Downright Joy

Discovering joy in unexpected places – a journey into Down's syndrome, Dyspraxia & Autism

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Trampling Through Tulips

Photo by Marija Zaric on Unsplash

For those of us well versed in all things Down’s syndrome related, we are likely very familiar with the poem ‘Welcome to Holland’ (You can read about it here if you’ve not come across it). 

Perhaps it was handed to us as new parents around the birth of our baby; a child born carrying an additional chromosome.  Or perhaps we stumbled across it as we trawled the internet searching for answers to allay new found fears and uncertainties in those early days of parenthood.

It’s a poem that divides opinion in our community, but this isn’t a post about its virtues or its vices. If anything, I’m Team Italy…mostly because of my family connections with a country that has long had my heart for many decades. So, Welcome to Holland did little for me when I was introduced to it some 14 years ago, but it still has its place for others, I cannot deny.

In reality, neither my experiences of the Italian way of life, or my understanding of how the Dutch operate bear much resemblance to where and how I actually live, as the parent of a teen with Down’s syndrome and complex needs.

Mamma Mia! 
The tulips round my way are long past their best.

No. Instead, I find myself residing here, in Suburbia, living at Wit’s End. Brought here on the Sleepless Night (after night) Bus, without it seems, a return ticket. Hopping on and off along the way to search for answers to this month’s health dilemmas. No, I’m wrong…..searching first for an appointment to look for answers to this month’s health dilemmas. Trying doors that say “Welcome” or “Open” only to find them cruelly locked from inside. I think, on occasion, I may have imagined the sound of laughter from within. 

And so here I am, living at Wit’s End. Carrying little else but the complex needs of my disabled child. Bags still hopefully packed with my dreams for her life. For our lives. 

Yet it’s here, not in Holland or Italy, that I find, in fact, I’m not alone. If I thought the centuries old, cobbled back alleyways of my beloved Sorrento were crowded with fellow travellers, it’s nothing to this place. It’s not very Instagrammable though, this Wit’s End. I’ll give you that.

But it’s here we gather. Each bringing our own stories of how we got here, of who would not listen to us, of who dismissed our fears or rubbished our requests for help. Telling each other stories of how many times our loved ones (and us as care givers) were failed, ignored, mistreated, maligned.

You would be forgiven for thinking that Wit’s End is the most depressing place on earth. 

And yet it is here I find my community. I find those who reached this destination long before I did, and are ready to welcome me into their homes, to explore their hive-minds, share their lives filled empathy, understanding, compassion, humour and so much more. Here I find, almost without fail, someone who will ask me “Have you thought about this…?” Or “What about trying this, it worked for us.”

It’s here, in the village of Wit’s End, I’ve found people who want to know and understand my child, and me. I’ve found Complex Carer Nurses, I’ve found parents of children with Down’s syndrome and or other conditions and complex needs. I’ve found other Wit’s Enders ready to make me laugh and not take myself so seriously. Quick to bring perspective, a joke, a slice of cake and a cup of coffee. There is, I’ve found, an end- less supply of Wit to be found here and I am eternally thankful for it. Heck, in my neck of the woods there is even our own Farm …a place with those ready to share our load and give us respite from our travels!

One of the most beautiful things I found about the Italian way of life, aside from the art, the architecture, the scenery, the beautiful weather, the food…..I could go on……is how much they know each other and are known by each other.  The sense of community there, I’ve always felt, is to be envied by us more insular Brits. But perhaps my beloved Italian culture is closer to my own experiences than I think.

Being known and heard is everything when you are a carer to a child (young or old) with complex needs and disabilities.  I may have been driven on many occasions to Wit’s End by circumstances and by not being seen or known. Yet when each time I arrive, without fail, I find friendship, laughter, hope and comfort that I am not alone.

Welcome.


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Between A Rug And A Hard Place

Dear Church,

I tried to alert you to what you were missing.
Your curiosity, at least, made some of you turn around and look, check your pockets even, to see what of value you had dropped.
But perhaps you could not miss that which you never truly believed you needed.
Now you are the ones who are missing.
And as one who holds out this treasure, I am filled with sadness, pity and compassion, for you.

I tried to tell you who you are missing.
Deep down, I believe some of you have noticed the void in your midst.
But your programme of possibilities is thrown, rug like, over her puzzling space.
Fully occupied by other valuable and precious causes,
Whilst sweeping her, and others, once more from your view.

I tried to tell you it’s you who are missing.
Missing more than you can ask for or imagine.
Missing belonging, missing beloved-ness,
Missing a blessing that has nothing to do with ease.
Grace that will find its way to bless another, regardless.

This post was inspired by a book I read recently by Micha Boyett, (author, speaker and, like me, a parent of a child with Down syndrome)
The book is called ‘Blessed are the rest of us: How Limits and Longings Make Us Whole’ and I found myself profoundly moved and challenged by it.
Thank you, Micha.


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Silent Disco

Photo by Bozhin Karaivanov on Unsplash

Who saw you today?

Not on the pages of an inclusive advert, or some clever marketing campaign.
Profits helped along by an investment of virtue signalling.
The ahhh factor leaves a sense of pride, of doing good.
Progress none the less, positive images welcomed by most, including me.
No criticism, no envy, there’s room for us all, and all of us are needed, ultimately.

Not on the pages of social media, as we scroll, pause and smile for a few brief moments to notice difference and give it a like.
Nor in the sound bites and platitudes of an inspirational news story or televised fundraising event.
Down’s syndrome mentioned to the masses in the same breath as your name.
As if your difference it isn’t obvious from your photo and therefore necessary to firmly and quickly affix.

In a digital age it seems to me that these are the places you are most definitely wanted.
Needed even.
Increasingly so.
I’ve wanted this too, and many I know who work tirelessly hard to bring this about, for reasons of good.
Yet, the varying motivations for wanting or needing this exposure seem, at times, to compete, and end up blocking you entirely from view.

Were you routinely seen today in the park, or the mainstream school or the cafes, restaurants or bars?
Or in the Church or the shopping centre, or the swimming pool?
How about the Pharmacy, or the Dentist’s waiting room, or when queuing for a bus?
Will you one day be seen at the Jobs fair, or the college open day; are these places even open to you?
Your kind of diversity seems to do best in a photo opportunity; contained within (Facebook) borders that have yet to be crossed into a new way of life that is good for us all.

Did anyone, aside from your teacher, see your Monday morning joy-face as you entered the classroom of your Special School today?
Or hear your laughter at the same point in the same song we sing together every day?
Did anyone see you fall silent last summer when your world shrank a little more and, for a few months, you rarely left the house?
Did they get to share in your delight as you danced in the living room for the hundredth time to Daydream Believer?
You danced like no one was watching: you’d do the same even if they were – a silent disco isn’t the place for you.

Are you needed by society? Definitely.
Are you wanted by society? Yes, but only to a degree.
I’ve noticed you are routinely missing from it, yet, it appears, you are not routinely missed.
Except by those precious humans in our lives who hear for themselves the music you play and collect the colours you bring; they make sure that you are never unseen.
And, except by me.

For the “foolish” things of God have proven to be wiser than human wisdom. And the “feeble” things of God have proven to be far more powerful than any human ability.

(1 Corinthians 1 v 25 The Passion Translation)


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Procession

Photo by Rob Tarren Photography

I walked alongside you, guiding you down the aisle.

Ribbon Girl.

An honour I never dreamt I’d be given. Through a sea of Faces who, quite rightly, were looking at you, not me. An unconventional Bridesmaid, no floaty dress or flowers to hold. You would have thrown those away in seconds. Your entrance had an air of tumultuous serenity as you stomped your way to the front, heavy footed, row by row.

You did not know why you were there, but knowing why has never really mattered to you. You are so often content to just be in the moment; especially when those moments are surrounded by this much care, this much thought, this much love. You even paused in your ceremonial duties; stopping to observe an unfamiliar but friendly, smiley, beaming Face.

It’s a Tea Pot kind of face, not a Coffee Pot Face.

There are no long, drawn out frowns here today. This strangest of journeys is filled with Tea Pot Faces that beam achingly wide, from handle to spout. Tears, of course….but none sorrowful.

I tug at your sleeve, prompting you to take a few more steps. Bridesmaids are supposed to keep moving, not hold up the procession. You have not reached the end of the aisle yet, and there are more Faces to look into as you expertly wave your ribbons of ivory and green. Ribbon waving is a serious occupation, and you are well practised in this art.

You glance with some puzzlement into the Faces of those who know you well and the Faces of those who don’t. Faces of those who have heard all about you many times from those who love you dearly; notably on this occasion, the Bride and her Groom. They have honoured you amongst their friends without realising; in every conversation, every photo shared, every story of you that they have so fondly and often told. There is no advocacy superior to this.

These are Faces that do not display any expressions of prejudice they may once have worn, before they heard about you.

These are Tea Pot Faces, not Coffee Pot Faces.

Smiling at you, beaming at you. They do not frown at you with long, pitying glances or worse, stares. We’ve been in those processions too. Neither do they watch you from behind a camera lens, capturing this precious moment and missing it at the same time. They have been asked to enjoy the occasion without such distractions. You, of course, do not need to be asked.

These are Faces turned in readiness to welcome you.

It hasn’t always been this way. Scrutiny has followed you since before you were born, its motives not always for your best. I am glad when the cameras are put away, for only then can you truly be seen for who you really are.

You reached the end of the aisle. Your wheelchair waiting to give rest to your braced ankles and feet. Relieved of your duties, still you clutched your ribbons. You would need these later, at the Wedding Disco, where you would show the Faces how to wave them too, with much joy. You always have plentiful supply to go round for those willing to receive; ribbons and joy.

The Bride made her entrance and rightfully took upon herself the loving, welcoming gaze of all the beaming Faces. You had gone ahead and performed your responsibilities; preparing the crowd for her Magnificent Arrival.

I like to imagine you were simply returning the favour.

The tone, the welcome, the love, had long been established by those who truly know you, your sisters, their husbands, your entire family, your friends, their friends. You are so very loved. In life, in your life, my longing is that you will always be surrounded by these kinds of Faces. A Procession of Faces that stop you in your tracks and make you want to study them, spend time with them, showing them your ribbons and teaching them how to dance with you.

A Procession interspersed with the Faces who perhaps, like me, once used to only drink from a Pot of Coffee, and now much prefer a Pot of Tea.

#Downsyndrome


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A Month of Sundays

Image by Christiane from Pixabay

Today is Sunday.

You noticed.

You noticed a patch of sunlight that fell out of nowhere and streams across the kitchen floor. Down on your knees, you try to hold it in your outstretched fingers. You feel its warmth. Still, it fades, but still you noticed. Do you wonder, where it has gone? 

You noticed the ornamental grass billowing softly. With the lightest of touches your outstretched hand felt its gentle caress. ‘May green‘ plumes that sway and bow with the wind. I marvel at how they do not break or snap under pressure from the next, unpredictable gust, no matter how far they bend. I am jealous of their resilience. I planted this for you last summer, it is there by design, as are you. And you have noticed.

You noticed the coarseness of the brickwork. At the side of the house; a passageway the rest of us routinely hurry on through. There is nothing to marvel at here; no plants, no colour, not even a blade of grass. Just bricks that form a wall, against which we discard our rubbish. You stand there, outstretched arms guide your faltering, supported steps until you find your spot. 

The same spot as you found yesterday and have returned to today. Sunday.

You have noticed something there the rest of us cannot see. I am looking. Briefly, I look but I cannot see. Yet you can. Even with the poorest of vision, through dense and clumsy lenses, your clouded view of this world is still clearer than mine.

We cannot see what you see.

We cannot see because we cannot feel. The way you do. Arms, fingers, toes all outstretched and full of questions. Taking untold risks for the greatest of discoveries. Knowing so very little, you learn so very much.

What if you never climb the heights of Everest, or study Botany to gain a degree? Your experiences, your learning, is not confined to these worthy pursuits. I have this joyous, delightful feeling that you have noticed more on a Sunday in May than all the world’s explorers, scientists, adventurers, academics and me.

The world of you is noticed.

This glorious, marvellous, painful and dangerous world that has within its lifetime, a whole Month of Sundays, likely more.

And they are noticed by me.

#downsyndrome #downssyndrome


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The Ballroom

Photo by Fidel Fernando on Unsplash

Spinning, twirling, twisting, turning.

She scans the kitchen, looking for the source of this audible joy; this beat, this rhythm.

Melodic notes of life amplified by her hearing aid; she asks for neither but appreciates both.

This is her way of life, of living.

She sits though never still, she dances on.

Side to side from her hips, from her waist.

Up, down, still seated, bouncing; looking up at an imaginary glitterball, laughing, smiling.

Often smiling.

Back on her splinted feet.

Heavy footed, as the lightest of feathers appear to fall around her.

She dances like no one is watching.

This is her way of life, of living.

But even if they are watching, especially if they are watching, she dances anyway.

She needs no invitation or permission to be in this glitterball moment; though society has deemed she does.

Her extra chromosome already disqualifying her from automatic access to the Ballroom.

Barriers to entry erected years ago, where Marshalls gather to scrutinise tickets; discouraging any without from finding a way in.

They see only invalidity; stamping their own heavy feet on the feathers and dreams of another.

They do not see a way of life for her, only a life not worth living and I surmise they too, may never have been inside the Ballroom.

At the wall, I turn off the source of this momentary pleasure, as is my prerogative, for I must get on with my plans for the day.

As the kettle boils so the dancing stops, and with it, at least for now, the joy.

For others the dancing never began.

Cut short at the box office.

Ticket deemed invalid then discarded.

Lost.

No one looks for what they lost outside the box office; rather, they walk away.

Knowing, perhaps, they lost something yet unable to truly comprehend its worth; disorientated, they leave it behind.

I wonder, were they trampled on too, before they could discover their trove? 

Kindness surely did not remove its boots as it went in for the kill.

This is now their way of life, of living.

Lost glitterball moments in the kitchen; the Ballroom.

#Downsyndrome


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Missed?

Photo by Pierre Bamin on Unsplash

Who’s missing from your table?

Who’s not sitting or standing on your floor?

Look around and ask yourself 

Who have we never invited in

To even set foot in our door?

Who’s missing from your plans and dreams?

Who’s never expected to play a part?

Look around and ask yourself 

Who else could be here, changing our culture from within,

Changing our heart?

Who’s missing from your programmes?

Who’s not being given any consideration?

Look around and ask yourself 

Who else would like to do as we do?

They are not some kind of aberration.

Who’s missing? 

I am, though I am not missed.

Who’s missing out?

We all are.

Inclusion is important but I prefer belonging:

noun

                1. the action or state of including or of being included within a group or structure.”they have been selected for inclusion in the scheme”

Belonging

noun

“a feeling of being happy or comfortable as part of a particular group and having a good relationship with the other members of the group because they welcome you and accept you”

#downsyndrome #complexcareneeds


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Birthdays

Image by M W from Pixabay

You love a birthday, you.

No matter whose it is. 

Candles lit, you know what follows;

A song, golden flickering flames that vanish on a

cake that others will swallow.

You love a celebration, you.

No matter what the festival.

Be it Christmas, Easter, or any other occasion,

you were born to share in another’s joy

Amplified by your elation.

You do not ask for anything, you.

Nor do you come to me with a list,

Though I would fulfill it in a heartbeat if you had.

You desire not to possess the latest fashion,

So why does this still make me sad?

You do not know tomorrow is your birthday, you.

Anticipation comes at the moment you see

Not the presents, they cannot hold your attention.

But the cards, the candles, the faces that sing

Happy Birthday to You in joyous affirmation.

You won’t know it’s your birthday when I’m no longer here

to tell you the moment you open your eyes.

If you have not anticipated your special day then there can be no pain

Or disappointment when no cards arrive, nor the candles

 that I’d light for you again and again.

You don’t know how much you are loved, you.

Or how my fears simply cannot come to pass.

You are surrounded by those who love you as their own.

You were never mine to keep, your gift is to so many

And I know you will never spend your birthday alone.

Happy Birthday Hazel x


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Honoured

Image: Hans Braxmeier (Pixabay)

A funny thing happened the other day…. I think I may have attended the Best Wedding Ever. Or at least, the Best Reception Ever. The actual Wedding took place two years ago but plans for a large celebration were scuppered by Covid. Thankfully, seasons change and the Bride and Groom could now be truly honoured by many more than were able to attend the original ceremony.

I’ve since been reflecting on why this celebration felt so special. Of course, all wedding celebrations are special, but this particular wedding celebration was like no other. For a start, the Bride and Groom had Down’s syndrome. How many weddings have you been to where that was the case?

It was more than a celebration. More than a just a party. A joy filled day and night of people with Down’s syndrome – and there were many – and people without Down’s syndrome, quite simply enjoying one another’s company and letting their hair down.  All the usual things you might expect to find at a wedding; colourful outfits, smart suits, table favours, speeches – including the best one I’ve ever heard from a Groom, cheesy wedding songs and disco lights…. Simple extravagance. Wedding-y.

Yet also quite profound.

Alongside those who were getting married, giving speeches or playing musical instruments, living their lives to the fullest, planning and dreaming of their own special day, was my daughter who also has Down’s syndrome. And though I do not possess a crystal ball, I am realistic enough to know that she is unlikely to realise those same dreams, even if she were able to dream them in the first place. She is far less able than many with Down’s syndrome. Yet, in that wedding reception I felt a sense of love and care towards her that I’ve rarely come across anywhere else outside our own community.  As she wandered around the tables of seated guests in her own autistic, non-verbal yet noisy world, present yet elsewhere; I sensed a belonging. No-one stared or looked away as they often do in these situations. They smiled. Not out of pity either, but out of love. They reached out to her without hesitation. They honoured her just as they honoured the other guests who had Down’s syndrome. We did not strive for inclusion. That was a natural given. And though I joked about ‘life goals’ when she inadvertently led the Conga from her wheelchair, it wasn’t a joke at all. Even the DJ said it was the best Conga he’d ever seen.  

At breakfast the next day, I saw very few hangovers, though we had all enjoyed plenty of wine.

Instead, I saw other guests who also had Down’s syndrome, excitedly talking about when it would be their turn. Their wedding day. Even if they hadn’t actually got a partner. They were now daring to dream the same dream.

This Wedding was not a celebration. It was an Honouring Ceremony.

A safe place to be. An honouring place to be. Where the least became first.

A day when people who have Down’s syndrome were truly honoured, not routinely mocked, feared, shunned or despised. Yet, within the space of just forty-eight hours, this realisation came home to me and my family with a brutal bang.

My eldest child, just 12 years old and a young carer to her sibling who has Down’s syndrome, soon found that the Wedding Bubble had burst. Saturday’s honouring of people with Down’s syndrome, people whom she loves, turned into Monday’s mocking of them.

A fellow classmate, in their impatience over tech that wasn’t functioning correctly, directed two words at my daughter. Forcefully.

‘That computer’s got Down syndrome,”

They said it twice. Once to her, then to an adult. For laughs.

Except my daughter didn’t laugh. She cried. She left the room in shock and missed the start of a test she had been about to take. The other child was taken aside, reprimanded and shown how their words could never be funny, only hurtful. Mercifully, restorative justice meant that heartfelt apologies were made and fully accepted. The child was genuinely contrite and, they felt bad.  

A lesson learned the hard way, yet there should always be room for a way back. Room for restoration.

Down’s syndrome.

A child used those words. As a slur, or, at best, in what they thought was an acceptable joke. Words that were their first choice. A specific, identifiable condition. Down’s syndrome. Not Learning Disabled or another condition.  They targeted Down’s syndrome. And the irony of them having their own Learning Difficulty made that all the more distressing.  How does a twelve year old learn to say such a thing? To target a group of people so thoughtlessly, or so heartlessly? For laughs. I can only think it is because they had heard it before. Likely many times. Something like this….

Down’s syndrome = equals stupid.

Down’s syndrome = worthless.

Or, perhaps more likely in this instance….

Down’s syndrome = funny.

A familiar portrayal that’s been on run and repeat for as long as I can remember.

And so, in response, I do the one thing I can do to alter this course.

I honour my precious Down’s syndrome child. And, before the entire community points out my language (or apostrophe use – hey I’m in the UK, it’s what we do), I used the words exactly how I meant them. My precious Down’s syndrome child. My precious child with Down’s syndrome. One and the same. Mine. Precious.

It is my honour to honour her. To serve her. To get on my knees when she needs me to. To set aside the things I might like to do so that I can be there for her, with her, alongside her or right behind her. Never in some kind of martyrdom, simply a response to what caring for another really is. A privilege.

To honour her because she exists, because she breathes, because she is.

I am all for honouring people with Down’s syndrome. Others have, and continue to set Down’s syndrome apart from the rest of society in brutal ways, both in word and deed. They do not honour people like my daughter or those at the Wedding. And as I doubt that achieving equality can ever balance the scales of this injustice, so I determine to set her apart and tip the scales in the opposite direction.

I will honour her. To honour is so much more than to celebrate. It is not dependent on any accomplishment, however noteworthy. The wedding was an honouring occasion. It was filled with love and kindness. I hope there will be many more weddings for people with Down’s syndrome, (and I really hope I’m invited to some of them too!)

I’m so done with the push for inclusion. I’m done with the push for equality if I’m honest. In all walks of life. Truly honouring someone who has been dishonoured brings restoration. And when something is restored, it means it is set right. It is no longer unequal. The scales are re-calibrated.

Honouring that comes from a loving heart can achieve so much more than any equality act or piece of legislation.

Restoring honour to those who have been the most wronged, the most dishonoured, is a good place to start.

People with Down’s syndrome are, I believe, close to, if not at the top of that list. Hierarchy takes many forms.

And there is always a way back, if we allow it. Wrongs can be righted.

The dishonoured can be honoured and restorative justice can work for the good of us all.

Restorative justice

noun

  • a system of criminal justice which focuses on the rehabilitation of offenders through reconciliation with victims and the community at large.


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Park Life

Photo by Sarah Kilian on Unsplash

I took you there as a baby.

In a pram.

I wrapped you up tightly against penetrating winds and prying eyes. I pushed your sister to and fro in the orange bucket swing. I must have fed you there too. Not by bottle or blanket covered breast but by nasogastric tube. Your soft, perfect cheek aggravated red raw by a strip of sticky tape that held the tube in place inside your tiny nose.

Gravity feeding, with one arm in the air, holding up a purple syringe. Fortified milk flowed down a tube, disappearing inside the pram. I glance around the park, fearing the double take. Afraid of what people might say, wondering if they might be cruel or insensitive, as had happened days earlier when a stranger had noticed you had Down’s syndrome and a “funny tube”. They pointed right at you and it stung.

Yet, I’m secretly hoping, wondering, if someone would walk by and say something lovely; to make what hurt sting a little less.

Always wondering, always worrying.

Afterwards, we watched the ducks busy on their little island. We did not feed them; no hands were spare for that. They took no notice of us anyway, as we had brought nothing to their table.

I took you there as a toddler.

In a pushchair.

Head to toe in snow suit, thick socks and fur lined boots. I knew your feet would be cold. Unable to warm them up by running around. You were a toddler who never toddled. Your boots always as good new. I pushed you in the orange bucket swing, your sister now at school. In reality, I wedged you in, both hands holding up your floppy body against rigid plastic as we both went to and fro, awkwardly.

I’m sure I fed you there again. Less concerned by the double takes or curious looks. Your beautiful face now healed. A thousand syringes later and with a battery-operated pump to boot, the tube by now surgically placed directly into your stomach. I worried about you getting cold as I pealed back the layers and connected you to the pump.

Picnic table not required, I sat on a bench and we watched the ducks. We did not feed them, there was no room in your bag for anything other than essentials.

I’m sure you must have wondered what they were, those funny little ducks. What did your blurred almond eyes make of them, I wondered?

We stopped visiting the park several years ago and I think our world shrank a little more. I had deemed it pointless as you could no longer access the playground. We could not enjoy it the way other families did. It was unsuitable for you; a public right of way with a caveat. And dogs. So many dogs tearing around the park with exuberance. Enthusiastically sniffing out their daily moments of freedom with no lead to restrain – though the Official Looking Sign said that, for the benefit of others, they ought not.

Silly sign, the dogs did not read it.

Today you visited the park again.

In your wheelchair.

Only this time, I wasn’t there. I have seen some photos your teacher sent me. I see you share your joy and delight at this unexpected trip. I hear your laughter. I see the spring in your step, even from the confines of your chair. A blanket has been placed lovingly over your legs to keep out the cold wind. I wonder who put it there? I’m so thankful and touched that they did; it makes me cry a little. It’s something I’d do for you.

From your chair you watched the ducks. You held a stick. You’ve always loved a stick. Your face tells me that you wondered at all you saw. You shared your wonder with your teachers and classmates. No doubt you shared it with passers-by as they did a double take at the class of wheelchair users and their carers surrounding the park’s little pond. I’m certain they would have smiled too.

And I wondered who was teaching who?

Today you came back to the park. Your pockets still empty, overflowing with untold riches to give away. Pockets filled with wonder. Treasures you woke up with, stored, perhaps, under your pillow? Like some sort of biblical manna, it appears each day. Ready to hand out to those you meet. You are my miniature, giant philanthropist.

I hope you visit the park many more times.

I hope you never hide away. I hope also, that you are never on parade, rather on a par. Experiencing all the park has to offer, as others do, and giving back in all the ways I know you will. Today you were all the things a person should expect to be: surrounded, included, protected, loved, invited, heard, appreciated, present. Though the world may sometimes hold up an Official or Unofficial Sign that says, for the benefit of others and your own, you ought not experience these freedoms.

Silly sign. You cannot read it. I hope you never will.

Today you came back to the park. And, though I’ve had many sleepless nights wondering if this would ever be the case, you were all those things without me. A walk in the park may be harder for some than for others but there are always sacred spaces to be found, and shared experiences to be had.

And, perhaps in the way you do, I now wonder at it all.

Park life.