Harlequin Cabbage Bugs Doin’ What Comes Naturally

Such beautiful but destructive bugs…this summer they will no doubt be chowing down on our squash.  But aren’t they lovely?  My National Audubon Society Field Guide says they are “proportioned like a heraldic shield.”

Ant on Petal on Rock:  I was taking a shot of the tulip petal that fell on the rock after the rain, when an ant wandered into my picture, pausing to drink from a raindrop.

Morning Bouquet-On My Porch (For Mama)

Though she’s been gone for over 22 years, not a day passes that I don’t think of Mama.   Most times it’s the simplest things that trigger my memories—hearing a mockingbird sing or seeing  the dogwood tree illuminated by the morning light.  Or a vase full of the wildflowers I just picked—Mama preferred them over the store bought kind.  Although they never knew her, my children are so like her—dreamy and artistic, yet down to earth and plainspoken.  She would adore them. 

I’ve wondered a lot about where our souls go when we die.   People talk about their loved ones who have passed being in heaven, but really the Bible doesn’t say that we go straight to heaven when we die.  Years ago, on Ariel’s birthday, we were in Duke Gardens when we saw a wood thrush on the path ahead.  It didn’t fly away as we approached, but cocked its head and sang, looking straight at us.  Then it started hopping down the path, looking back at us as though to say Follow me.  So we did.  The wood thrush led us for quite a ways, hopping and looking back, before finally flying up away into the sweet spring morning.  It was a magical moment, made more so by the fact that it was Ariel’s birthday.  I must admit, my first thought was that the soul of my mother was temporarily housed in that wood thrush’s body.  After all, wood thrushes were one of her favorite birds. 

Who can say?  Is it so far-fetched to believe that our souls may reside in many different places before the day comes when our spirits rise to be reunited with our Maker?  And I know, for sure, my Mama would want to spend most of that time flying.  She couldn’t walk for the last five years of her life, so I love to imagine her soaring up far above our earthbound selves or perched singing in her beloved dogwood tree.

So I talk to all the birds I see, just in case, and chase the black cat that skulks about our property stalking birds.   I watch as the birds fly into the firmament, gazing at them until they disappear.  I listen to the wood thrush at dusk, singing its sweet but slightly melancholy song from the highest forest trees.  And I smile, thinking of Mama and relish the thought that she’s singing for us, that’s she’s flying through the clouds.  Waiting for the day that we fly, too.

Happy Mother’s Day to Mama.  And to all Mamas, near and far. 

And to all Mamas in this world…or the next.

Maple Seeds

(I called them “whirly birds” when I was small.  Who can resist throwing handfuls of them into the air to watch them twirl their way to the ground?)  Country Dew has a great post on them here.  She called them “dibbas.”

Eastern Tiger Swallowtail on Lilacs

(To Tom: I’m so glad I married you twenty-one years ago.  Though the journey has been hard and we are weary, I’m grateful to have taken the journey with you.  And I hold fast to the belief [and I hope you will too] that the best is yet to be.  Happy Anniversary.)

[Are these the "evil scissors" you were looking for?  (For more of this, go here.)]

In my last post, I alluded to the search engine terms shown in my statistics that bring people to my blog.  They are great fun to read and are the main reason I look at my stats.  Lord knows, I sure don’t get any pleasure out of that line graph they show where I often see, in one painful glance, the precipitous plunge of my plummeting blog statistics.

But the search engine terms are quite entertaining—sometimes humorous, sometimes happy, sometimes poetic, and sometimes poignant.    And sometimes, they’re real headscratchers.   For example, this one:  “rat collars; I put them on my rat.”  Now this one gives rise to so many questions.  First, which one of my posts did that phrase correspond to?   Do they really put a collar on their rat?  Why?  If so, do they take their rats for a walk?  Are there little rat leashes too?  If they do take them for a walk, what happens when they meet a cat?  Where do you buy rat collars?  Do rats really have a well-defined neck that a collar would work with?   Really, the questions are endless.

In the same “headscratcher” category, we have “evil scissors,” “snake recipes,” “family tree nuts,” and “babies playing poker.”  “Babies playing poker” certainly brings an immediate image to your mind, doesn’t it?  Can’t you just see the babies, with Budweisers in their hands, cigars dangling from their mouths, poker chips piled high, sitting in diapers around a table?

Then there’s the funny and whimsical—“leaf quizzical,” “money spiders,” “bee collision,” and “quiet stupidity.”  One thing’s for sure—I’ll take “quiet stupidity” over “loud stupidity” any day. 

But my favorites are the poetic ones.  “Nobler modes of life.”  “He treasures her like a poem.”  “The forever kind of love.”   What I like imagining are all the wonderful stories behind these searches.  Who are you, sweet man, who treasures your lover like a poem and loves her, no doubt, with the forever kind of love?  A nobler mode of life you live, to be sure.

But there are two that I get on a regular basis that almost bring me to tears.  One of them is “Mama died I miss her” or “Where are you Mama” or just “mama.”  The other is a single word:  “Alone.”  Or sometimes “Lonely.” 

For any of you that find my blog using that phrase, I hope you have found just a little bit of what you’re looking for.   If you are lonely, I hope that, somehow, reading my blog helps by showing you that you are not alone in feeling lonely.  It’s a universal emotion that very few of us escape.  And I hope that reading the kind comments of my blogging friends makes you feel just a little less alone, as it does me,  by helping you see, as I have, that there is goodness and kindness yet to be found in this sad, tired, old world.  And that I, and you, are not alone.  We are not alone.

Yep, that’s right…I took this photo because my shoeprint looked like the imprint of a giant peanut. Or at least, I thought so.  And things like that really tickle me.  A lot.   Kind of silly, I reckon.  Perhaps you’re thinking how dull my life must be to be thrilled by a peanut-shaped footprint.  Or maybe you think I’m just a nut.  Or a goober.  That’s O.K., I don’t mind.

I like that even at the age of fifty, I’m easily awed and have a great capacity for wonder because it means I have something wondrous in my life every single day, even if it’s just a footprint that looks like a peanut.

Besides, I really like imagining that very soon, I will look at my blog stats and see that someone has Googled “footprint shaped like a peanut,” and it brought them right to my site.  And they are thrilled to find exactly what they were looking for—the footprint of a goober in the mud. 

(Ariel and faithful friend Teddy Bear)

Perhaps you’re thinking, after my last post, “Good Lord, she sure isn’t very modest about her children!”  Well, you’re darn tootin’ I’m not.  I am unabashedly, unapologetically, bust-my-buttons proud of my children.

In my last post, I talked about Benjamin.  Today, I’ll shamelessly brag about my daughter, Ariel (aka Lucky Pennies).  Why?  Because today she is leaving teenagehood behind and beginning the third decade of her life. 

I could talk about her academic achievements.  Like her brother, she was at the top of her class and was nominated for Governor’s School.   I could go on about her artistic accomplishments.  Ariel has won numerous awards for her art, including a $500 gift certificate.  I could tell you all about her writing.  She has won numerous awards for that, as well, including a $5000 scholarship. 

But what I’m proudest of is the fact that she is straightforward, honest, true, and kind.  And she has remained steadfastly so, through some very hard times and difficult losses.  She has been a wonderful sister to her brother Benjamin.  Although there were times, when younger, that they fought like mortal enemies, she has always loved him fiercely.  She is loyal, loving, and true to her many friends, and they love her back.  And, of course, she is just the daughter I always wanted.   Well, sure, we’ve had our battles—Good Lord, she is a stubborn one!   But those battles only serve to show that our love is so much greater than our differences.  Always, love prevails. 

(Ariel Rabbit and Bunny Rabbit)

Every time I write Ariel at college, I close by saying “I love you infinitely” or “I love you without measure” or “I love you endlessly and forever” or some variation on that.  Ariel, being the competitive sort, will write back saying, “I love you infinitelier” or “I love you more endlessly.”

So, I’d like to say to my sweet baby girl:  I love you infiniteliest.   And I love you most endlessly.

And Happy Birthday, sugarbaby.  You really are just the daughter I always wanted.  I’m proud to be your mother.  And I’m proud to be your friend.

(I wanted to put a picture of Ariel now here, but she is in the thick of exams and never answered my letter asking if I could.  So I don’t think she’d mind if I put this photo of her and her Daddy working on our ancient Volvo.  She’s pretty handy with a wrench, not to mention a hammer.)

(Benjamin wowing the crowd at Open Mic)

This will be the last post I do for a while about autism, but I couldn’t end the series without telling you about how Benjamin is doing now.  Well, I am happy and proud and enormously grateful to be able to say, “Very, very well, thank you.”   I wrote in my short story about grieving (after the diagnosis of autism) “the loss of the dreams and visions for her child that had begun in her heart with the first stirrings of life in her womb.”  Yes, it’s true that, for a while, you do grieve the death of old dreams.  But, soon, new dreams begin to take their place; hope begins to push away fear; and perhaps even, your new visions are truer and more benevolent, in that they are based more on the essence of who your child is rather than your own ego.

Benjamin is in college now after an illustrious high school career.  Really, he didn’t care much for what he considered the silly drama of high school, but he did exceptionally well, both academically and personally.  Not only was he at the top of his class, but he performed in the jazz band (playing guitar), played at Open Mic,and and often performed at benefits.  He was a junior marshal and was chosen to attend Governor’s School which anyone who lives in North Carolina knows is a great honor. 

I always told him he’d like college better than high school, and indeed he does.  He is thriving there and has found a church where he is accepted and welcomed for who he is. (Shouldn’t all churches be that way?)  Sure, he still faces challenges and sometimes struggles, but don’t we all?  And, sure, his challenges are bigger than those of most people, but I think his heart is big enough to handle it.  Really, to be perfectly honest, for him and for us, dealing with the cruelty, the judgment, and the ignorance of other people has been our biggest challenge.  Not the autism itself.

And, by the way, Benjamin is an amazing guitar player.  Now I know you’re smiling indulgently, thinking that I’m just another biased mother.  Well, sure I am, but, really, he is an amazing guitar player.  He plays everything from Bach to blues.  My favorite, of course, is the version of Ave Maria that he learned just for me, sounding very much like Chet Atkins.  I also love his own personal interpretation of Windy and Warm, which he arranged himself after listening to Doc and Merle Watson play it.  Not to mention the incredible Little Wing, played in the style of Stevie Ray Vaughan.  Honestly, he sounds like he is channeling Stevie Ray.  In fact, Chet Atkins, Doc and Merle Watson, and especially Stevie Ray Vaughan are his musical heroes. (When he was younger, he laboriously punched out a fan letter to Doc Watson in Braille. Never did hear back though).  

Benjamin is MY musical hero. 

(Benjamin and his Stevie Ray Vaughan guitar face)

Back when my children were very, very small, I had this little ritual that might sound kind of silly, but they LOVED it.  After their baths, when I’d be drying them with a big towel, I’d throw the towel over them and say, “Oh my, look at this, a special package from Heaven!  I wonder what it could be?”  Then I’d pull the towel away a bit at the time.  “Oh, look!  What beautiful hair!”  Then—“Oh my, what a perfect ear!”  “Oh goodness, those eyes are the loveliest color I ever did see!” 

By then, of course, they’d be giggling and they usually couldn’t stand the suspense any longer and they’d pull the whole towel off.  Then, I’d gasp in delight and clap my hands and say, “Well, would you look at that—it’s just the son (or daughter) I always wanted!  Thank you, God!”  Yeah, maybe it sounds corny, but Benjamin and Ariel wanted to do it every single time.

Benjamin recently told me that if he could have the choice to be autistic or not, he would still choose to be autistic.  He feels it has made him a stronger and more compassionate person.   “I would choose to be just who I am,” he said.

And that’s exactly what I would choose, too.  Benjamin—just as he is.  Just the son I always wanted. 

Thank you, God.

Here’s another excerpt from the short story I wrote about autism when I was unable to write about it directly.  The only difference between my experience and Marilee’s is that my naysayers and advice givers were family members, which, I think, made it all the more hurtful.  I needed support, not ill-informed advice.  One of the most important things I could say to those who wonder how to help their loved ones whose child has been diagnosed is to educate yourself about autism and its manifestations.  There is so much good information out there—you have no excuse to be ignorant.  Another piece of advice?  Well, in the immortal words of Thumper, the little rabbit from the movie Bambi:

“If you can’t say somethin’ nice, don’t say nothin’ at all.”

Here’s the excerpt from “Circles:”

Over the next week, Marilee and Dan told friends and family about the diagnosis.  Marilee wasn’t sure what she expected or even wanted their reactions to be.  She imagined them bringing casseroles, cakes, fried chicken.  Maybe coming in to clean her house, wash her dishes.  Giving her time to grieve her loss—the loss of the dreams and visions for her child that had begun in her heart with the first stirrings of life in her womb.

But she knew that wouldn’t happen.  Women bringing casseroles meant someone was ill, injured, or dead.  The death of dreams didn’t count.

But people did come.  Not with cakes and soft murmurings of sympathy, but with brisk admonitions and advice.  Their next-door neighbor, Lynette, had taken a psychology course at the community college and ever since had borne out the adage that a little knowledge could be a dangerous thing.

“Listen, honey, I know,” Lynette had said.  “This boy is not autistic.  I saw autistics when our class volunteered at the state mental hospital.  They were banging their heads on the wall and hollering.  Gabriel is NOT autistic!”

Lynette had said this with a sense of smug self-satisfaction, as though now they could all rest easy—Gabriel was not autistic after all.  Marilee supposed it would do no good to point out that the clinic where Gabriel had been diagnosed was considered one of the leading authorities on autism in the world.  She sat stunned as Lynette went on about the “autistics” she’d seen at the state hospital, as though she was talking about the habits of zoo animals.

At church, Lorna, a woman in her Sunday School class, had drawn her aside.  Lorna considered herself a notable member of the congregation, and indeed she was, along with her five children.  They stood out on Sunday morning because the pews around them were always empty, except for the occasional hapless visitor forced to endure an hour of Lorna’s children kicking the back of the bench, talking aloud, or poking the visitor’s back.  These visitors were usually never seen again.  Some members secretly speculated that Lorna’s family might be a major factor in declining church membership numbers.

Lorna was always reading the latest books on raising a family and was eager to share her knowledge on how to rear the theoretical children she thought everyone had.  She was especially fond of catchy bromides, which she quoted reverentially, as though they had come straight from the mouth of God.

“Now, Marilee, you can’t keep this boy in a cocoon!” said Lorna.  “We must give our children not only roots, but wings!”

Marilee’s mind flashed back to the stick figure drawings in the brochure on autism.  She pictured the one that showed a figure darting out in front of a car.  “NO FEAR OF REAL DANGERS” was the caption.  She could almost hear the screeching brakes. 

Lorna had gone on, talking about how we must let our children learn from their experiences or something like that.  Marilee really hadn’t heard.  She was learning to tune these people out, like so much background noise, just as she had her minister when he spoke of Gabriel and his “affliction” as being part of the perfect will of God.