breathe
This cluttered morning, sweaty with exercise, I bend myself into a stretch that makes me sigh with pleasure. Nothing feels better to me after a workout than the patient extension of sore and weary muscles, that resting pull that draws out pain with so much tension. Routinely, I pull my shoulders down, away from my ears. I have learned: I tend to clench my body, like a fist. So I enjoy a few moments more conscious, lungs slowly filling–I have to rehearse the word, slow, like a command; chest slowly lifting; the blank, easy sensation of taking one breath and then another. I give thanks for breath, thinking that breathing is more than an autonomic activity; that there is more than one kind of breath.
By now, the HVAC team has left, those nice guys who dragged their ladder up the stairs to the attic and then, crouched down into the crawl space and thumped around beneath the floor, doing diagnostics to make sure we’ll be ready for warmer days. I listened, exhaling loudly into crunches. Clatter and clang punctuated the lift of my shoulders, my hips. Feel the muscles you are working, the video instructor urged. Between reps, I pushed off the sound effects, giving thanks for home, for air conditioning, for the presence of men verifying working order and for the resources to pay them. It’s often this way with training: I get stronger on the exhale, as I give thanks.
To the morning chill, our HVAC friends, by way of testing, had added even cooler air. Then they set the thermostat back where it had been before, joking over their shoulders about how they knew I’d been cold, how they’d seen me shivering. I laughed, pushing sweaty stray hairs away from my damp cheeks.
But now they’ve gone, and Riley expounds on my thanksgiving. “I’m so thankful for the HVAC guys,” she says. She teaches me, giving thanks for people first, and then, only secondarily, for the benefit we receive because of them.
“Mmmhmm, me too,” I sigh, extending an arm, stretching toward my foot.
“I’m so thankful that they turned the temperature back up before they left.” She perches on the stool she favors at the bar in the kitchen, long brassy hair unbound and rippling like waves down her bowed back. She glances up from her phone, lifts a cream cheese slathered bagel to take a bite.
“Were you cold?” Kevin asks her. They had turned on the AC, but Riley’s warm nature makes her prefer cooler temperatures.
“Mom was cold,” Riley says gravely, as though given that fact it hardly matters whether she was or not.
It’s like this for an Autism mama, that the fact that my daughter thinks outside her own skin is the first thing I notice about what she says. Some children with Autism never make it this far; sometimes the disorder never lets them develop sensitivity or compassion for the needs of others. In more than one way, it can steal away community. But our disconnections might be labeled with hundreds of names–physical, sociological, cognitive, even spiritual. In every case, unselfishness and compassion, love, represents growth.
I was cold? I’m puzzled by her comment, that’s the next thing, until I remember the joke the HVAC guys made in reference to my sweat, and then I realize that Riley had tossed aside all the laughter and logged some concern for me. Casual jokes often fall flat for her, and in this case, she hardly understood the humor they found in my discomfort. Instead, their comments had made her watchful. I feel stunned that Riley, who once masked her lack of understanding by always laughing along, has begun at last to recognize that laughter doesn’t make something funny. And with some surprise, I realize that love for me has captured her attention, that awareness of my needs has motivated her gratitude.
“Oh, no, that was just a joke,” I say, smiling, folding my body into another stretch. Inhale. Slowly. “The HVAC guys were just joking about me being cold because I’ve been exercising.”
“Okay, that makes sense,” Riley says. She always says that–that makes sense, even though she still doesn’t understand. It’s a dismissal; she accepts that she won’t always understand. It’s enough that everything is okay, that I’m okay. I watch her shift on her perch, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. She sniffs, letting it go.
“She loves her mama,” I say, tearing up in that silly way we mothers do, looking over at Kevin, letting my smile swell. “She doesn’t want me to be cold.”
It’s corny; I know. Overly sentimental. But the truth is that I am still surprised by love, surprised that I have people who care about my needs in such a practical way, and if I’m honest, there’s some part of me that still struggles in receiving it. I know because sometimes I suddenly discover I’ve been gathering up imaginary proof of rejection, keeping a record of betraying fiction, waiting for love to evaporate. And then I see the truth in some ordinary little moment like this one, and it’s like learning–with sudden, refreshing surprise–how to breathe again. For a moment, I become more conscious of the truth, heart slowly filling, hope slowly rising with the fresh recognition that I am loved.
Learning to be loved, that too represents growth.
“Mmmhmm,” Riley says with chirpy delight, returning my smile with one of her own. “I absolutely do love you.” She giggles, as though such obvious observation makes for the very best kind of humor; as though she’s thinking, That’s funny, because, of course.
