Thankful

It is a blustery afternoon. I put the car in park, step out in my Anne Klein heels and slam the driver side door.  I’m fuming. And not over anything of particular importance either.

A session had to be cancelled because a teacher was sick. Then another was cancelled because a co-worker didn’t come back from New York on time.
A supervisor told me I needed to fix some of my paperwork and I didn’t see the point in it. My lunch order took a long time and so I had to scarf if down like a wolf and then run-make that waddle- like a pack mule with my guitar, bag of instruments, ukulele, bingo board, and silk leaves to a group session.
Then I was told that I need more info on one of my assessments and was sent back to a cottage to annoy staff over petty details I did not think were necessary.
Oh, and did I mention that the night before I drove back from Boston alone until 2:30am. If I can get home from Boston on time to work Monday morning, I think my coworker can pop on over from New York just fine. Sheesh.
Why is my life so frustrating today?!
I’m perseverating and pissed. 

I click over from the parking lot into a residential supervisors office, mumble an apology for taking up his time, and then ask five questions pertaining to a client’s literacy. I jot down my notes and then book it out of there with exaggerated breathing, quickened stride, rolling my eyes at no one in particular, and imagining a quiet home with chai and a biography. Then I see her out of the corner of my eye. I slow down so that she can catch up with me and chat for 30 seconds on the way to the cars.

It’s Shirley. Despite the name, she can’t be more than five years older than me. She is a doll.  We always have been friendly when I come to do music therapy in the cottage with some of the clients she cares for.
“How are you today Shirley?”
“Oh man, I am tired! I just worked a double! Sixteen hours! And I’ve gotta get my baby and then try to nap before coming back here again to do it all over again.”
“Oh my! I’m sorry you have to work so much. Is the cottage understaffed?”
“Eh, it’s fine. I just got a divorce really recently, so the work keeps my mind off of it. Besides, when I work an overnight shift, my baby gets to stay the night with her grandparents and she loves that!”

Upon hearing her last two sentences, I feel all frustration towards work dissipate.

Shirley does direct care, so she’s cleaning up poop, feeding people, redirecting behaviors, assembling wheelchairs, fussing with feeding tubes, washing other people’s laundry, calming tantrums, and comforting the concerned all day. To top it, she is under 30, a single momma with a little girl, freshly rid herself of an asshole husband and working 16-hour days. And here on the concrete, with her tired feet, dirty ponytail, and a mind probably filled with thoughts of child-support checks and a new apartment, Shirley is one of the most beautiful things a person can be: thankful. Shirley is thankful. Optimistic. Looking at the bright side, silver lining, cup half-full, or whatever cheesy thing you want to call it.

The remarkable thing about thankfulness is that no matter your surroundings or circumstances, there is no reason for its absence. There is always, always, always something to be thankful for. Always. When you find what you have to be grateful for, you somehow seem to feel life fuller than before.

Be joyful. Be grateful. Be thankful.
For isn’t it true? What you don’t have is much less than what you do.

Paradise

I’m reading a biography called  “Lost in Translation.” It is written by Eva Hoffman, who immigrated to Canada from Poland as a young Jewish girl.
She writes of how years later, in New York, she meets a woman whose father was a wealthy Asian aristocrat. She grew up surrounded by luxury, but one day, when she was 13 years old, her father’s wealth disappeared. As a result the girl felt as if she was exiled from paradise.
Eva then writes:

No wonder. But the wonder is what you can make a paradise out of. I told her that I grew up in a lumped apartment in Cracow, squeezed into three rudimentary rooms with four other people, surrounded by squabbles, dark political rumblings, memories of wartime suffering, and a daily struggle for existence. And yet, when it came time to leave, I, too, felt as if I were being pushed out of the happy, safe enclosures of Eden.

Though imperfect, Eva recounts in chapters to come the idyllic and loved life she possessed in Poland until age 11. She remembers neighborhood friends, the glorious smell of hallah baking, special trips into town with her mother, and the dear friendship between her and her maid. She had food to eat, a roof over her head, parents who survived WWII, and a sister to play with. She had everything she needed. And sometimes having one’s needs met is all that is needed. She didn’t grow up in a glamorous borough nor did she own many toys, or have the finest education.
Her life was paradise because she was loved well and, as a result, loved her life. What more could a girl want?

I recently made a move of 1050 miles. Minneapolis was my paradise. I close my eyes and in a moment I’m transported to my childhood home. A vision of my mom baking banana bread in the kitchen and the dancing scent of buttery banana goodness pirouettes in the thick, warm air.
I hear my siblings and I shrieking and crunching in the leaf piles with our Australian Shepherd. I feel the crisp air that gives your lungs a tickle when you breathe deeply and the sudden, gleeful adrenaline rush that happens upon hearing the words, “DAD’S HOME FROM WORK!”

This was my paradise: a family that loved me and resided in the brisk north of the contiguous United States.  I had everything I needed.

Then I came to Connecticut. The Eden of Minnesota Nice and Hot Dish was left behind in the nation’s #1 bike city.
Here “Minnesota Nice” is not nice; it’s annoying.
Twice in two weeks, “Lady you’re holding up the line!” was shouted at me.
People here seem to have only two volumes: loud and louder.
If you’re from Jersey and you’re reading this, I’m sorry, but the Jersey accent is an auditory equivalent of having a flashlight shined in your eyes. Jarring to say the least.

However, I have decided that I can make a paradise out of any place of residence. 
Though far from family and friends, I am still loved. Though I’m not with my siblings, I can still kick the leaves and run down the hills. Though away from people who ask you four times if you’re sure you don’t want any hot dish, I will survive. Connecticut will become home, and when I move again, behind me I will leave another paradise.

To love and be loved, I have found, is paradise. You can carry it in your heart wherever you go. And wherever you go with all your heart, you will be home in paradise.  

Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened ~ Dr. Suess

Hot, heavy tears drip off the bottom of my chin and onto my shirt. I neither bother with trying to wipe them mid-cheek nor do I attempt to employ the “mascara-saving-dab.”
Each time I inhale I notice how tight my chest feels, and with each exhale my stomach is greeted with waves of tingly nausea.

Goodbye.

Observing my sobs and snot, one would think it’s 1815 and I’m embarking upon the Oregon Trail.

It’s a very hard word to say sometimes. Often I find that the reason it is so hard to part with those we love so tightly and dearly is because we know that they need us. They need our help, our love, our guidance, our laughter, or our presence. There is a piece of us we know they need and we try to find it in our hearts and put it in their soul before we leave. The thought, “He needs me,” circulated in my mind countless times in the driveway on Stanbridge Avenue. What made the goodbye so hard was not just the thought, “He needs me,” but the immediate accompaniment of, “I need him.”

I don’t just leave behind someone whom I love, but someone who loves me.

Dearest William.

Will is nine-years-old. William can tell you what note you’re singing and how many beats per minute you are walking. William can mentally convert decimals to fractions with exceptional speed. He is well versed in stick shifts versus automatic transmissions. He knows every registered AKC dog breed. He also knows that I like coffee, the color pink, playing the ukulele, and my birthday.

William also has Autism. Like every child with Autism, he had his down days, but even on the rough days I still had the best job ever. Sure there were days when I chased him in circles with a spoon trying to get him to eat or he literally cried over spilled milk. However, none of the bad times could compare to the highs of everyday life with Will. 

During the bluster of midterms, I passed a mirror in his home and muttered to myself, “I look like a train wreck.” He heard and assured me, “You do look like a train wreck, but don’t worry! It’s just a little deal, not a big deal!” I nearly tumbled to the floor with laughter.  One morning, on three hours of sleep, I laid on the couch as he patted my head and whispered, “I will take good care of you.”
I had horrible roommates and one day asked William,
“What do you do when friends are mean to you?”
“Forgive them.”
“What if they keep being mean to you?”
“Then you don’t listen to them. Then you find new friends.”

Some people found it amazing, or even inspiring, that my work was taking care of a child with Autism. I mentioned, “Oh, I work with a little boy who has ASD,” and then it was as if a halo surrounded my head or people saw a glowing heart of gold. Like I’m a saint? Bull.
The reality of it all is that the amazing, inspiring one isn’t me. It is William. He’s the one who keeps going. He’s the one who encourages me on a bad day, takes care of me when I’m sick, reminds me of the rules, and hugs when I’m sad. He is the one who picks me up.

William will be okay without me. He is surrounded by many wonderful aids, teachers, therapists, friends, and family. He needs me, but I, to a certain extent, am a replaceable individual. Another PCA can get him off the bus. Someone else can drive him to therapy.

As for me, I still need him. Since this isn’t 1815, and I am not trekking the Oregon Trail via covered wagon, FaceTime dates can happen. I will move on and experience great adventures. I will be okay too.

How I will miss that darling boy.  How the piece of my heart that William touched will forever glow gold (I can be semi-saintly).