staying on the mountain

Back in 1993, at the mangy tail-end of a 20-year marriage, I considered suicide as a means to end the relentlessly hopeless mess that our marriage had devolved into. Depression had me pinned to the mat, and I thought it couldn’t get any worse until I realized I didn’t even have the energy to plot my own demise. Now, that’s pathetic.

The marriage hadn’t started out mangy. Just like a dog who isn’t cared for, however, things kept sliding south. Two good people, former best friends, who now could barely tolerate the sight of the other, living in a state of cold, seething disgust. My mantra in those days was, “It has to be better to be dead, than live like this”. Yet, as I said, I couldn’t figure out how to take myself off this mortal coil, so, like an automaton, I kept putting one foot in front of the other and tried not to think too much.

That was a scary place. Dreading the thought of going home after work, dreading the inevitable encounter when he came home. I repeated my mantra dozens of times a day; it was the one thing that reminded me that I was alive. Then, one early summer’s day while watching television in the den, I became aware of an odd noise. I’d been hearing it for quite a while, but it hadn’t really registered. Heaving myself off the couch, (Depression had brought along its friend, Weight Gain), I went to investigate. The house had enormous windows in the dining room, which is where I found the noisemaker.

A hummingbird was fluttering up and down the glass, obviously trying to get outside to the green comfort and safety of the trees on the other side of the window. Quietly, I said, “If you’ll stop, I’ll pick you up and take you outside.” To my delight, as if he’d understood me, the hummer dropped to the windowsill and sat, unmoving. I gently cupped him in my hand and walked to the open kitchen door. The bird sat stone-still on my hand and I said, “It’s ok; you can go. You’re free–you can go.” Quickly, he flitted off into an evergreen tree across the driveway. I remained in the doorway, a bit stunned by the experience, and absorbing the words I’d just spoken to the hummingbird.

“It’s ok,” I told myself. “You can go…”

It was a good move. The lesson of the hummingbird was powerful, and to remind myself that strength and beauty, bravery and compassion can be soul mates, I got a tattoo of a hummingbird on my 40th birthday, that same year.

I did the often-difficult healing work, took an unflinching inventory of myself, honestly owned my former choices, and practiced peace and forgiveness.  Almost 12 years after my divorce, I met and fell in love with the man who is now my husband. He, too, had done his work and, four months after our first meeting, we were married in my parents’  yard.

Tiny bird.  Huge lesson.

I’ve worked with autistic children, Deaf children, at-risk children, and your basic, everyday, kid-next-door type children. Who’s ‘normal’? They all are.

Solid parenting includes the desire for our children to strive to reach their potential. If you are Jess, an autistic elementary-aged, cool as a cucumber guy, then your potential comes around and goes around, not unlike a roller coaster. One day reading an age-appropriate second-grade book is the height of your potential. And the next day, simply sitting at your desk is all you can achieve. That’s ‘normal’ for Jess. And, when you work with kids like Jess, you ride the roller coaster with them, understanding and accepting that uncertainty and frustration are part of their ‘normal’ process.

For Juan, a Deaf high school Junior, doing algebra in his head is at the top of his potential scale. Not knowing the sign names of vegetables is at the low end of the scale. That’s ‘normal’ for him, because he wasn’t given a language until he was in his early teens. When you work with Juan, remembering that language for a Deaf child is not incidental–it is crucial and must be taught–means that you are constantly on the lookout for a vocabulary lesson. Everything has a name. Rain isn’t just water–it is drizzle, downpour, deluge, mist, sleet. Feeding a Deaf child language is as ‘normal’ as feeding him lunch.

And kids like ‘Chihuahua’–a mid-teen gang-banger wannabe, whose idea of a good time is breaking into cars and jacking stereo systems–have a hard time fitting into a ‘normal’ high school without support. The police, courtrooms, probation, feeling afraid–those are ‘normal’ for Chihuahua. Working with this kid means having an abundance of patience, a firm idea for the importance of boundaries, and absolute, unconditional love. When you understand the circumstances from which he comes, then you understand why breaking and entering and gang-banging are a ‘normal’ part of his life. For him to begin to realize his true potential, he must be shown the relevancy of becoming a law-abiding citizen. What becomes ‘normal’ for him, then, is practicing good decision making, owning his actions, and learning to face his fears and doing the right thing, anyway. Something most ‘normal’ people do as a matter of course.

Normal. We benefit from not being compared to others, but by being encouraged to do our best. We become resilient by having solid, consistent support. We realize our potential when we are afraid, but try anyway. That’s normal. We should all try it.

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