Written in December 2012
I am sitting in my favorite coffee shop, writing a report,
restructuring parts, finding ways to rearrange pieces according to my
director’s request, digging for the most eloquent way to convey what I’m
thinking about the ten years of programming my close colleague and I have under
our belts, what we need to move forward, what we can do. Digging to first know what I’m thinking
in order to express it. Focusing
and writing.
And then my focus is blown. A boy and his nurse have just walked in. The boy is
9-ish, developmentally delayed, reasonably happy, pushing his own cart with
oxygen, tubing and other gear: who knows what his substantial issues are? He is intellectually engaged by his
nurse, treated like a friend by coffee shop employees, conversational with them
in turn and well-cared for.
My eyes move from my computer, to find excuses, other things
to focus on so I can watch and listen a little. I gaze past the nurse and boy, and settle on a bright red
bike just outside the door, leaning against a parking meter, framed by a
grey-blue car on a grey day.
I sit – my mind a blank. Fixated on all the possible futures that could have been
mine, as I am apt to do. This time
they are futures I do not want.
This boy’s possible future.
And his parents’ futures as they function within the parameters they
have been dealt. I am reminded of
the incredible perspective and gung-ho attitude of one of my colleagues who
has been dealt not one, but two, autistic, twin boys. There is much to learn from her and how she moves through
her world.
What lies in front of her as her sons grow into adulthood,
what lies ahead of this boy and his parents as he matures, in front of my in-laws
as my autistic nephew matures? They are dealing in futures I can only glimpse.
In stark contrast, twenty minutes ago I launched my 13-year
old daughter across Mass Ave to her dentist appointment. My colleague with twins does not
have time to take a watercolor class for herself. She cannot tell her sons to cross Mass Ave and check in to
their own dentist appointment. I’ve
been dealt damn good cards – I know this.
The boy, cart and nurse walk out the door. His cart hitches on the doorstep and
his nurse gives him encouragement and instruction. Then they are gone.
The red of the bike and its reflections and sharp angles on
the grey day are tearing at me -- pleading to be painted. I wish I had my good camera. My painting teacher
once asked us – “Why do you paint?”
The answer for most of us is, “Because I have to.” But there is additional subtext:
“Because I have a small gift and I shouldn’t waste it.”
What lives we are given: the cards, the gifts. The only thing I know for sure is that
I must celebrate what I have.
Maybe that’s why I try to cram so many things into my life – because I
don’t want to take the amazing cards I’ve been dealt for granted.
