truth stories: the phone call (part 2)

My original plan was to intentionally leave that story hanging, using it as a parable of sorts as we continue to explore ways we make life work (or fail to).  But since many of you are nagging me about what happened next...

I met with the preschool director and pastor later that same afternoon.  They'd been blindsided just as I was; each apologized profusely and encouraged us to stay.  I told them I had no intention of leaving.  I'd volunteered to chaperone a field trip later that very week, and I'd be damned if I was going to miss it. Yes, I did say that out loud, and the pastor grinned (to his credit).

A couple of days later, Luke and I boarded a school bus along with his classmates, his teacher, and half a dozen other moms.  They knew I knew what had happened, and I knew they knew I knew.  Awkward.  Thankfully, Luke was oblivious. 

emu.

It was October, so we (predictably) visited a farm/pumpkin patch.  Luke spent most of the time off to himself, exploring or digging in the dirt; that suited me just fine.  I enjoyed being with him in the sunshine and the quiet.  But when it was time for the animals, he made his way to the front and pressed his face against the fence.  Near us, a mother pointed to the large birds in the field, exclaiming in a high-pitched drawl, "Look, sweetie! Look at the cute ostrich! Isn't he cute? That ostrich is so cute! What a cute ostrich!"  Luke, who hadn't spoken all morning, tugged at her shirtsleeve and said flatly, "Excuse me, that's an emu."  The farmer immediately exclaimed, "You are absolutely correct, little man - those are emus." High-pitch cute-lady rolled her eyes.  I bit my lip and chuckled to myself, feeling better than I'd felt in days.


The situation at the school continued to be miserable, but I was determined to stick it out - until a few weeks later, when the special education teacher who came to see Luke several days a week pulled me aside.  She said, "I know you think it's best for him to be with typical peers, but I really wish you'd consider placing him in one of our Bright Beginnings classes. There's room at the Plaza Rd location, and the teacher is fantastic. He is not going to flourish here, this setting is far from ideal."

Now, I must confess:  at this point in my life I still cared far too much about shallow things like "the right part of town" and "where the Jones's kids go to school" and a lot of other stuff I now consider to be useless nonsense.  Also, Charlotte locals keep in mind:  today, Plaza Midwood is one of the coolest parts of town,  but ten years ago the only time I heard the area mentioned was because someone had been shot.

I couldn't think of a worse idea.

Still, I agreed. Reluctantly.

The first time I drove my baby down 29 to Central Avenue, I stifled sobs.  Why would I bring him here?  He's liable to get shot in a drive-by while playing on the playground!  And what would the other students be like?  Poor, ill-behaved kids from troubled families?  It wasn't fair, he didn't belong with kids like that ...

Did you catch that? Did you hear what I was thinking?
Was I any better than the mothers who wanted my son out of their kids' school because he was different? 

But let's wrap up this story...

Plaza Road was a god-send.  Luke benefitted from the best teacher, assistant, and therapists I could've imagined for him.  They weren't put out by his little quirks and needs; in fact, more often than not, they were a step ahead of him.  Best of all, he started to engage more with his classmates, who accepted and befriended him.  We both have fond memories of Plaza Rd Preschool, and the Bright Beginnings program will always hold a special place in my heart.

side note:  Ironically, we now put two of our kids on a shuttle bus every morning that transports them to a public, arts magnet school downtown, where the student population is truly diverse. Some kids have doctors for moms or the district superintendent for a dad - others are literally homeless.  They come in every color, gender identity, and sexual orientation (as do the teachers and staff).  We value this as a critical part of their education.

While there's really no ending (Luke is now 15 and enjoying 8th grade), I hope I wrapped things up enough to satisfy curiosities.

This is one of my stories.  The what's of your personal stories will differ greatly from mine, but the how's?  I believe much of those, we share.  We'll draw those out, as we continue on together.

Next up:  another phone call story... 

truth stories: the phone call

I have no idea what I am doing. You might have figured that out by now.

First I wrote about acceptance. Soon after, my beloved Tracy wrote this; she asks wonderful questions that I don't necessarily have answers to, but I do have a lot of thoughts about.  Now I want to go back and rewrite that entire post, but I won't.  I'll just have to write another one. Soon.

Then I wrote about thought work. I stand by what I shared, but with exponentially increasing moments of "don't be hearing me saying that because that is NOT what I said".  I'll get back to that, too. Eventually.

I'm fairly certain a good Ann Lammot quote would make me feel a lot better right now, but I can't even decide which phrase to lift.

Sigh.

Just keep writing, Michelle.

Today, I'm resisting the urge to clarify. It would be self-indulgent and more than a little crazy-making. Instead, I'm going to tell a few stories that keep rising to the surface.

Why am I jumping from answering deep questions about life to telling stories?

Because I believe they hold the potential to express what I'm trying to convey better than any amount of eloquent exposition.

They are true stories.  Are they truth stories?  I guess we'll have to see.

I was standing in the kitchen of our old house, when the phone rang. The voice on the other end was hesitant.

"Um, is this Michelle McConnell?"

"Yes?"

"Yeah, um ... you don't know me. I'm so sorry to call you like this, but I can't do this anymore. It's just not right."

"Who is this?"

"My daughter is in preschool with your son, Luke. The letter you shared with us that first week? That's where I got your phone number..."

"Okay?"

"Yeah, and ... well, it was real sweet of you to introduce yourself like that. We've never had a child with autism in the school before, and ... well, I guess you know some people aren't happy."

I stiffened. Yes, I'd heard. 

my Luke, about 10 years ago

Two years prior, a developmental pediatrician gave Luke a diagnosis of Autism Spectrum Disorder for his third birthday. We'd enrolled him in this particular church's preschool because it was small, close by, and friends spoke highly of it.  It was of vital importance to us that he remain with typical peers, and at that time we still thought "Christian" meant best, so it seemed ideal.  The public school system sent therapists and special educators into the setting, to support him there.  It had taken months of meetings, phone calls, and emails to put everything in place.

But it was turning out to be far less than ideal.  He was curious and busy, quiet but friendly, sometimes challenging but never violent.  Still, his very presence made some people uncomfortable.  The rumor-mill was working overtime.  I knew this.  I'd hoped my letter would proactively suppress the drama.  

I'd hoped.

What sounded like a stifled whimper jolted me back to the mystery phone call. Was this woman crying?

"I'm sorry.  It's just wrong."

"Wha- I don't understand?"

"The parents (sniff). They called a meeting with the pastor and the preschool director - they are all there right now! I just couldn't go. They are demanding that your son be removed from the school. No one wants him there. They're saying our kids won't get the instruction they need to be ready for kindergarten because he takes up too much time. They're saying if he doesn't leave, then they will.  All of them.  I'm so sorry, I just had to tell you ... "

My legs gave way. I slid down the front of the refrigerator, sending magnetic letters and numbers across the kitchen floor. I can't say for sure whether I managed to mumble a "Thank you" before hanging up the phone.

I spent the rest of the day in a sort of shock, outwardly trance-like but inwardly swinging between wild rage and all out, black-hole-depression.

(to be continued)

stop it

or

"How do you not hide in the closet with your head between your knees?"
(part 3)

This will be a short installment.  I have a hot date with a pretty awesome guy I met 20 or so years ago.  We agreed to shoo the kids off to bed early, then cuddle in front of some serious quality television:  World's Dumbest __________ on TruTV.   Doesn't really matter what's in the blank, it works for us.  If you haven't laughed till your stomach hurts with your true love lately, make it happen.

But I do want to say something here, first. Some of you resonated with my thoughts on thoughts.  That's good.  Unless it's bad.

If you're beating yourself up, feeling guilty or depressed after reading what I wrote, I have two words for you.

And already know what they are.

All together now!

thought work

 or 

"How do you not hide in the closet all day with your head between your knees?" (part 2)

Acceptance seems so passive, doesn't it?  Many of us don't like that.  We want to do something, we want to feel that we control something.

Well, in my experience, surviving this life without regularly beating yourself or someone around you up involves plenty to control.

Yourself.

I grew up hearing in church that the tongue is impossible to tame, that it wields the very power of life and death.  But in recent years I've been struck by something further; the tongue, for me, represents our outer life.  I'm talking about the entirety of what we put out there:  what we say, write, tweet, or text.  Even the vibe we give off when we roll our eyes, stiffen our bodies, or huff.  We should control these things, because they do real damage.

But if we were to start inside - changing our very thinking - then we wouldn't have to work so hard at taming our tongues or our tweets.  If we didn't allow ourselves the pleasure of rolling certain negative thoughts around inside our heads, then we wouldn't have to live in fear of them one day escaping and causing real harm.

I believe the focus must be our inner life, not our outer life.  That's real self control.

I know how abstract this is, so I'll try to add some flesh to it. A mother comes home from work, cooks dinner for herself and her son, cleans up the dishes, then walks through the house picking up random dirty laundry and dropping it in a hamper.  She doesn't complain out loud, but inside she's thinking,

"It must be nice to come in and eat, then get up and leave again without a thought. I wish I had someone to wait on me hand and foot. I stayed up late last night making sure that practice uniform was clean but does he appreciate it? No, he just drops his clothes on the floor, expecting me to pick them up..." 

Now imagine this.  The same mother completes the same tasks, but this time she's thinking,

 "I'm so glad he comes home for dinner, I know most of the players just grab a sandwich between school and practice.  He said he had a good day, but I wonder how things are going with that friend of his? Maybe he'll talk to me about it over some chocolate milk when he gets home tonight." 

And she smiles to herself that, even though he's taller than her, now, he still loves it when she makes him chocolate milk.

As she picks up the laundry, she doesn't think about what she's doing, but about what he's doing.

"I know he wants to be a starter and he's worked hard, but if it doesn't happen this year, I hope he'll be okay with that ..."

I've given a simple, fairly benign example here, but I hope you can see how far-reaching the implications are. This shift in thinking, played out over days and weeks and years, results in a completely different person.  The second mother doesn't have to work hard to tame her tongue, because her thoughts are for those she loves.  Her heart is pure.

Now, I know that I've lost some of you - I know that. For starters, some of you think the son should pick up his own damn laundry! To you, I propose this:  the mother in our story has made a choice to pick up that laundry.  In both scenarios.  No one has forced her to, she has chosen to.  That opens subject matter for another post, which I hope to get to, soon (remind me if I don't, will you please?)

Forget the details and focus with me here.

Others of you, though, think the second mother's type of existence is reserved for saints. That she isn't even human.  That being that way every day isn't remotely realistic.  That some of us were just born with certain temperaments and that's the way we are.

I say otherwise.

We choose what to think. We choose what to believe. And we can change.  We choose to repeat the same damaging cycles over and over again, or we choose to change them.  Changing them involves work, such very hard work.  It's not easy, I grant you that.  But don't say it's impossible, because that's a lie.

Negative thoughts are addicting - they are just too comfortable and familiar and privately enjoyable to give up.  And so, in a sick little codependent cycle with ourselves, we attempt to meet our own needs by rehearsing them over and over again inside our heads.  And (like any addiction) left to ourselves, I do believe we are helpless to change them.

I have a great fondness for the 12 steps of AA. I know too many delightful people who have experienced personal, spiritual transformation as a result of them not to.  And while I do not mean to minimize the damage alcoholism can and does cause, I propose that negative thinking - selfishness, resentment, bitterness, martyrdom - do the same.  A person whose life -whether outwardly, or secretly within themselves - is characterized by this way of thinking, is doing very real damage to themselves and everyone around them.

The challenge to change our thinking is no less of an undertaking than the challenge to give up any addiction.  In fact, the recovering alcoholic would be the first to tell you that his or her great battle exists first and foremost within the mind.   I only experience success in this daunting task as I rely on my source, my Higher Power.  There's no need to get hung up here; AAphrases it, "God as we understand him".  I call it the Holy Spirit (as Jesus and Ghandi both did) or sometimes The Good God taken from Victor Hugo's  Monseigneur Bienvenu.

This is a practice for me. I sit with the Holy Spirit, opening myself up to what I believe to be an unlimited source of Love and Light and Goodness fully available at every moment.  I am aware of the Spirit's presence around and within me; I literally breathe in grace.  Sometimes (not often) this lasts for days, as I retreat away in solitude.  Sometimes it lasts a few minutes, as I intentionally step away from life to meditate and pray.  Most often it lasts seconds, as I pause just long enough to say, "Help" like Anne Lammott or "Thy sweetness" like Amy Carmichael.

That's the source, the starting point. And, at least for me, it's crucial.

But asking for help isn't enough. This is the problem I have with prayer, as most people talk about it. James, the brother of Jesus, is famous for ridiculing the christians of his time for their "faith without works". If I were ever to become a preacher I think I'd sound a lot like him.  Please don't talk about how much you pray if your outer life is crap. If you're a jerk to the drive-thru lady, gossip about your co-workers, and act like an ass on facebook, keep your prayers in your prayer closet. I beg you.

But if you really want to change...

DO THE WORK.

When that selfish thought begins, stop it. Say no. Say it out loud if you have to! Tell yourself NO. Discipline yourself as you would a toddler; that's what it's going to take at first, trust me, because that's exactly what you are. Your mind is wildly out of control and it needs discipline.

Obviously, the bad thought patterns can't just be removed, they have to be replaced ... but this is long enough, for now.

More to come. In the meantime, Bob Newhart.

acceptance

Not long ago someone looked me in the eye and said, "How do you not just hide in the closet with your head between your knees all day?"

I'm quite sure I stood there with my jaw hanging open for a full minute before I dared utter a response.  The audacity of the question still astounds me.

Did this person really express that facing the reality of my day to day existence would send them into a catatonic state?  

I will attempt to answer this, though, because - audacious as it was - it's a good question.  What this person really wants to know is, "How do you make your life work?" which has, underlying it, "How can I make my life work?"

Several core attitudes/practices come to mind, but the first is acceptance.  Seeing clearly, seeing what is and calling it exactly what it is.  Accepting it. This is a component of healthy living.

This may seem elementary, but I daily encounter people who do not have acceptance in their lives. In fact, the most dysfunctional, mess-making people I've come across have been people who exist in a state of denial.  They aren't pretending life is hunky-dory for the sake of appearances, no.  That's dysfunctional, for sure, but I'm talking about something far more damaging.  I'm talking about believing that it actually IS; that your life, your family, your world is hunky-dory-wonderful-and-perfect.  Believing it to the point that any bit of evidence to the contrary is a painful, personal attack. Blame for others and shame for self become reflex reactions, leaving you either lashing out violently or (yes) hiding with your head between your knees in a closet of pain, guilt, and defeat.

Acceptance. Not expecting life to be more this or less that, but living with a mindful awareness of what it actually is.

Replacing expectation with acceptance is, I've come to learn, one practice of healthy living. (more to come)

To pray means to open your hands before God. It means slowly relaxing the tension which squeezes your hands together and accepting your existence with an increasing readiness, 
not as a possession to defend, but as a gift to receive. ~Henri Nouwen

enough

I'm in bed, eating Not-Cheetos (the Earthfare variety - supposedly healthier but still junk), drinking pineapple juice with a splash of vodka (if that has an official, cool bar-mixed-drink name I don't know what it is), and listening to The Wood Brothers' new album, The Muse (check it out on Spotify. in fact, stop reading this blog post. it's not going to be very good anyway. just go listen. now.)

Still here?  Wow. You were warned.

I'm in kind of a everyone-is-stupid-except-me funk.  I want to stay up all night being irresponsible and lazy.  Then I want to sleep till I wake up, no alarm.  Tomorrow morning (or afternoon) I want to drink coffee in silence, then wander to a hammock, far away from people.  ANY people.  And I want to lay there.  Alone.  All day.

I want to gaze at the sky and the leaves on the trees, dozing in and out of consciousness as I simply forget.  Forget all the stuff I want to not know, or at least not care about.
Because caring is exhausting.

The Wood Brothers are still singing.  My glass is empty. I pushed the not-Cheetos bag far away because the aftertaste caught up to me.  Ew.

In the morning, I'll wake with the alarm.  I won't want to, but I will.  I'll walk outside.  It'll still be dark.  I'll look up at the stars. I'll feel the cool air on my skin. I'll listen to the birds and the frogs and the crickets.  And I'll breathe.  I'll breathe deep and slow, and just be out there for a while. A good long while, I hope.
And it'll be enough.

I don't talk much about prayer anymore. That doesn't mean I don't pray, it just means that I don't know how to talk about it. The names for things, the containers they come in - these have gotten awful blurry, lately. But the center is clearer than ever.  When I'm quiet, when I'm open - it's so very clear. Even now, it's becoming clearer.
And it's enough.

I don't write here very often, either.  This season of life has me so busy walking the walk; the path seems never-ending, and sometimes it's exhausting, but it is rich.  My husband, our four children, and my full time job working with special needs students all grow me, daily. I often think of brilliant insights I want to pass on once it all slows down.  I have so very much to say.

But by the time I have a chance to sit and write, I'm spent to the point that all you get is Not-Cheetos, a nameless mixed drink, and The Wood Brothers.

sigh.

For now, that'll have to be enough. 

we don't know

We've been making a point lately to try out local "mom and pop" restaurants when we're traveling.  Some are better than others, but at least we get a bit of local flavor and support whatever community we're enjoying being in.

Today we found ourselves in the most recognizable hometown in the United States:  Andy Griffith's Mayberry.  If you didn't know, Mayberry is a real place, but it's actually called Pilot Mountain, NC.  I know, I know - folks say Griffith's hometown of Mt. Airy is the original Mayberry, but  he actually pointed out nearby Pilot Mountain as his inspiration.

Either way, we were in or near Mayberry, so when I hit "nearby restaurants" on my GPS and saw "Aunt Bea's" listed, I knew we had to give it a shot.  It didn't disappoint; the food was fair, ambiance was perfect, service was slow but friendly, and the scoops of ice cream were HUGE.

I never expected a placed named Aunt Bea's to have wifi, but I was disappointed to dicover that I didn't even have the slightest hint of a Verizon signal.  I looked around the place; not one person had a device of any kind in their hands.  Quaint.  Well, except 3 of my 4 children, who now quite stood out to me with their ears plugged with buds, noses pointed down, and fingers tapping away on the screens of their ipad minis (the 4th would have been right there with them if she hadn't lost privileges earlier in the weekend).

I scanned the room again.  One couple in particular had taken notice of our little crew.  Eyes darting back and forth led to disapproving sighs, pursed lips, whispers, and shaking heads.  My refined skills of interpretation gathered the following:

"Families should have conversations over meals. Children should not play video games at the table. That  mother should engage with her children, not let technology babysit them." 

Et cetera, et cetera ...

I had to smile, sigh, and shake my own head.

They didn't know.

They didn't know that these children and I just spent 3 hours in the woods, on top of a mountain, having the time of our lives. Engaged. Together.
They didn't know that we'd driven over 90 miles just to have that experience.
They didn't know that even though they'd have preferred Subway, these three middle schoolers had ordered their meals complete with "excuse me", "please", "thank you", and "yes ma'am" (okay - the 13 year old said "yeah" until I elbowed him & gave a sideways you-know-better grin).
They didn't know that 2 of them were working on their Garage Band projects, while the third was playing Stack the States (part of me wanted to see him challenge them to a round, but I thought better of it).
Most of all, they didn't know that 2 of my 4 children have significant-yet-invisible special needs.

There was so much they just. didn't. know.

Don't misunderstand - I wasn't angry. I'm not, now.
I get it.
I do it!

It was my very first visit to Cabo Fish Taco - only the coolest restaurant in the coolest district in town. I'd arranged to meet friends for a pre-concert dinner and was basking in how-cool-am-I?-ness as I joined the table they were sharing with a couple I didn't yet know. I'd arrived late and was feeling a bit like a fifth-wheel, when my friend made a sideways jab at a woman in her yoga class whose "plastic boobs" don't move the way they should when she's in certain poses.  Ah, fake boob jokes - an easy conversational win!  I jumped in, embarrassingly eager to score a laugh from the table, and repeated a well-rehearsed comment I'd stolen from Joy Behar: "When a woman lays flat on her back her boobs should point east and west, not straight up north.  If they point up perky to the sky then you know they're fake, cause God just didn't make them that way!"  That one's always good for a laugh, right? Especially here in plastic-ville, where folks have more money & vanity than sense ... right?

Wrong.

The woman to my right, the one I didn't yet know, said quite matter of fact-ly, "My boobs are plastic."

Painful silence.  A nacho and a wad of guacamole stuck in my throat like glue. I tried to swallow.  No luck. I couldn't breathe. Meanwhile,

"Don't look at her boobs. Do NOT look at her boobs! Do N-  dammit!"

I looked at her boobs.

They didn't look plastic. I mean, they were completely covered with a T-shirt, no cleavage or anything, but they weren't unusually large ...

"Stop looking at her boobs!"

She graciously broke the silence-from-hell:  "I had a mastectomy 2 years ago".

I picked up my glass of wine and gulped.  Down went the guacamole. And the nacho. And my dignity.

"You beat cancer?!" I asked. She nodded and smiled.  "BOOM!" I exclaimed with true joy, along with a complimentary expletive I won't share here.  Then I held my arm out for a fist bump.

Please-oh-dear-God-in-heaven-and-all-that-is-good-and-right, don't leave me hanging. I'm dying here.

She grinned ear to ear, shot out a victorious expletive of her own, and bumped back.  I may be an ass, but she isn't. She's one seriously classy lady.

Never assume a joke made at some unnamed, invisible person's expense is safe. Because you don't know if that unnamed, invisible person is sitting right next to you.

We. Don't. Know.

A month or so ago, I was at one of the closest things to heaven-on-earth I know of:  the annual Wild Goose Festival. I was listening to one of my favorite speakers, a man I know to be authentic and kind and generous. All guards were down.

Then, it happened.

He'd been talking about how beauty, whether in nature or art or music, should be experienced in real ways, not mediated ones. We can't let the symbol replace the original, even though technology offers us unlimited means of doing so.  He was specifically referring to children at this point, explaining the value of letting them turn over an old log and experience real live creepy-crawlies rather than watch an educational video about insects.  Mediated experiences will never match actual, authentic experiences - this is truth.

But then he drove his point home with a side commentary about how "If we did more of this, kids wouldn't need to be drugged up on medicine! Treated like guinea pigs, walking zombies..."

I looked at my feet.
Damn.
That hurt.

I told myself he didn't mean it. At least, he didn't  mean my kids... He meant those other ones - nameless, faceless kids whose parents never send them outdoors to play, who stare at TV and video games all day long and are given a prescription drug the first time they wiggle in their seat at elementary school.  He probably doesn't actually know a kid like that, but that's who he means. Those kids.

Problem was, the arrow had been released and it had found its mark, intended or not.

I refused to spiral downward.  Instead, I rehearsed all-too-familiar self-talk, between deep cleansing breaths:

"Your kids have spent more time in the mud than most their age.  You continue to use diet and many other means to help your son's autism. You waited till he was 10 before you allowed the neurologist to medicate him (frankly, you should have done it sooner).  Your daughter is missing entire portions of her brain and was facing a future bedridden in a Ukrainian institution.  Both of them are happy and healthy because you provide them adequate and proper medication."

By the time this self-talk was completed, I felt better, but I'd completely missed the rest of his talk.  And I was sorry for that.  I think he would be, too - in fact, I know he would be.  He is a good man, and a good speaker.

He just didn't know.

We. Don't. Know.

So, what's the answer?  Political correctness?  Walking on eggshells, careful not to offend?

No.
No!
A hundred times, NO.

Watching what you say is exhausting and unhealthy and ... well, about as believable (not to mention palatable) as artificial sweetener.

No.

I obviously don't have this one nailed down (just ask my new cancer-survivor friend with the plastic boobs). But I've caught glimpses of light here and there that point to a two-fold solution.

First, compassion.

That invisible person you are willing to sacrifice in order to drive your point home or to score points of acceptance from a group you're trying too hard to impress?  Compassion even for THAT person.

Second, humility.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe there's a detail I'm missing.  Or - sometimes - maybe I'm just being an ass.

Experience has taught me that when compassion and humility are practiced (not pondered - practiced!) then I don't have to watch what I say.  I can let what is within flow out, without care.

In fact, if I sincerely practice them - consistently - something truly amazing might happen.

I might find myself having compassion for that couple in Aunt Bea's. Wondering what it must feel like to see young people using devices you believe to be responsible for the ruin of your beloved way of life?
I might even find that I'm humbly checking my assumptions, reminding myself that for all I know these people are angry about the food or the wallpaper - that their disapproving glances might have nothing at all to do with me or my kids.

Because I don't really know, do I?

No ...

I don't.