The Bench (I Survived)

It was a rare morning.(Autism Mommy was starting to lose it because while she was on vacation, autism doesn't take vacations, and things had been drifting towards worse instead of better. So I hired a teenager to help take the edge off for 48 hours. Her job was to watch my ASD 3 year old in all the  in between time, (side, side note unrelated to the rest of this post: she was as exhausted, possibly more exhausted than I, just keeping tabs on him.))

But yes, a rare morning. Mid summer. Decided to spend the morning in one of my favorite staycation spots: the fishing village of Steveston. I dropped my son and the sitter off at Steveston's FABULOUS playground/waterpark, and then made my way up to Starbucks to get a coffee before strolling along one of many wharfs, walkways, and docks in the village. I happily sipped on my iced soy latte, felt the salty ocean breeze lift my freshly cropped locks, and stood at an intersection that offered three different directions I could take my peaceful walk. My heart bubbled with delight at my opportunity to walk/ drink coffee/ ponder on my own, and the summer morning was picture-book perfect.

Then suddenly I found myself THERE.

Confronted with that place.

 

That bench.

Where I sat with my husband on our last anniversary together.

 

 

I was 8 months pregnant.

And desperately trying. So hard. To enjoy our anniversary.

And it was hell.

Barely able to touch each other.

His disdain for me palpable, though he tried too.

Conversation was strained and sparse. There was nothing left to say.

 

 

I am gripped by the memories that go with the view from the bench, remembering the angle of the sun that day, glistening amongst the reeds, being absorbed in the horrible beauty... horrible because that was the first time I looked straight into the eyes of Divorce. I was paralyzed by fear. Paralyzed by the unthinkable. That bench was where I sat the first time I honestly considered that our 5th wedding anniversary could be our last.

 

And it was.

 

And here I am, 4 years later, almost to the day (and almost equal to the length of my marriage). I am on the other side of the Valley of the Shadow. I have learned to accept love from everywhere around me. I have accomplished far more than I ever thought I could (or wanted to). I have an adorable son who exhausts me beyond exhaustion, but also delights me with his antics and who he is.

 

I walk out on onto the adjacent pier and notice there is a totally different view from there - from beyond the bench. From where I stand today.

 

 

 

I feel the warmth of the sun, breathe the salty air, feel it caress my skin, and I realize that I survived. And life is good. Challenging beyond words, but very, very good. As I stand in the moment, in the presence of the river, I think of the death in me that occurred in that spot. And all the life that has magnificently erupted from that death. I think of the role of the river. There is a lot of death involved with the Fraser River - fish, industry, murders, drownings. And there is a lot of life - fish, water for all forms of life, a means to make a living. The river also moves and changes things, whether we want it to or not. It just does what it was created to do. Slowly. And with tremendous power.

 

Death began here, and life has resulted at a whole new level. The biggest sign of life for me, is that I didn't even think of that danged bench until I was right on top of it. I was just doing what I love. And it was an interesting experience for me to hold the dissonance of grief and joy in the same moment.

 

I practice a Pema Chodron teaching I recently read: breathe in the pain deeply, and exhale joy, love, and peace. Transformation.

 

I celebrated Thanksgiving (eh!) with my family today.

A few days ago I started thinking about what I'm really thankful for. If I even think about how thankful I am for my son, I start bawling immediately, so lets not go there. Same with family members, health, etc.

But there's something I have been thanking God for every day since the day after labour day.

Heated seats.

That's right. An extravagance for this menno girl, for sure. But they only had 1 manual Kia Soul on the lot when I bought it in April. And it was in black (which I wanted). And it came with heated seats.

I am usually achy in the morning. My chiropractor says its because I never fall into a deep enough sleep to allow my muscles to repair (pre-schooler with autism of the I-don't-sleep variety). And I'm usually panicked and late and utterly at a loss every morning, wondering how I will possibly get thru another day. And before I'm at the bottom of the driveway, the heated seats kick in, like a little love. Warming me. Holding me. Giving me hope that even if I don't make it thru the day, they will at least get me delivered to my office (where my day launches into a life of its own).

I've been reading some hysterically funny notes from single parents of autistic kids who are trying to date. It's hysterical because its so impossible. The life of a single parent of an ASD kid is completely unmanageable if the person also has to hold down a full time job... And then fit in dating, and an
actual developing relationship.... Well. They tend to develop at a snails pace because there is no time, and often fizzle out because they move so slowly, they lose momentum.

Heated seats might better.
They don't need anything from me.
They fit into my commute.
They make me feel good.
 They support me in whatever I do.
They are there for me at the end of a long day.
They sing with me to my fave song "Sunny and 75", making me feel like it really is 75.

My tushy and I thank you, heated seats. There is no one else like you.

(And I only had time to write this because I did so while sitting on a hard white pre-school Ikea chair beside the bathtub while my son had one of his marathon baths).