April is Autism Awareness Month and also National Poetry Month, two topics about which I am passionate. I ought to have lots to write and say and post, but here we are almost two thirds of the way through April and I’ve done very little of any of that. This is one of my continual struggles. The desire to express things beautifully can silence quite a bit of perfectly ordinary, good-enough writing. I suspect this piece will land in the latter category.

Ah, autism. There are commonalities between most folks who carry this diagnosis, but every individual and their family has a unique story. I’ve found that anxiety is a fairly ubiquitous presence in spectrum folks.

My daughter had some recent medical procedures. The preparation, including anxiety management strategies (for her) was almost harder than actually going through them. One was a singular event, the other routine. Truth is, it drained me in a way I haven’t experienced in a long time. If you have a loved one who needs 24/7 care, you understand. We all get older, and though long experience serves us well, this daily/nightly dance does not get easier. Decades of giving care can come from a place of deep and committed love, as it does in my life. The heart may be endlessly willing, but the body and mind are not as lithe and resilient as they once were. That said, she did well in the end. Those particular things are over and we live to inhabit another day.

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My mother-in-law, Anna, passed away less than a week ago. She had a long, full life and left surrounded by caring family and friends. Superguy says she orchestrated the whole thing and it went just as she wished. She wove in and out of consciousness and lucidity towards the end, but there were some precious moments of connection and articulations of love that gifted those who were left behind.

Her house was full of family in the days before she left. A heaviness filled the rooms as people came and bid her tearful goodbyes, one by one. A few hours before Anna passed, one of her nieces told me she’s going to be a grandmother. The sheer joy of this news sent shiny little sparks of light up and out into the melancholy air, reminding me of the ways we can hold many things at the same time. How beautifully loveliness coexists with despair, how light and darkness need the contrast they provide each other to make themselves known.

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One recent morning I overheard a brief dialogue between a budding bush and a small puddle. The natural world is generous in the way it offers up lessons in acceptance and grace. I’ll save that share for another day, perhaps even tomorrow. In the spirit of increasing output, good-enough writing shall make itself heard.

Thanks for reading and may you be well.

Melinda