It Happened!

"We all have our own life to pursue, 

our own kind of dream to be weaving...

And we all have the power to make wishes come true, 

as long as we keep believing."  

--Louisa May Alcott

Last Friday, after years and years of trying, five different bicycle camps, three different bicycles and a whole lot of wondering if it ever would happen...Patrick rode a bike.

He didn't just ride it for a short distance. He's been able to do that for awhile.  

He rode it for three miles...out on a green belt, to a duck pond and back.

He came home sweaty and wiped out...but he came back a bike rider.

Hot and sweaty...still needs to get home...but a bike rider none-the-less.

In his mind, during that ride, he made the leap.

He jumped over the mental hurdle.

He now believes he is a bike rider.

He feels it.  He knows it.

He freakin' did it!

When he rode up to our house,  I ran out the front door clapping and cheering and crying like the guy had just won MVP at the Superbowl and we were going to Disneyland.

I was jumping, hugging him, holding him by the shoulders and telling him so loud 

and so over-the-top how proud I was that he had done it.

He got that small, shy smile that they all get.

You know the one.

The smile is one part: 

"Hell yes. I know. I did it.  I'm awesome."

another part: "Still trying to wrap my head around it...hey, wait, I did it."

mixed in with a smidge of "It's really no big deal, don't know why you're freaking out."

He got embarrassed that I was making such a big deal about it.

Our neighbor who is Mr. Gruff, Let-Me-Ignore-Those-Crazies-Next-Door, actually walked across the street 

and shook Patrick's hand.

I swear that Patrick can thaw even the coldest of hearts.

It was another awesome cherry on an already huge sundae.

Sarah, Patrick's amazing aide and personal friend to all of us Forakers, was the one who helped seal the bike riding deal.

You see, when you're 14 and you know your mom wants you to really do something, you can't help it, you push back.  

It's just in your teen-age DNA to refuse.

So, I couldn't be a part of it.at all.

Even though I really wanted to in my interfering-mom-knows-best way.

I had to hand it off, like the proverbial baton at the Olympic trials, and let her run.

The chick knows how to motivate.

She used every tactic available.

Donuts, music, cheerleading, videoing, deal-making...but mostly, her own belief that he could and would do it.

Day after day throughout the summer they practiced.

Day one was rough.

He couldn't get his balance.

He couldn't fit the bike.

He didn't believe he could do it...and so he didn't.

But, like the faithful friend she is, she just kept at it.

Kept encouraging.

Kept nudging.

Kept pushing...farther and farther.

Before we knew it, he started making the mental shift.

He started telling her that he could go further.

He started showing off.

She could no longer run beside him...she needed a bike too.

And that was the day they just rode and rode -- all the way out to that duck pond.

Yesterday, Patrick in the early morning suggested that we ride our bikes to school.

I smiled.

How do I say no to that?

He's still wobbly on the take off.

He still needs waaaaaay more practice with riding on the street and navigating traffic and other distractions...but he can do it.

Now all he needs are just hours under the belt.

Because now he believes.

He is a bike rider.

And we all know that being a bike rider is way more than having a new way of getting from Point A to Point B.  

Patrick got a little more freedom last Friday.

He got a ticket to expanding his world.

Just like the gift of learning to read, riding a bike affords him a little more independence and a whole new way of seeing the world.

I've been steeped in a full, grateful heart all week.

What can you say to someone who helped your child in such a profound way?

What can you give them to show your appreciation??

I gave her the only thing I had to give: my tears and my full heart.

I looked her in the eyes and told her that the day her first child rides a bike, maybe, just maybe, she will understand what she has helped to give Patrick.

But for now, all I can do is surround her with my love and appreciation every single time I go for a ride with Patrick.

I live in a bike riding town.  

You can bet that I'll be riding with Patrick all over the place...

each time I will send some sunshine Sarah's way -- she'll feel it.

I know it.

So today I'm grateful for two blessings: Patrick's own determination and ability to just keep trying...

no matter how many times it didn't work.

And I'm grateful for Sarah's enthusiasm, her coaching, and her perseverance through some 

hot, tiring days that looked awfully bleak.

Together they made it happen.

Unbelievable what friendship, faith and determination can do.

They make quite a team.

Building A Door

"If opportunity doesn't knock, build a door." -- Milton Berle

Last Saturday night I had a dream come true. 

It isn't often that something that you have been thinking about for years and creating in your mind takes place, but last Saturday night that's what happened.  We had a Dinner Under the Stars in our backyard.  We set out tables of eight and put on white table cloths. We had someone fill vases of flowers with gerbera daisies and sunflowers.  We had a chef create delicious treats and we paused our busy lives and said thanks.

The universe seemed to be in on the action too.  The weather cooperated with a lovely cool night.  The sunset went down with its typical, breath-taking beauty.  The stars came out and danced and decorated the night sky.  

Last Saturday night, I had the joy to formally thank, out loud and in person, two people who helped build a door, 

Father Dan Looney and Mary Kay Bolz.

Do you know why it's blurry?  My hand was shaking...that's what happens when a dream is coming true!

When Patrick was born, one of the very first things that broke my heart was the idea that he wouldn't be able to be a part of Jack and Mary Kate's world at school.  I thought that because he had Down Syndrome he would be automatically excluded from attending the Catholic school that was such a huge part of our lives.  I felt the feeling of isolation and exclusion almost immediately and I cried for Patrick.  I cried for Jack and Mary Kate and I cried for all the others who had been excluded before us.  I could feel the deep sadness of being an outsider and wanted an opportunity to belong.

When Patrick was just days old, we attended mass.  We were reeling from the news that Patrick not only had Down Syndrome but that he would need open heart surgery within just a few weeks.  We were scared and sad.  We tried to go through the motions of our old life but we knew that it was just that...we had crossed a bridge and our life would be forever different.

Guess who met us outside of church?  Guess who held tiny baby Patrick...held him close, looked into his eyes...saw his beauty and acknowledged it?  Guess who gave him a blessing -- simple and from the heart -- right there outside of mass on a sunny, hot July day?  Yes, that dear man in the picture above, Father Dan.  I remember hot tears in my eyes and the beauty of acceptance. I am forever grateful...and let's not even talk about John's love and appreciation of that moment.  I know for him that was a salve and a healing that will be with him forever.

As Patrick grew, the feeling of being excluded from school led me to search online in the hope that maybe others had been included in their local Catholic schools.
Turns out, they had.
I linked up with nationwide groups like the Network of Inclusive Catholic Educators.  I found out about FIRE and REACH and a whole host of other small groups working toward including people with disabilities in the classrooms and in the religious education classes of Catholic churches all over the United States.  There are pockets of inclusion in Sioux Falls, South Dakota; Miami, Florida; Phoenix, Arizona; Minneapolis, Minnesota; Kansas City, Missouri; Charleston, South Carolina and Los Angeles, California.

It was happening all over the country.

So, Father Dan, the pastor of St. James parish, and Mary Kay Bolz, the principal of St. James School,  took a leap of faith.  Together they allowed Patrick the opportunity of becoming a student at St. James.  When I asked Mary Kay if she wanted me to write a note to the parents of the kindergarten class about Patrick I will never forget her words: "No, Beth, that's not necessary.  You see, I want them to come talk to me.  I want them to look me in the eye and tell me how Patrick being in that class will be a problem for their child.  Bring it on."

Turns out that no one ever felt the need to approach Mary Kay.  The parents in Patrick's class have been nothing but supportive, encouraging and welcoming, always.
The Dinner Under the Stars was for them too.

And for the teachers.  God bless the teachers...the ones who actually had to navigate the uncharted territory of full inclusion.  The ones who had to deal with the everyday glitches.  The ones who had to make the phone call and troubleshoot. And it was for Bev, our school secretary, who has been in on more than her fair share of various forms of Patrick illness and Patrick's lovely sense of time and slowing down the journey.  I don't want to total up the number of tardies she has written for my son...but it's plenty.

But the Dinner Under the Stars was also for other parents of children with disabilities.  It was for other teachers at other schools, other administrators and other angels who believe in this mission even if they have nothing to personally gain from it.  They are the cheerleaders and the encouragers.  It was for them too.  It was a chance to look over the road we have travelled and a chance to see the road ahead of us.

The door has been opened for Patrick but that's not the end of the story.  There are other doors to be built.  Other doors to open and other people waiting to cross through the threshold.  It's up to us to widen the entrance.  It's up to us to hold out our hands and welcome them.  It's up to us to let them know that inclusion may be scary and uncomfortable but it is never pointless.  It is never a waste of time to include those on the fringes....isn't that whole point of being Catholic?

So, while I got to stop and say thanks to two amazing trailblazers, we aren't by any means done.  We have many, many more families to include and welcome and plenty of students who wish for the same opportunity.  It's up to us to point the way and keep walking the path.

 And, to the many whose shoulders I have stood on in this journey who could not be at the Dinner Under the Stars, please know you were in my heart.  Angie Quissell, Kevin Baxter, Lilly Rangel Diaz, Cindy May, Dave Perry and countless others -- you were there.  You were sparkling and shining.  You were a part of something that I hope keeps growing and thriving and becomes a full-on paradigm shift within Catholic education.
Keep shining.  Keep building doors.  Keep at it.
We're not done.

Tender Mercies

"Happiness isn't complicated.  

It is a humble state of gratitude for simple pleasures, tender mercies, recognized blessings, and inherent beauty." 

-- Richelle E. Goodrich

Today was a happy day.  

It included nothing expensive...in fact, it was free.  It was filled with inherent beauty that's for sure.  

Simple pleasures were abundant.

I counted more than several blessings and one tender mercy..but that's a story for later.

In my local paper I had read about a man who grows two acres of zinnias and offers them free to anyone who can pick them.  His one caveat: for every bouquet you pick for yourself, you must pick another one and leave it at the zinnia patch.  The bouquet left behind is for someone who cannot pick it for themselves -- maybe they are in the hospital or a nursing home.  The farmer has the pick up and drop off all lined up.  All you have to do is fill the empty vase...with his freshly picked flowers.

Like some sort of Bobby Flay "Throw Down", a proposal like that is irresistible.

We set off for the zinnia patch.

Anyone know California's state motto?  Eureka!
(aka: We found it!)

We picked.  We wandered.  We stared at the wildlife that hangs out in a flower patch: hummingbirds, spiders, lizards, butterflies, dragonflies...the list goes on and on.
We gathered zinnias and then gathered some more.
We marveled at the varieties.

We were all alone in a patch of flowers...thanks to one man's joy in simple pleasures.
And who exactly is that simple pleasure for?
Me? A mother looking for something fun to do during the summer?
My kids? Who need waaaaaaaay more time spent wandering flower patches, exploring nature and being in the quiet outdoors.
My sister? Who was looking for a place to hang out with her kids.
Her kids? Who love to explore.
Maybe it's the people who are going to get our extra bouquet...stuck in a hospital room or nursing home with a burst of the beautiful outdoors gracing their room.
Maybe it's for all of us...just sprinkling a little more beauty in our needy world.
That's the power of an act of kindness.  It just doesn't stop.
My bouquet gracing my kitchen table just puts my whole family into a zinnia kind of mood: vibrant, joyful, sparkly, unstoppable.  We can't help but smile...and stop and admire their beauty.

How about this beauty?

Just waiting to be picked...just beggin for a home.

I have to admire someone so willing to decorate our world...one zinnia at a time.  It challenges me to think of ways to do the same.  It reminds me of simple joys and the grace that surrounds us every single day.

Today's clouds...trying to decide which kind they were...fluffy, feathery or maybe stormy all in the same sky.

So...we got home, played florist and placed each flower in a hypnotic way into our vase and away we went.  I picked up Patrick from his play practice.  I filled my tank up with gas.  I noticed my tire was low.  So, I attempted to put air in it and I failed.  Thinking it was the air machine (it couldn't be me, could it??) I went to another gas station and tried again.  This time the tire pressure gauge was not kidding, my tire was low, really low.  I attempted to put air in again and wound up somehow letting more air out.  Can you say...really sad.

I looked up and there walking right by me was a young guy.  He was clearly on his way somewhere and moving fast.  I reached out and asked him if he knew how to put air in a tire.
Kindly, he stopped.  He didn't just do it for me, he took the time to teach me, sharing his technique of pulling the hose way out and tucking it under his foot to keep it steady. He filled my tire...checked in with me...warned me about over-filling my tires and then was on his way.
A tender mercy.
A stranger...crossing paths for only moment...but making a difference with his kindness and care.

So today was a boring old summer day.
Filled with zinnia pizzaz, kind guys willing to fill up low tires, sunshine and the freedom of summer.
Who loves summer? Yep, me...big time.
What have been your spots of sunshine this summer?

This Day

"People usually consider walking on water or in thin air a miracle.  But I think the real miracle is not to walk either on water or in thin air, but to walk on earth.

Every day we are engaged in a miracle which we don't even recognize: 
a blue sky, white clouds, green leaves, the curious eyes of a child -- our own two eyes.
All is a miracle." 
                                            --Thich Nhat Hanh

A few days ago a thirteen year old was having fun at a family summer camp with her entire family and some cousins and friends...within a few hours she was dead, in her father's arms...from a peanut allergy.
Honestly, it just doesn't get any more heartbreaking than that.

I've been thinking about her.
I've been looking at my children differently since I heard that story.
I've been noticing the tiny details of this day and recording in my mind its precious presence.

How many days do we have??

None of us know.
So we go around pretending that we have an infinite supply.

Or we freak out and hover and can barely breathe through the thought that someone we love will die.

***
Let me tell you a side story right here...when I was newly married, I had the summer off so I wasn't working but John was.  Off he would go in the early morning and when he would leave and I could feel his absence I would just cry and cry.  Why?  Because I was scared, really scared.  I suddenly knew, without any doubt, that if something were to happen to John I would be devastated.  I couldn't be distant from that vulnerability.  It stared me in the face every day he went off to work.
I felt the same intense vulnerability when Jack was born.  There was no shrugging off this connection -- what was I going to do??
I had to find a way to accept the gift of marriage and motherhood without drowning in the vulnerability of it.  The only way I found to do that was to really pay attention to the moment I was in.  Trying to outwit the future was impossible.
***

Is there an in between...a happy medium?
Can we find a way to cherish today and not get overwhelmed by the mundane and the monotonous?
Without a doubt.

We have to notice it.
We have to abandon the to-do list and let the day flow.
We need to find a space for silence.
We need to experience the moment and then cherish it.
We need to listen...to music, to others, to the people we love...really listen.
We need to notice the light, the leaves, the sigh of the dog, the blossom on a tree or
the tiniest snail making its way.

Those iridescent snail trails are one of the most magical things just littering our daily life!

All of it is there for us to notice...just waiting for us to accidentally stumble over its beauty.
And I do mean stumble...over the legos, the Barbie shoe, the random marker cap, a grape, a blob of sunscreen...it's all there.
But in that "there" is the good stuff.
The proof of family, of people to love or work that means something to us.
It's connections and seeing things a new way.
It's learning and growing and finding that moment of peace.

It's there. Today. Right now.
The scent of roses or coffee or your husband.
It's in the juicy bite of a peach, the salt and pepper deliciousness of a ripe tomato, the incredible poetry of fresh basil.

It's in the satisfaction of a newly swept kitchen floor.
Or a stack of folded clothes.
Or a plant that finally decided to take root.

It's all around us...just waiting for us to acknowledge the gift.
Just waiting for us to open it.

My latest reminder...waiting by my front door.

Let's not bank on the extra days ahead.
Let's make this a day to remember.

Found this sign in a bathroom (of all places!)  of an awesome restaurant, Mama D's in Newport Beach, CA.
and if you go, order the pink sauce!

What do you do to make the most of this day?
Please tell me how you find the magic in each day?

He's Going To Go Too

"Sometimes, when one person is missing,

the whole world seems depopulated." --Lamartine

Haven't seen this sleepy face in 5 days...but who's counting.

                                 When Patrick was born I was by myself at my six week check up with my ob/gyn. 

                                   I was feeling ridiculously fragile...already cracked and just waiting to spill out.

My baby had Down Syndrome.  He also had a heart defect that would require open heart surgery within weeks.
My world was rocked.

I kept having this direct conflict with the world around me.  I would look down at my new baby and see nothing but a new baby: delicious in his fresh-from-the-heavens newness; glorious with his tiny feet and smooth new hair and sleepy face.

But the world would keep pointing out his flaws:
Do you see his extra space between his big toe and the rest of his toes?
That's a marker for Down Syndrome.
Do you feel how "floppy" he is?
Another sure sign.

Of course, I could see none of these things.
I was a mother with a brand new baby...he looked perfect to me.
Yes, he did have a droopy eye lid...but that was as far as my nit picking could go.
And, like all new mothers, I loved every tiny morsel of him -- droopy eyelid and all.

So, there I am at my six week check up for myself and my doctor doesn't really know what to say.
It's an awkward space...me with my baby that doesn't make the mark and she with her obvious pity and bias against him.
She summons up some effort to speak and she tells me this:
"Well, you have two other children and you know the good thing about this is that this baby will never leave you and well, you know the other two will."

I'm horrified.
Me, the one who can chat with just about anybody.  The one who can make a quick reply to weirdos or bullies -- all I have is silence.

Actually, I had a screaming, yelling, out-of-control freak in my head
but cultural norms and expectations kept me quiet.
In my head my brain was coursing through options and setting aside disgust.
First there was the distaste of Patrick's reality -- shit, people really will expect him to do nothing but sit at home with me.
Second, came the outrage -- who the hell are you to limit my kid and expect that he will never leave??
Lastly, there was deep sadness -- maybe she knew the truth.
Maybe, with her doctor's education and her intensive training, maybe she knew something that I didn't.
Maybe she was right and having him by my side for the rest of my life was an unexpected blessing
and as good as it was going to get.
Her words weedled their way into my heart.
And, like a splinter, I could feel the calvary come out and begin to push it aside.

Hell no.

This kid was going to have his own life.
I was not going to define his future at a few weeks old.
He was going to get every chance the other two got and then we would figure it out.

*****

Flash forward fourteen years.
Patrick still has a droopy eyelid.
He has freckles and a very light dimple.
 He has a spirit that is simply radiant...and plenty of opinions.
He's an adventurous eater.
He loves Broadway musicals.
He has a wicked memory and often memorizes whole scenes or entire scripts quickly and easily.
He is funny and creative and gentle and interesting.
He is always ready to go.
He can't wait to get his driver's license.  He is itching for a paying job.
He is planning his life after high school and trust me, I'm not part of it...at.all.

That prediction oozing with subliminally low expectations was so far wrong that I secretly wish I could cross paths with that ob/gyn and have her glimpse my world.
But that's the problem with searing memories.
They only usually blaze bright for one person...the other person has long forgotten some side conversation that had no real meaning for them.

Five days ago, I dropped Patrick off at sleep away camp.  He's on his own for a week.
No communication.
No singing from his room any number of melodies from Annie, Wicked, Hairspray, Beauty and the Beast or Peter Pan.

It's quiet around here...real quiet.

I find myself missing his good morning, very sleepy visits.  I miss his voice.  His laugh.  His imaginative games that he plays with Caroline. I miss his teen angst and his daily texts of "I love you" that sprinkle my day ever since he got a cell phone for his birthday.

I miss his spirit and his light.
And, even though I have been hoping to stick it to that OB and prove to her that Patrick would have a life of his own...
the truth of his life, most definitely of his own making, is staring me in the face.

He's going to go too.

It might look different.  It might not be that far away.
But he is never going to feel happy sitting at home with me.
That much is clear.

He tells me routinely that he wants to live in Boston.
He wants to take his wife to Hawaii for their honeymoon.
He wants to teach young kids drama in school.

I don't hear the word "mom" in those plans really anywhere.

Like some preview to a major motion picture, I know what's coming.
Patrick will find his way and have a future of his own...very likely I won't be living with him.
It seems quite possible that I may be in another town.

He has dreams and hopes for a future just like anyone else --
and like any other parents,  John and I will work to support him in those efforts.

He has a life to live.
Like my other kids, I only have a finite amount of time with him in my daily life too.

There is joy and a thrilling sense of adventure in that picture of the future.
But, there's going to be a great big hole left gaping open too.

I'm going to worry about that later.

Right now, I'm going to check over the directions of where to pick him up in a couple of days.
I'm going to listen to stories on the way home and notice all the tiny ways he's gotten a bit bigger in this week away.

I'm going to cherish the view of his big smile and relish his huge hug.
I have about 36 hours to go -- I can't wait.

Look...a fragment of eternity

"I'm saying look, here they come, pay attention. 

Let your eyes transform what appears ordinary, 
commonplace, into what it is, 
a moment in time,

an observed fragment of eternity." 

-- Philip Levine

Caroline -- age 7

Sometimes you look at them and they take your breath away.

What is your normal, routine, just humming along gig becomes frozen in a moment 

and the beauty dazzles you.  

It is exquisite.

You feel suddenly breathless.

You squish it into that memory place hoping it will stick.

You pause enough to really feel and know this "fragment of eternity" and then 

in a whisper of time it has vanished.

There's no capturing it.

Just as quickly as it landed, like a butterfly miracle, the moment has moved on into the sea of next moments and new thoughts or needs or things that must be done.

Today I had one.

I looked up at her with her black spot of missing baby tooth, summer streaks of light in her hair, enveloped in the shade of crocodile green leaves pausing for that moment to give me the 

yes-I-can-climb-this face, and I snatched it right up.

Summer's ordinary blessing of time at a park.

Climbing, playing, exploring and investigating this amazing world.

Plucking trumpet flowers off of vines.

Swinging and sliding and jumping and reaching new places.

All in one moment, it crescendoes. 

I notice.

I wrap my heart around it.

Thank you is all that can come out of that moment.

Thank you for her and for parks and friends and good health and for the will and wonder to climb and thank you for letting me be here right now, in this place, to notice.

Thank you.

Blessings

"A blessing is a circle of light drawn around a person to protect, heal and strengthen."    -- John O'Donohue

Tonight we schlepped our way through 4th of July traffic and the 105 degree heat to a nun's house.

To be honest, I didn't really even know that nuns or sisters or women religious just live in regular old houses on regular old streets. Turns out they do.

 (I think I'd love to have a house full of sisters in my neighborhood...but that's for another day.)

We walked in late and sweaty and hassled.  We found a group of young women, including Mary Kate, getting ready to go on a trip.  We had parents and siblings there to support them.  Teachers and some women who had gone last year were there to share in this moment.  We had the wonderful teacher who founded the non-profit foundation that is the vehicle to our girls' journey to helping others and
we had Sister Maria.

She opened up her home.

She blessed our girls.

Well, actually, she provided the thoughts, prayers and beauty behind the ceremony that became The Blessing.  She gave the parents the privilege of actually blessing our daughters.

First she reminded us of our many blessings of living in a first world country.

70% of the world lives without electricity, running water, healthcare and most of the time not enough food to eat.
70% -- that alone is a stunning number.

Then she went through the difficulties parents in the third world face.  The lack of time to love and care for their children because parents are working so hard to meet the basic needs of survival.  The lack of opportunity...not to mention the shorter life span...
just by having the misfortune to live in their country instead of ours.

Yeah, made the 105 temp not seem like such a biggie...or the traffic...or the hassle of juggling jobs and kids to get to the place...

Then Sister Maria handed us a piece of paper with some prayers and some blessings.

The girls stood in a circle facing out toward their parents.
We faced them.

Seeing my daughter staring at me with an embarrassed smile and a "hurry up" vibe made me, like a small child, want to do the opposite.

I wanted to linger over her eyes and ears as I dipped my fingers in water and blessed her clarity of vision and her ability to hear the truth.

Using a cotton ball dipped in oil, I rubbed her forehead and palms, blessing her thoughts, asking her to be filled with wisdom, and then blessing the work of her hands...asking that they become healing and compassionate.

We took a tiny muffin cup of salt and rubbed her feet.  Reminding her that she is the salt of the earth.  Asking that she walk steadfastly, gently and with reverence upon the earth.  The blessing asked the girls to "never leave a footprint of worry" and to always walk humbly with God.

Finally, the girls were handed a candle of Our Lady of Guadalupe.  We lit their candles and watched the light fill up the room.  I noticed the glow on her face.
I took a deep breath.
The girls were reminded that they are the light of the world.  One does not light a lamp and then put it under a basket.  Rather it is placed on a stand, where it gives light to a house.
In this same way, the girls' light must shine.

Even though they were in a circle, we were each in our own little world...stopping and taking in the beauty of our daughters...

their bright eyes
their keen mind
their big heart
their bright light.

In a little over twenty-four hours we will be sending that big heart off.
Off to Belize.

While she is away, we will light her candle.
We will bless her from afar.
We will hold her close and hold our breaths as she journeys out into this amazing world.

She's been blessed.
We have too.

Sister Maria, for the record, you rock.