holding a space

I was lost in Twelve by Twelve (a deeply satisfying book by William Powers) while we drove home from Wisconsin, when Andrew told me to check out what was written on the truck in front of us: my son's name, spelled correctly. We laughed and I went back to my book.

Powers was writing about "suchness" - that things are just as they are and that much of our discontent comes from missing the true essence of things - and about his painful experience as a stutterer in early childhood. I saw the surprising truck, then, this is what I read, "My parents love got me through the stutter. They wisely went against my teachers' advice and refused to stick me in speech therapy. Instead of seeing me as damaged goods, they accepted my suchness, stutter and all, until my speech defect healed. Most healing, of ourselves, of our society, is really just holding a space for things to come into alignment."

Usually the messages are subtler, but I must be getting harder to reach.

Summer has held the usual happinesses for my boys: backyard baby pool, long stretches of LEGO building, books and roughhousing. For Elliott it's also included hours of therapy. And for me, doctor appointment scheduling and stressing over my son's educational options. And the poor boy is just three.

Elliott has made gains through therapy this summer, and we love the one-on-one love and attention he's getting. But the idea of putting him in an intensive and restrictive special education preschool five days a week this fall feels wrong. On our school visit this spring, we found the classroom heavy and dull and lonely. So, we found a creative, happy private preschool for him two afternoons a week instead. All summer I have stewed over our decision. My cheery, funny, great imitating son needs fun and role models and (thank you Bill Powers) space. But even though my gut says it's right, the culture keeps pushing me to load him up with interventions. More education, more therapy, more worry.

When I sit in waiting rooms and listen to other moms - many with children whose needs far exceed my son's - I hear a lot about school district meetings and therapists and programs and doctors. I hear a lot of fear and a lot of worry. No one wants their child to be left behind. Everyone wants to give their kid the best opportunity to succeed. But sometimes I wonder if we're missing our special child's suchness, if we're so anxious to see if we can get the square peg in the round hole, trying so hard to fix the damaged goods, we miss out on the true essence of the one we're trying to get to fit in.

Although the experts recommend that we send our son to a special school to get a special education, we're going to spend time seeking out that specialness ourselves. Andrew and I are going to teach Elliott this school year. We're going to wrestle and hike and throw balls and make lunch together. We're going to hide treasures in buckets of dry beans and paint with our fingers and cut paper scraps and read stories. We're going to explore the woods and swing in the park. And if we learn some letters and words and how to bike and use the potty along the way, I won't be surprised. Because although we won't be teaching to any standards or striving to reach any goals, we'll be leaving a space. And a lot can happen in a space. The truck told me I can believe it.