A friend whose grandson also struggles with autism made me cry. Her letter was brimming with compassion, knowing too well the noise and clamor of tantrums, the helplessness of waiting with a child in pain. She wrote to express solidarity as we face changes and sameness that we did not ask for.
"I
don't need to understand why. My life is full of understanding why. Life surrounds us and we do our best to walk the path in front of us."
Understanding why used to make the top ten of my aspirations. Top three. Why was my mother manic? Why did my father's congregation betray him? Why had I not yet fallen in love? Why did I fall in love with John? Why was mothering so difficult? Why was it sometimes easy? Why do people I care about get sick? Move away?
Grieve? Die?
Why has been losing ground for some time now.
Explaining saps energy from the task of acceptance. I do not know why my children made choices that differ from mine. I no longer cling to the notion that I deserve to. I do not know if our world will ever stop assaulting children with the toxins and pressures that I believe conspire to concoct autism. It is not mine to know.
But even the
labyrinth of unanswered questions does not prevent me from walking the path ahead.
