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Direct Son-Light

May 28, 2013

Direct Son-light

Sometimes I feel as though I’m looking at my son through the blinds; my blinds. It’s a filtered light that  doesn’t fully expose what’s there.

I can’t always see what he sees; feel what he feels, and touch with my mind, what he does. Trying to catch a glimpse of how he moves to the rhythm of everyday life, finds me constantly adjusting the blinds, in hopes of widening the view.

There are those life-changing moments when time itself seems to be on our side, and it waits for us to photograph the beauty in words, my son’s own words. There are images I will never forget. Pictures that were taken in direct son-light, revealing the definition and depth of his thought process. His is a world of observed details, and an appreciation for what most of us take for granted. For Grant, it’s the simplest of things that are worthy of pause, like the ripples of water in a bathtub.

Broken Water.

The water was perfectly warm and the lavender-scented bubbles were just one pour away. Grant was intently staring at what I thought was his wavy and semi-distorted reflection. That’s what I saw. When the ripples would slow down, stilling the water’s movement, he would again take his hand using it as a paddle or an oar, gently stroking the water. “It’s broken; broken water.” There it was. Behind the blinds, an absolute view of his thought-process. The ripples were multiple cracks in the water. A water that was broken and pieced together only when movement ceased. That night, bath-time was a little longer, as I added my tears to that brokenness.

The Color Day.

It was a random question, I’ll admit. He had found the place called, Happy, and lay on the grass totally content. One of my favorite childhood games was finding unique shapes in the clouds; birds, giraffes, lollipops. Unsure of just how complicated that game would be for him, I simply asked, “Grant, what color is the sky?” I was prepared for the answer of blue or white. “Day. The sky is day.”

What a beautiful color. “Do you like day,” I asked. “Yes. Eat ice cream. Pop bubbles. Go to aquarium. Go to park. No night.” I still get chills when I think about what he was saying and the poetic way he went about it. With a dimpled-smile he listed everything that he could and wanted to do while it was day. Day to him was the color that allowed for adventures and sweet treats and fun.

It would have been wrong and completely unnecessary to correct him. In that moment I learned the eye-opening lesson of seeing through another person’s lens. All of my life the sky was blue, white, gray or black because that’s what I was told it was. I wonder what colors I could have seen had I not let society tell me what colors to see. Now I know that “day” and “storm” are true colors. I’m sure of it.

Indoor Rain.

photo (4)

Immediately, I frantically started looking for a leak or a faucet that was angrily spewing water. I wasn’t quite sure what Grant meant, but I knew enough to know that together, those two words could lead to an unexpected repair bill. There was nothing though. Upstairs, downstairs, the kitchen, the bathrooms, the bedrooms, the garage, there was nothing. “I want indoor rain.” This time I allowed him to take my hand and guide me to what he wanted. Usually, when I don’t understand what he wants, I’ll prompt him to use his words or to slow down and articulate. But his request was very clear, his words crisp, and I nervously waited for a drop of water to fall on my head at any moment.

The bathroom. We were now standing in his bathroom, and he pointed to the shower head. I turned it on. He smiled. Together, we watched indoor rain.

Organic Tomatoes.

Tomato (Tamatar)

Spaghetti is a dish on our weekly dinner menu. Chopped spinach, sweet onions, and tomatoes, added always. It’s still amazing to me that he ran down the stairs saying, “tomatoes”, as I never realized the aroma they carried, even with consideration of his heightened sensory. There on the cutting board was a red tomato cut in half. He picked up one half and inhaled, deeply. I tried to pry it out of his hands, as the last thing I remembered him playing with was a gob of play-dough, but his grip was greater than my mommy-need for cleanliness at the time. He inhaled that freshness a few more times, thereby owning that half of the tomato. (smile) Honestly, I’d never smelled a tomato like that before; never like THAT before. Life is too busy to even recognize, let alone stop to smell something as miniscule as that. Or is it? That day, that moment, as simple as it was, changed the rhythm of my life. Every day, I make a point to stop and smell something beautifully fragrant, and full of goodness, intentionally.

I pray to stay in these moments where the blinds open and expose the light of the son. Perspective is everything. Perspective says, stand where I’m standing, and see it from here. See with my eyes. Smell with my nose. Hear with my ears. Touch with my hands. Amazing the things (and people) that grow in the presence of direct son-light…

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5 Comments leave one →
  1. Maureen McManus permalink
    June 9, 2013 12:44 pm

    I just randomly came across y’all’s blog, and then saw who it was, and oh my goodness, I was so excited to see how Grant’s doing! I think about him often and am so glad to see that he’s doing well. Y’all are incredible writers! Take care, and I’ll definitely be following the blog!

  2. l. James permalink
    May 31, 2013 9:59 pm

    Amazing insight. This encourages me to take time to look at things from the perspective of another person . . . through their eyes.

  3. Carla Poke permalink
    May 29, 2013 9:22 am

    Thank you for sharing this is beautiful.

  4. Faye permalink
    May 29, 2013 12:24 am

    What an amazing writer you are. You draw us in, letting us experience all the things you mention … the feel of indoor rain, the smell of red tomato, the rays of sunlight/sonlight beaming peek-a-boo through the filtering blinds, the scent of lavender bubbles and rippling cracks on the surface of water. Your pen and paper paint such awesome images for the readers to ponder and from which we can learn. Thank you for inviting us to grow in your “son’s light”.

  5. May 28, 2013 6:46 pm

    Beautiful! It reminds me of why I love working with Andrew, who is 23 and autistic, at the farm. He has a very specific view of everything. We would love to see Grant any Friday that you can come. Just let us know. Godfrey the horse understands these beautiful children better than I ever will.

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