There have been times when the forces at play in my life converge to a conclusion that is so confusing and overwhelming, I find myself stunned. My mind balks at the truth in front of me, refusing to accept it. There is something about the coveted job offer or party invitation that means more than it should. I am too eager to be included, too needy to accept missing out. My spirit cries out to the universe, Why not?! And, when there’s no answer, I call out again. Why not? Why not? Why not?

While the intensity of these moments feels horrible, something essential and exquisite is happening: I am discovering a fundamental aspect of who I am. Maybe I didn’t know or I denied knowing, or I didn’t know I denied knowing. Regardless, I put myself into situations that just weren’t right for me, and it hurt.

Usually, I do not figure this out on my own. One time I was on vacation with my sister. We were sitting on some rocks along a beach of sorts, and I had just finished an angry, whiney rant in a voice I barely recognized, complaining, complaining, complaining. Finally, exasperated and exhausted, I shouted at her, “I just want a boyfriend who remembers me when I am not right there standing in front of him!”

My sister is a calm, rational sort of person. She had endured this tirade, and mini versions of it, for years now. (I can only imagine how frustrated she must have felt, seeing me so oblivious to the obvious.) She waited to make sure I was done and said gently, with the clarity of compassion, “You’re right to want that kind of boyfriend. I just don’t think it’s going to be him.”

Oh.

I stopped short and let the truth of her insight sink in. I had been trying to make this relationship work for a long time with little (frankly, no) success. He was a nice guy and made me think about things in different ways, which I really liked. But we just weren’t compatible. I didn’t say anything and after a while we went on to explore more sites. But I felt different. The knot inside me loosened. I was at ease.

I stayed with this man a little longer, but not much. When we parted, another nice guy came my way and we had a much easier time getting along. My new boyfriend taught me a lot about how fun and affirming romantic relationships could be and I am grateful for the lesson.

Since Alia was born, I have had to grapple with all sorts of new truths. Some comforting, some painful. I might write more about them in future posts. For now, I’d like to share just one, a comforting one.

A few years ago, when Alia and I lived in California, we decided to go play at the playground near our home. I was excited that we had had a good morning and finished her exercises early, so we had some time to go on an outing before starting her second active play session (read: physical therapy) in the afternoon. Going to the playground was what “normal” people did, and I was thrilled to join the mainstream in such a fun activity. I took her to the area for little kids, so there was sand and bouncy horses and swings—a three-year old’s paradise! She sat down in the sand and happily started digging. I sat next to her, helping her hold her little shovel and move objects within her reach to play with.

Then she wanted to sit on the bouncy horse, so I helped her to feet and together we walked over. I focused on holding her hips and cueing her to shift her weight each step, adjusting the lengths of her stride so she could maintain an even gait, tapping her shoulders to stay back so she didn’t slump forward, and reaching up to support her head when her neck muscles got tired.

It took several minutes of intense effort, but we reached the horse that was a few feet away, and with happy anticipation, I sat down with Alia on my lap. I gently bounced it up and down for her. The motion intrigued her. The sky was a gorgeous blue and across the park were maple trees and a baseball diamond. I was startled by how relaxing it was.

And then I noticed the other parents at the park staring at me. I tried to meet their gaze, but they quickly looked away. From my glimpse of their faces, I realized they were all thinking the same thing, “Thank G-d that isn’t me.”

Now it was my turn to look away. And then I just looked down. I focused on Alia and ignored the people around us. We stayed on the bouncy horse until she was ready to try something else, and we played with the different “interactives” as if we were the only ones there. Then I packed up our stuff and we went home. I smiled and chatted with Alia the whole time, but I felt like my face was on fire. When we got home, I was so relieved, I remember giving my dog a huge hug and feeling grateful for our big backyard and the freedom it gave us. We didn’t need a playground to go outside and have fun.

I’m sure it sounds strange, but I often forget how different my and my daughter’s life is than other families. But I will never forget how I felt that day at the park. And while part of me was badly wounded by those stares, another part rose up, angry and defiant at those people who just didn’t know better. How would they? By definition, the extraordinary is not something one commonly encounters. And that’s how I see my daughter. She is an extraordinary person, partly by the circumstances of her birth but mostly by the qualities of her spirit. I cannot yet describe all the ways she will grow up to make the world a better place, but I know that is her future. How would these strangers in the park understand that? How could I possibly explain?

Later that evening, when Alia was asleep, I sat at my computer, searching for a way to keep a blanket on a child who rolled around a lot. I found this instead.

“In some cultures, special needs children are seen as the human form closest to perfection and God, because they are no longer here on earth to learn, but to teach. In these cultures, the elders all bow down when a special needs child enters the room.”

Oh.

I felt different. The knot inside me loosened. I was at ease.