April, a time of awakenings, a time of hope for all things green. A month devoted to shifts in temperature, shifts in light, shifts in habits from hibernation to re-engagement with the world.
The snow melted early this year. Buds hold the promise of leaves to come. The eager shoots of my perennials rise out of the earth without hesitation. The sun defies gravity and holds off darkness for longer and longer each day.
April is also a month devoted to autism awareness—as if four weeks can capture a world view that refuses to fit inside those neat little calendar boxes. Thirty days carved out of a year to focus on that which can not be contained.
I remember when my only understanding of autism came from Dustin Hoffman’s character in Rain Man, a solitary individual, institutionalized, wanting nothing more than to watch Judge Wopner on T.V.
That was before autism lived in my home, my heart, my cells as they divided and created my son.
Elias loves people, he is more social than I am. When we walk around our small community of Seward folks often greet him by name as he smiles and waves in a way that only he can replicate.
“I’m Elias’s Mom,” I’m known to say.
And I am forever changed because of loving this boy who doesn't communicate in expected ways. This young man who notices the smallest of details, who re-directs my gaze from the abstract to the tangible.
He sits next to me on the couch as I write. He holds his iPad close to his eyes to study the ski report at Alyeska, the weather forecast, the latest sports scores. His brain, a database of maps and numbers, where as I can’t remember door codes or the names of the ski trails we descend.
I get lost in my own backyard. Forget birthdays, passwords, call my children by our dogs’ names.
The other day I hiked Bird Ridge alone during a short window of time before an appointment at a studio in Anchorage to record a poem with Radical Arts for Women for an upcoming CD.
I shared the trail with a handful of other folks, all outside on an unseasonably warm March Friday. I hiked to the junior race point, where a new bench sits to memorialize Jack, a young man killed by a bear during a race two summers ago. I played hockey with Jack’s Mom and found myself moved by the carved words, reading them out loud to the wind and the the eagles who circled below me as we overlooked Turnagain Arm.
A fellow hiker came around a different braid and saw me on the bench below. “What does that say?” he asked. And so I read it to him too.
In memory of Patrick “Jack” Cooper, rest here, be inspired, be grateful, be awesome. Be adventurous, keep on running. If you look for peace you will find it.
“Ain’t that the truth” the older gentleman said before continuing up the ridge.
Despite a heavily traveled trail, I somehow managed to lose it on my way down—maybe because I was practicing my poems instead of paying attention to my surroundings— and I ended up on a massive rock slide heading towards Bird Creek instead of the highway.
Its so easy to get lost in plain sight. Two women hiked right behind me when I ventured down the wrong way. I even looked back and saw the first woman hesitate to follow me when I scrambled down the steep rocks. We’ll meet around the bend, I thought, she’s just choosing an easier route.
When I realized I was heading the wrong direction, I thought of Jack losing the trail on race day, a black bear following his scent. I remembered the shock of the racing community that a mauling could happen with so many people on the mountain. Safety in numbers goes the mantra in bear country. And yet wilderness has a way of putting us in our place just when we think we understand the rules.
As I scrambled across the mountain, trying to find my way, I ended up in a thicket of salmonberry bushes and Devil’s Club on a steep lip I needed to descend. Too stubborn to climb back up for a better route, I slid down the short cliff scratching myself as I fell.
Finally, right when I started to feel discouraged and the first tinge of worry, I heard a joyous yelp in the distance, someone calling a dog or celebrating the view, and I knew I didn't have that much farther to traverse before finding the right route down.
This is the story of my life.
Lost in my head, I lose the trail again and again. My eyes stop seeing what’s in front of me as my mind travels all over the place, everywhere but here. I scramble over boulders, hands grabbing thorns, as I clumsily make my way, until once again I find my footing, regain my balance, pause, and notice a particular cloud in the sky, the color on the rocks in my way.
Perhaps this is true for most of us.
Our paths aren't lined with gold or cushioned with feather beds. We fall amidst the brambles, but we rise and push our way through the thickets till we find ourselves back on the trail, light on our faces, looking out at a view that makes our hearts full.
When I found the trail again I took a moment to watch the eagles do their circular dance with the wind currents, I took a moment to rest, to be inspired, to be grateful, and yes, even awesome.
I even rolled into my studio appointment just a minute late to recite my poems.
Along with autism, April is National Poetry Month, and Distracted Driving Awareness Month, Keep America Beautiful Month, Mathematics Awareness Month, National Couple Appreciation Month, National Fresh Celery Month, National Humor Month, National Straw Hat Month, Pets are Wonderful Month, the National Month of Hope…
And the list keeps going.
And the snow keeps melting. And the sun shines for more minutes each day. And the rain falls harder than before.
Maybe I can try to appreciate all of it, no matter what month the calendar claims. Find peace in the inconsistency, within both the shadows and light, the briar patches that block my path and the views that fill me with awe.
Maybe.
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