It was a dreary Monday, cold and rainy. Henry had a good day with his ABA therapist, and was looking forward to getting back to preschool. I wondered whether we’d be able to walk to school, but the rain let up for a while and Henry and I were able to take a little stroll together.
I’ve written before about how my kids have more to teach me than I probably have to teach them. I’m not saying that to be cliche or cornball, I honestly believe that. I’m not talking about things like math, spelling or science, I’m talking about getting life right.
We grown ups tend to have years and years of battle damage, fears, anxieties and all kinds of other head trash that clouds our true vision. It’s something I’m working on, but there are times when all the books, podcasts and speakers you listen to are just preamble to lesson delivered not by instruction, but by example and persistence. A lesson delivered by a five-year-old neurodiverse child.
On our walk, Henry was drawn to every puddle he sees because he loves, as he says, “jumping in muddy puddles.” Other parents might recognize this as a popular Peppa Pig refrain, and indeed that is a major contributor to Henry’s passion, but I also think he gets something sensory out of the feeling, sound and sensation of jumping in a puddle.
Me, my mind always goes to “but your shoes will get dirty and wet!” He doesn’t care. And for today, I figured I wouldn’t let myself care either. We had a nice walk and went for a little while in silence. Walking by the park near the school, Henry pointed and said, “look at the birds!”
I was distracted, thinking about I can’t even remember what. I gave the typical parental, “Oh yeah, that’s nice,” kind of response. Thankfully, Henry was not having it.
“Dad, see the birds!” He said it with excitement I couldn’t ignore.
There were four birds meandering around this large park space. I stopped with him for a second and watched the birds. “I wonder if they’re playing in the park,” I said.
Henry liked the sound of that and said, “Yes, they like to play in the park.” We watched for another minute and he asked if he could take picture of the bird closest to us. I gave him my phone and helped him take a picture. “It’s a pretty bird,” he said. It was.
We walked on, talking about the birds, and then Henry decided to track through the sand in the volleyball court.
Once again, my first thought was about the cleanliness of his shoes, but was in glee, feeling the sand as he tracked through it. Moments later, I realized I had gotten a couple steps ahead of him because he stopped to play with the petals that had fallen from the trees by the school. He soaked in that moment, too, and here was where I started to recognized my son was trying to teach me something.
I was focused on his shoes, on getting to school on time, and whatever else was clanging around in my head. I wasn’t noticing the birds, the sand, the flowers and just the beautiful stillness in the air. I dropped him off, and he was excited to run into his classroom. As I walked back, I thought a lot about this. I stopped for a moment and played with those flower petals. I tried to open up to what was around me.
Just that morning, I was listening to a podcast that was talking about the power of negative thoughts to pull us down. It wasn’t advocating only thinking good thoughts all the time…that is, of course, impossible…but did call attention to the fact that on a subconscious level, for so many of us, an extraordinary amount of effort is spent on thoughts that aren’t positive. And it can both sap us of energy and cloud us to the wonders right in front of us.
Certainly, I fall into that category. I’ve made good progress toning down my internal critic, but a shocking amount of my daily internal monologue is still focused on what I might have messed up, will mess up, or can’t get right. The speaker on the podcast was advocating for being more open to the positive and the world around us, which is so easily drowned out by the ruckus caused by that internal critic.
That was on my mind as I continued the walk home. I scanned the park for the birds, and now there were none. I had kind of metaphysical moment where I wondered aloud whether it was the power of my son’s perception that brought the birds in the first place. He first told me to look at the birds, and when I didn’t, he told me to SEE them.
I was listening to Dry the Rain by the Beta Band, and tried for a moment to strip away all the outer stuff and just see that moment. I actually started to feel something lift inside of me. I’ve been working hard through writing, mindfulness and meditation to try to connect with some kind of universal energy greater than myself, and in that moment I could actually feel it. The best way I could describe it was it was like I was rising like a balloon, feeling this connection to everything around me, just as the music crescendoed. I was overwhelmed to the verge of tears.
For maybe 10 seconds, I felt on the doorstep of that real connection when I could suddenly feel the “you can’t,” and “you won’t,” voices whisper in and I very distinctly felt the balloon being pulled down. I was able to react and say to the negative voices, “Guys! Not now!” But their mere presence had popped that balloon and I was floating back down to earth.
I walked on, still feeling good and appreciative of the moment, but fleeting glimpse of something greater had passed on. And that was the moment I realized I had actually grown. I felt, not disappointment in the fact that I got so close to an epiphany and got yanked down, but hope in the understanding that it is there. I understand now why masters meditate for years in search of moments like that. I was fortunate to have Henry to guide me into a moment at a most unexpected time.
And the birds. Maybe it’s just that I read a lot of Carlos Castaneda in college, so I believe that birds always show up with purpose. And plenty of spiritual thought around the world agrees.
I always write this blog one day removed, reflecting on the previous day, and usually I write it at night. This is a rare instance where I got home and wrote this down immediately because I didn’t want to forget. But even then, as I am about an hour removed writing this, I can already feel the experience fading away a little. But I think the lesson remains.
Now, I have no idea if this will make much sense to anyone reading. I guess if I could pass on anything from the experience, it would be to take to heart what Henry had to say to me. Don’t just look at the people, places and experiences around them. See them. Try to tell any negative or critical voices in your head to take five and take note of what happens when you take a moment to see the life in and around you. Be and see with purpose. I’ll close with a little bit of Dry the Rain:
If there’s something inside that you wanna say
Say it out loud it’ll be okay
I will be your light
I will be your light
