, raised, and still remains in Cincinnati, Ohio.

I am adding that Greg has also written a blog that demonstrates his ability to see humor in everyday life: Professional Goofball.

Kudos to the two people, before and after me in this tour. It takes time to participate. I am glad to let other folk celebrate you and your writing. Thank you, Sarah Wesson and Gregory Petersen!

I have met many folk who read only nonfiction. I must admit that many fascinating books focus on fact. However, fiction opens up worlds that don’t exist and makes them real within the first few paragraphs. The story that uncovers beauty hidden inside darkness  makes the world a better place, eventually.

May the adventures continue!

books

 

 

 

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