Out of the Sky

I feel so lucky.  I mean, I’m just amazed at how well it’s all gone.  I’ve honestly never experienced such a smooth transition in all of my entire adult life.

We pulled in late on a Thursday night, a week and a half ago.  And we were tired.  It had been the longest day in recorded history, and, to make matters worse, our stuff wasn’t scheduled to arrive until the next day.  We were facing sleeping on the floor in an unfamiliar house with our three scared and out-of-sorts children.

I’d asked some friends of mine to deliver an air mattress to my front porch that day, but instead they’d come into the house, set up beds for us and the kids (complete with bedding and pillows), put toiletries and towels into the bathrooms, and put paper plates, silverware, and food in the kitchen.  They thought of everything we could’ve needed.  And that wasn’t even the best part.  The best part was the sticky notes.

All around the house were these tiny, yellow sticky notes - “Welcome home!” and “We love you!” and “We’re so happy you’re here!”  “Welcome home Alden and Isabel, we love you!” and “Welcome home Cale, we love you!” on each of the kids bedroom doors.  “This is your cupboard!” and “This is your oven!” said a couple of silly notes in the kitchen, along with “This is your refrigerator, look inside!”  Inside the refrigerator, “This is your milk!” and “These are your yogurts!” etc.

We laughed AND cried.  Even Alden, who’s almost ten years old now and is in very real danger of wanting to become “cool,” the one who was having the hardest time of all us with this move in the first place, was touched to verge of tears.  “This is sooo NICE!  It’s just so nice!  Can you believe how nice this is?!” he said, “We’ve never moved into a house that had so much love all over it before!”

Isabel immediately collected all the sticky notes and swore to keep them safe in her jewelry box forever and ever and ever:)

Next day, Isabel’s new teacher, along with her resource room teacher and the district’s Autism specialist, all met us at the new school for a tour (even though our placement meeting wasn’t actually until Monday).  I took Alden along as well, so they took Alden and Isabel both on a tour of the school while I filled out the registration paperwork.

By the time I had dotted the last I and crossed the last T, Alden and Isabel had seen the school, had seen their new classrooms, had met their new teachers and the principal, and had gawked readily over the play ground out back (the most important part, of course).  And they were excited beyond description about being able to attend school there.

Cale’s new teacher met us at our house just after we got home from Alden and Isabel’s school.  And yes, I said, “at our house.”  She spent an hour and a half at our house hanging out with Cale so as to learn all she could about him, and so that he’d have a familiar face on his first day at his new school.

Cale’s at a different school than Alden and Isabel, as has always been the case (and probably always will be).  But his teacher has thirty years experience in working with kids like Cale and she isn’t at all intimidated by his “behaviors.”  He cried when I left him at school the first day, and I thought for sure that he’d tantrum all day long.  He’s often done just that in new situations.  But his teacher said that he was “weepy” for about an hour (during which she “figured him out”), and that after that he had a fantastic day. 

Cale’s teacher emailed us pictures of Cale all day long that first day, so that I could see his smiles for myself, could see his laughter for myself, and could see his general “okay-ness” for myself.  I bet I cried a train load that day, but it was much more out of gratitude than it was out of worry.  I adore Cale’s new teacher.  And I adore Cale’s new class.

Cale’s in a classroom with eleven other children now, which was a bit of concern for everyone at first as Cale has traditionally required a lot of one on one attention (and his teacher is making sure that he has a one on one para at all times – it sounds like they’re even hiring someone new for the job).  Most of his classmates are older than him, however (it’s a kindergarten through second grade class), most of them have Autism as well (so they seem to “get” Cale), and all but him and one other are verbal. 

It’s perfect, really, because these kids are constantly talking to Cale, constantly bringing him stuff, and constantly harassing him to engage (and most of them are too big for him to be able to hurt them – plus, the staff has a whole system of kid/self defense in place for when someone goes into meltdown mode – the teacher shouts “BLOCK!” and everybody blocks kids).  If the teacher and staff can continue to handle it, then I think this is just exactly what Cale needs.   

In an ideal world, Cale would be in a regular classroom (which, in this world, would be best for him because of the constant social engagement, but not necessarily best for the rest of the class if you know what I mean).  Cale’s very smart you see, but he’s just a little bit lazy.  He’ll do the bare minimum that he can get away with when it comes to things that are difficult for him (not unlike his Mama, I’m afraid), and I believe that he’ll only be motivated to learn how to talk, to learn how to communicate in any way in fact (he’s using his iPad a lot at school already), if there are people (including classmates) that are really pressuring him to do so. 

With Cale, it’s always about finding that sweet spot between just uncomfortable enough that he’s motivated, yet not so uncomfortable that he goes into meltdown mode.  And, so far, this class seems to be the perfect balance between too much social engagement and not enough.  

During Cale’s first week at his new school, the teacher and staff took Cale’s class on a field trip to the bowling alley.  “Would Cale enjoy bowling?” the teacher had asked during the home visit.

“Uuh…,” I’d answered, “I have no idea.  He’s never done anything like that before.  And taking him to a bowling alley is quite the ambitious endeavor.  Are you sure you want to try it?”

She did want to try it, so I agreed to meet them at the bowling alley so that I could take Cale home when he started slamming his head onto the floor.  As it turned out, however, there was no need for my presence.  Cale let the staff lead him through the bowling process a few times so that he could learn how to do it, but then he started batting their hands away and doing it all by himself.

Did you hear me?  Cale bowled.  By himself.  And he had a fantastic time.

I showed up at the bowling alley just in time to see the entire class throwing their arms into the air and shouting, “Yay!!!” because somebody had actually managed to knock down a few pins.  Cale looked up at the other kids for a moment, threw his little arms up into the air, and whisper shouted, “Yay!!!” as well. 

I had to hold back tears of gratitude.  Again.

All of my kids have done so much better with this move than I expected.  My husband loves our house (and I wasn’t sure how he’d do in a log cabin–esque type of house).  And I love living in the mountains.  There are mountains jutting up a stone’s throw away from (okay, they’re actually about six blocks away, but they sure seem close to) my front door.  And there are pine trees all over the place.  There are even baby pine trees in this strange, stone planter box inside of my house right next to my writing desk.

It’s like the whole thing hasn’t really hit me completely.  Or like I’m in such disbelief that I’m here that my brain hasn’t actually quite arrived yet.  Or maybe I feel like it’s just too good to be true.  I mean, the whole thing has happened so fast, like a big fat gift dropped right out of the sky.  And I do have this tendency to believe that the other shoe is about to drop at any moment.  I’ve even caught myself consciously thinking, “Just wait… Shane’ll get a call that we have to move back to Phoenix any minute now…”

Why do I think like that?   

I used to believe that God hurt me, or that he took things from me, or that he caused bad things to happen in order to teach me some sort of lesson, or in order to make me “grow spiritually.”  I believed that partly because I had my world rocked to its foundation when I discovered that my kids had Autism, that they would never have normal lives, and that they would break my heart on a daily basis for the rest of my life.  But I’ve come to discover, instead, that whatever it is that I believe is probably what I’m going to experience. 

Somebody once told me that I had complete faith in not having enough money.  This didn’t make any sense to me, so I asked for further explanation.  “Well,” the person explained, “you can have faith in limitation and lack (I’m just certain, for example, that I’m not going to have enough money, or that things aren’t going to work out, or whatever), or you can have faith in limitlessness and abundance (I’m just certain that I’m going to have more than enough money, or that things are going to work out, or whatever).”

“Whichever you have faith in is what you’re going to experience more of,” she continued, “because life tends to give us more of whatever we have faith in.”

I first remember learning about this at church camp a bazillion years ago – that having faith meant believing with your whole heart that whatever you want to have happen will happen.

I had the opportunity to teach this to my daughter when she got an adult tooth knocked out at school a few weeks ago.  The orthodontist managed to put the tooth back in, but then we had to wait two whole weeks before we could go back and find out whether or not the tooth had died.

“What if my tooth dies, Mom?” Isabel cried on the way home that day.

“Well, if you believe it’ll die, then it will certainly die,” I said, “But if you believe with your whole heart that it’ll live, then there’s a chance that it might live.”

“But what if I believe with my whole heart that it will live, and it still dies?” she asked, “That would break my heart.”

Smart little peanut, isn’t she?  I once believed with my whole heart that my parents wouldn’t get divorced.  They got divorced anyway. 

“If you believe with your whole heart that it will live, and it still dies,” I explained, “Then there’s a very special reason for that.  Maybe your tooth is too damaged.  Or maybe it’s just tired.  You know?  Maybe it wants to go home and be with God, or maybe God needs it to be up in heaven with him for some reason.  If that’s the case, then God knows you’ll be okay without it, because God would never take something from you that he knows you wouldn’t ultimately be okay without.”

This seemed to lighten her up a little bit, and it seemed to sink the idea a little deeper into me as well.  It got me thinking, in fact, that maybe God’s rule of thumb (or the universe’s, or whatever you want to call it) is for things to go our way (or for things to go the way we think they’ll go anyway).  And maybe, when something doesn’t go our way, it’s actually a bit of an anomaly, and that there’s a very special reason for it - a reason that we may or may not get to understand.

If this is the case, then why not believe that everything’s perfect?  And why not believe that it always, always will be?  This doesn’t necessarily mean that everything will be painless.  Pain and perfection can, indeed, exist simultaneously.  Just look at kids with Autism.

This brings me back to my magnificent move to this enchanting place.  I mean, nothing is permanent.  People, places, and things always come and go, yet I’m the kind of person who tries to hang on.  I don’t know why.  I mean, I don’t have any fun when I’m trying to hang on, when I’m in the mind set of “I just know that I’m going to lose this person, place, or thing.”

When I’m in that particular mind set, all I experience is loss.  I experience the loss even while the person, place, or thing is still right in front of me.  I’ve already lost them when I haven’t even lost them yet.  It’s ridiculous.  And I’ve come to believe that part of the reason people, places, and things go is because I’m trying to hang on. 

What do you imagine I get out of experiencing loss?  I mean, I obviously wouldn’t do it if I didn’t get something out of it.  Maybe the thing I get out of it is that I get to be right.  You know?  I knew that it would happen, it happens, and then I get to be right.  Huh.  Maybe there is something to that silly old saying, “Do you wanna be right, or do you wanna be happy?”    

People, places, and things aren’t meant to stay the same.  That’s part of the reason it’s so much fun to savor the hell out of them while we have them.  And savoring the hell out life, partly because things aren’t always going to stay the same, is a hell of a lot of fun.  I’m just sorry that I’m learning this so late in life, when I could’ve learned it and savored so much more earlier on.

I think there’s a part of me that believes that I don’t deserve to be happy, because I always find myself thinking that something’s going to come along to disrupt my happiness.  But there’s a simple remedy for this too.  Just make happy with whatever comes along.  That way, nothing can ever disrupt the happiness.  Impossible?  Not really.  It’s just a decision.  And I know.  I’ve made happy with Autism.  And I’ve never personally encountered something more difficult to make happy with.

There was a time when I would’ve traded the Autism for absolutely anything else.  It hurt me that badly.  But today I wouldn’t trade the Autism for anything in the whole, wide world.  It’s the very thing that’s taught me how to let go, taught me how to savor life, and taught me how to make a whole lot of happy.  

My children are afraid of the mountains.  And this baffles me, because it’s honestly never even occurred to me to be afraid of the mountains.  But it makes sense, I suppose, as my children have essentially been raised indoors.  And it’s not that I don’t respect the mountains.  I mean, there are things, as you know, that one should definitely know.  But I want my children to know these things, and I don’t want them to be afraid, so I’ve been encouraging them to get outside.  And we’ve started by walking home from school each day.

My oldest son, Alden, used to be afraid of the sky.  I can’t remember why.  In fact, I didn’t even remember the fact at all until I was reminded of it the other day by a friend of mine after an eagle tried to make off with Alden on our way home from school.  “The eagle would grab the child that used to be afraid of the sky!” she exclaimed.

We live in a canyon where a river divides our block from the neighborhood school, so there’s always a lot of talk about the wildlife around here.  There are deer (“rats with legs” is how they’re referred to around here), mountain lions (that you never actually see of course), and bears (who apparently only come around in the fall because of the fruit trees).  

I had just learned that the latest incident with a mountain lion in this area (which wasn’t exactly something that I would’ve even called an “incident”) happened nearly eight years ago.  Therefore, I was telling Alden and Isabel (who are eight and nine years old now) how they could probably walk home from school in the afternoons by themselves (it’s the equivalent of about three blocks and there are always dozens of people walking around the area at that time) when I was suddenly hit in the face by feathers. 

This eagle had come down from behind us, silent as a ghost, so I hadn’t seen it coming.  It hit the side of my face with its feathers as it came over my shoulder, and then a couple of things happened at the same time. 

First of all, I startled and swung at the eagle (I didn’t mean to, I swear, it was a knee jerk reaction).  This startled the eagle, who had its talons out to grab Alden (I’ve got an awesome profile snap shot of it in my brain), but who lost its aim and only managed to grab one of Alden’s arms (which left quite the little scratch on the underside of his arm near his arm pit). 

It actually pulled Alden’s t-shirt upward for a second, which seemed to trip it up, before the poor thing hit the road, its claws scratching at the pavement as it tried to get back onto its feet.  Then it stood there for a split second, right next to Alden (and it was almost as tall as Alden himself), before it took off straight up.   

At that point I looked up.  There were several more of them circling right over our heads, and a couple more even higher up in the sky.  And they were screeching that high pitched screech that they make (which was unbelievably loud all of a sudden). 

I think it must’ve been a mother and some babies or something, because, as far as I know, eagles don’t traditionally hang out in flocks.  They were definitely eagles though (white heads, brown feathers, huge – I’ve seen them up close in zoos, but had never been so close to a wild one before).  And I would probably believe that this eagle had been chasing a squirrel or something that I just didn’t see if it hadn’t actually grabbed Alden’s arm.

“Never mind,” I said as they all flew away, “I’ll be walking you home from school every day.”

 “Okay, that freaked me out,” Alden said, “I don’t want to live in Missoula anymore.”

“Alden,” I said, “Do you know how lucky you are?  Nobody gets scratched by an eagle.  Ever.  It’s just not something that happens!  It’s got to be good luck.”

“Could it have carried me away?” he asked.

“No,” I smiled, “but it apparently thought it could’ve.”

It didn’t go after Isabel or Cale, I think, because they were right beside me, holding my hands.  I think it went after Alden because he was sort of off to the side of us.  I also think that this was one unusually ambitious bird.  A friend of mine said later, “It probably thought, ‘man, if I could pull this off, I wouldn’t have to hunt again for a month!’”

It was a little scary.  And fantastic.  And Alden, my boy who used to be afraid of the sky, went to school the next day and showed everyone his eagle scratch.  Nobody believed him though.

“See!” I told him, “Nobody believes you because it’s not something that happens.  You must be very lucky.”

“Yup,” he smiled.

And so am I.  

    

Mid-Life Joyousness

Have you ever read the book, or seen the movie, The Razor’s Edge?  In the beginning, the main character is living in a small town and has never really known anything else.  He has a group of close friends in this town, is engaged to be married to his sweetheart in this town, and has a safe, secure plan for his future in this town.  Before he can get married, however, he first has to fulfill his commitment to the military. 

He has to go off to war for a little while.  And, before he goes, when he talks about this, he almost treats it as though it’s a bit of a nuisance, or a minor inconvenience, to his plan.  He intends to return home afterwards, get married, and take a job with the company that’s owned by his fiancé’s family.  Then he and his wife will buy a house, have some kids, and barbeque on Saturday afternoons with all of their friends.  It’s a lovely plan.

We’re actually introduced to this character (if I remember right) just after he returns home from the war, and during which everyone is trying to figure out what has happened to him.  And the reader gets to experience, to some extent anyway, through the main character, what it’s like to come back to the familiarity of home, changed.

I don’t know that a person can experience a total upheaval of everything that’s ever held still, of everything that’s ever made sense, and of everything that that person’s ever been, and come out the other side of it unchanged.  Sometimes one has to be destroyed, I think, in order to find out what kind of person might be left standing afterward.

Even though everything in this character’s home town is exactly the same when he gets back, things feel different to him because he’s not the same.  He spends a fair amount of time wandering around quite dazed by this too.  And he eventually begins trying to remedy the situation by seeking spiritual inspiration in books.

His friends and fiancé give him a period of time in which to read his little books and “recover” from his war experience, but then they expect him to “snap out of it” and return to his original plan.  He can’t seem to explain to them, either, even though he tries, that he’s actually changed somehow.  And as he experiences all of this, he slowly comes to realize, much to everyone else’s distress, that his original plan is no longer going to work for him.  He ends up leaving his fiancé behind, leaving his whole life behind in fact, and heading out on a journey of discovery.

When we first moved back to my home town in Montana after being in Arizona for five years, my uncle asked me how I felt about being home again.  “I don’t know,” I answered, “But I think I feel a little bit like that guy in The Razor’s Edge.”

I’m not saying that living in Arizona was like being in a war.  It wasn’t.  I quite liked Arizona.  What happened to me, while I was living in Arizona, was that I had kids with Autism.  And I’m not saying that living with kids with Autism is like being in a war.  Well, maybe I am a little.  I mean, not being able to do the dishes, or brush your teeth, or leave the room for one second for any reason at all because your children might, at any moment, suddenly jump up, start screaming, and attempt to crack their own skulls on the hard, ceramic tile (my kids used to be head bangers, big time), probably isn’t as traumatic as being shot at every day.  But I’m really not sure what else to compare it to. 

I lived on red alert so much of the time for so long that my weekly trip to the grocery store, by myself, became the one and only thing that I looked forward to.  It was nothing less heavenly.  For a whole half an hour I wouldn’t have to listen to any screaming, or get hit the face, or have my hands crushed between someone’s head and the floor, or live with the knowledge that if I left the room for a moment, someone might die.  I’d wander around the grocery store, my brain snoozing happily on how various products are packaged, and feeling intensely grateful not to have to think about anything else for a little while. 

I loved those moments.  In fact, I grew to absolutely live for those moments.  And when I’d hear people complaining about the green beans not being on the right shelf, or about the clerk charging fifty cents too much for a loaf of bread, or about whatever else people tend to find wrong with living in paradise, I’d find myself genuinely amazed at the kinds of things that regular people get to fret over.  

My kids were head bangers for about two and a half years.  And one day, to my surprise, the head banging just stopped.  Well, actually, this took the implementation of a gluten/casein free diet for Isabel, and didn’t actually stop for Cale before the introduction of psychiatric medication.  But nobody ever cracked a skull.  The only permanent damage, in fact, is that Isabel has two discolored front teeth.  I asked the dentist, one time, what caused her two front teeth to become discolored, and he said, “Trauma.”

“Oh?” I asked.

“She probably hit her face on something at some point,” he answered.

“Yes,” I said, and I didn’t tell him just how many times she’s “hit her face on something.”

I also have one permanently swollen, arthritic knuckle (it got crushed between skulls and floors so many times that it eventually stopped bothering to try to heal).  But did I mention that nobody ever cracked a skull?  This is absolutely amazing.  In fact, I feel like an incredible mother because of it.  To this day, I have to concentrate on not rolling my eyes when I hear normal mothers talk about only feeling successful if their kids read for a certain number of minutes every day, or eat the occasional vegetable, or whatever.  I’m afraid that I still feel so successful, just that my kids survived the “head banging years,” that I regularly have to remind myself that my job isn’t done yet.

My kids still self-harm on occasion.  And I’m not entirely sure that that’s not just part of living with Autism.  Isabel still bumps her head on things sometimes when she’s upset, but she doesn’t do it very hard.  And Cale hits himself on the legs so hard, on a very regular basis, that it often leaves bruises.

I tell the kids’ psychiatrist about these things every time we see her (who tries to regulate these behaviors with medication), and I do my best to keep my kids from getting upset in the first place, thereby preventing them from harming themselves.  But I’m afraid that we’ve been living with these behaviors for so long now that I’ve given up hope of them ever stopping entirely.  I do, however, find immense gratitude in the fact that they’re no longer life-threatening.

During the “head banging years,” my husband and I couldn’t take our kids anywhere (for fear that somebody might make eye contact with our daughter and send her head straight into the concrete in a parking lot somewhere).  We also didn’t have help very often (his mom would babysit on occasion, but she only lived in Arizona during the winter months).  So, for sometimes months at a time, there really was no escape. 

There were no date nights.  There were no family bikes rides, or camping trips, or voyages to the ice cream shop for a change of scenery.  There was nothing what so ever besides our beige, tract house and our seemingly suicidal children – day after day, month after month, for two and a half years straight.  So, naturally, one of the things I got really into was day dreaming.

I used to dream, in between tantrums, about a cabin in the woods.  This cabin sat next to a river in the middle of a thick, mountain forest, so close to the trees that pine sap literally dripped right onto the roof.  And it was quiet.  Perfectly quiet, the only sound in the world being the low rush of the wind in the tree tops, and the roar of the water in the river going by.  I used to hang out there a lot, in my head.  And to this day, when I meditate, it’s still my favorite place to go.

Until recently, I’d never told my husband about this.  I think this is because it’s kind of an odd dream for me.  I mean, I’m one that loves art and architecture and hundred year old houses with moldings up to my armpits.  I’d rather look at Greek columns than stacked logs any old day of the week, yet when I’m in need of some sort of renewal, I find myself longing for pine trees.  Why is this? 

I think it requires going back a little further, that’s all.  My parents took my brother and me into the mountains constantly when we were growing up.  And my grandma had a cabin on her ranch at the edge of a forest that I had my very own little room in (well, that I claimed as my own anyway) – stacked log walls and all.  Those years were the best years.  And I’ve always secretly wished that my kids could have this kind of an experience too.  It’s a love that I developed long before the days of art and architecture and hundred year old houses.  It’s a raw, childhood love of the mountains.

I’m thirty eight years old now and my doctor has just recommended a hysterectomy.  Oh, I’ve got some medical issues – nothing to worry about.  And it’s not that I mind.  I’m so done having babies.  My plan was to have a hundred of them.  I would’ve done so too, if I’d made them normal.  But I don’t, so I don’t mind that it’ll no longer even be an option to have any more, ever again.  No more at all.  Not even one more.  Ever.  Ever.  Ever again.  Ever.

I sat in the doctor’s office looking at all the pictures of all the pregnant bellies and, at first, felt really sad.  But then I thought, why should I feel sad?  My husband is amazing.  My kids are amazing.  My life is amazing.  It’s a new season for me, that’s all.

Shane’s mom says that her forties were the best years of her life, a time in which she really came into her own.  And that’s how I want to feel too.

I’d dearly love to have a mid-life crisis.  I’d like to go on journey like the guy in The Razor’s Edge, or on an Australian walk-about, or head to Italy for a couple of months of pasta sampling, as a means of self-discovery of course, like the author of Eat, Pray, Love.  I mean, you have to admire people that can muster the guts to leave it all behind and go off someplace alone to make peace with God.  But just as deserving of admiration, in my opinion, are the people that choose to stay in their lives.

I could never leave.  I joke sometimes that I would leave my children if my husband would come with me, but that he would never leave them:)  The truth, however, is that I could never do without my children either.  My “journey of discovery” has been an internal deal so far, instead of an external one, which works just as well I might add.  An amazing thing has just happened however.

We’ve closed on our last house.  And while we were lying in bed one night, talking about whether or not to buy the one hundred and five year old house that we’re currently living in – the one with the arm pit height molding, the one in the historic neighborhood that I’ve quite literally spent my entire adult life trying to end up in, the one that fits so very perfectly into my original plan – my husband said to me, “Take ALL of the limits off your thinking and listen only with your heart.”

“Only with my heart?” I looked at him.

“Yes,” he answered, “Only with your heart.  Then tell me where you want to live.”

I had to think about it really, really hard for about half a second.  

“I’d live in the mountains somewhere,” I said.

Once the idea was in my head, I could not seem to shake it.  I eventually started praying about it.  I also started researching the public schools, and how they might be for kids with Autism in particular, in every town in Montana that has mountains (Red Lodge, Bozeman, Kalispell, etc.).  And, just the day before we took a trip to Missoula to visit some friends of ours, I reluctantly researched the Missoula County Public Schools (MCPS). 

I was never going to consider Missoula.  The reason?  It was because these friends of ours, who happen to be two of our oldest friends, moved to Missoula a couple of years ago.  But that’s not the offensive part.  The offensive part is that we were in Arizona for five years.  FIVE YEARS.  And they stayed here the entire time.  Then, the moment they found out we were moving back here, they moved there.

Is that sighing I hear?  Hey!  What do you mean the whole world doesn’t revolve around me?:)  

Okay.  Sure, they tried to talk us into moving to Missoula from Arizona instead of back here.  And sure, they’ve mentioned the fact that they’d like us to move to Missoula every time we’ve seen or talked to them for the past two years.  And sure, they make it tons of fun whenever we go visit.  They have all of their gorgeous friends over and make us feel so welcome and a part of.  And sure we miss them.  We’ve been away from them for far too long.  But still.  I was NOT going to give them the satisfaction (imagine me with my arms folded and my nose in the air – hmmph).  I clearly needed a diaper to go along with this attitude.

My research revealed that MCPS employs an Autism specialist (and I later found that they actually employ two).  I made an appointment with this Autism specialist, which we attended the moment we got to Missoula for our visit, and, to make a long story short, we were markedly impressed with the kinds of things going on in Missoula for kids with Autism.

I also made an appointment to look at a house while we were there – ONE house (I didn’t want to spend the entire weekend with our friends looking at houses, even though they jumped online the moment we told them we were considering moving there, and said, “Let’s find you a house!!”). 

On the way up to Missoula the day before, I had told Shane about my cabin in the woods dream.  He was surprised by it, to say the least.  Then I’d talked for a long time about how it wouldn’t be possible to live in a cabin in the woods with three kids to feed because they don’t put Costco stores in the middle of the woods.  He’d listened intently, not agreeing or disagreeing in any way.

This house is a little ways up a mountain valley, is actually in a neighborhood, and is located about ten minutes away from a Costco.  But it’s turned out to be a four bedroom, two bathroom, cabin in the woods – complete with stacked log walls, massive stone wood burning fireplaces (grandfathered in to be able host real fires), and one pine tree in particular that’s so close to the house that it undoubtedly drips pine sap onto the roof.  The place is so real, live cabin-in-the-woods-esk that it’s a tad kitschy even for my taste, but when I stepped outside onto the deck, guess what I heard (besides the low rush of the wind in the tree tops)? 

“Is that water?” I asked the lady showing us the property.

“Yes,” she said, “There’s a river over there (not close enough that I’d worry about Cale getting into it though).  It’s nice to be able to open all the windows in the mornings and listen to the water rushing by.”

That very same week, my mom got a job in a town near Missoula.  My mom hasn’t lived near her grandkids in several years now, and is incredibly happy to get to do so again.

My heart seems to have spoken.  We’re moving into that cabin next week (we’re just renting it, as it’s not for sale).  And notice that I said “my” heart.  Shane says that he got his turn when we moved to Arizona, but that it’s my turn now.  And I’m taking it.

I have no idea what’s going to come of this (other than the fact that we won’t be sinking all of our money into a hundred and five year old house that needs a hell of a lot more work than it first appeared to).  And I don’t really have any expectations of it, although I do have to wonder if there’s a reason for it.  Maybe it is about discovery.  You know?  Maybe it has something to do with my writing.  Or maybe I’ll be able to paint again (there’s a big, unfinished basement that’s perfect for a studio).  Maybe there’s something in particular to be learned from it.  Or maybe it’ll just be fun.

My favorite scene in The Razor’s Edge is when the Tibetan monk sends our character, along with all of his books, to the top of a mountain in the winter time.  As he’s sitting there, quite literally freezing to death in a blizzard and wondering why the monk would send him to die alone on the top of a mountain, he suddenly realizes that he has to burn his books in order to stay warm.  And he smiles.