Jonah was engaged and fully present as we hiked. We talked. He was settled and content. He balanced on fallen tree trunks, ran ahead, fell behind, and found ways around the muddy marshes. The woods are one of his natural environments. He seems to have no need to repeat phrases from cartoons, and his silly voice (which we’ve named Dr. Goofenshmirtz—a riff on his beloved Dr. Doofenshmirtz of Phineas and Ferb fame) is non-existent. How I wish there was a school of the woods! Of course, there are models that approximate this (if only we could move to Germany), but the Waldorf school we tried in our vicinity didn’t know what to do or make of J’s penchant for not joining in or immediately following the herd, not to mention his rocking/spinning/rolling about. They just weren’t equipped (and there’s the tuition to consider).

This morning as we prodded J through his morning get-ready-for-school routine, the disconnect so absent yesterday was in full, and hilarious, force. Shoes on and dressed, I sent him to fetch his fleece from the rack on the back porch. A few minutes later (after prompting him again when he got sidetracked by the climber in the front room), I heard Jonah say, “I can’t find my school shoes Anywhere!” John’s response: “They’re on your feet.” Jonah: “O, I am So Silly!” In the time it took for him to receive the instruction from me and walk to the back porch, he had forgotten what he was looking for and redirected himself to shoes. When all else fails, shoes!

Usually the breakdown isn’t quite that bad, but I feel for the kid. J struggles with this pretty much all of the time. Usually we’re just giving him verbal prompts (sometimes 3, sometimes 5, sometimes what feels like 20 times) to complete a task. But those times when he simply does it, especially when he’s doing a “job” for me, he’s so proud of himself. “I did it mom!” he’ll shout to all corners of the house.

I came across this quote from Salman Rushdie, and while he’s speaking more in terms of human relationship than task completion, I like the way it applies to J (especially the use of the word “bounce”):

Our lives disconnect and reconnect, we move on, and later we may again touch one another, again bounce away. This is the felt shape of a human life, neither simply linear nor wholly disjunctive nor endlessly bifurcating, but rather this bouncey-castle sequence of bumpings-into and tumblings-apart.

Maybe I’ll tattoo that on my wrist so that I can slowly learn to take J’s perpetual bouncing (metaphorically and physically speaking) in stride. Most of it just doesn’t matter. That is to say, getting sidetracked can be a whole lot of fun. I’m just so terribly task-oriented (which has its upside). See a task and do it. It rubs me wrong when people don’t finish what they start. Immediately. My problem, obviously, not his.

I like to think about price in terms of relationship. True relationship involves reciprocity. And what’s got me thinking about this, primarily, is Jonah. He’s always keeping me on my toes, that one. I’m almost constantly in the process of evaluating and reevaluating the way I think about things, about him, in terms of what he needs (or doesn’t).

J’s making great strides in so many ways. They’re working him pretty intensely at school, and there’s been real academic progress—though I find it strange writing about my five-year-old (almost six) using the word “academic.” His writing is becoming, well, almost legible. He can usually recognize every letter of the alphabet and numbers up to 20. And here’s an exciting one: he’s starting to recognize words. He can sound out short words if he takes his time. Hearing your child read for the first time is nothing less than magical.

So on the flip side…

Jonah’s been in high gear since Christmas. Considering he’s on the high gear end of things generally (and not so generally) speaking, this fact must be carefully considered.

Other than the “I hate school” mantra he’s finally working his way out of, he’s been chewing on the knuckle side of his hands, coming home with red scaly patches that we massage every night with hand cream. He bites at his lower lip; sometimes it bleeds, sometimes he develops a chapped, red line beneath it, like an elderly woman’s lip liner gone awry.

We get reports of “crazy in his body” or “Tigger all the time.” He has to leave circle because he’s a danger to others (rocking back and forth, putting his feet—with shoes—in the air while rocking from side to side). Sometimes he dumps work or just won’t do it. It’s hard, staying focused on a task. The effort produces a sensory overload, and J’s brain/body respond in strange and fascinating ways. Sometimes he slips into this falsetto, cartoony voice that either speaks nonsensical phrases or repeats short scripts from one or another of his cartoon fascinations—accompanied by a “loosey goosey” kind of flopping about. Most often he ends up on the ground, only to get up and start again.

Yesterday at the park, this is the way J introduced himself to a father and his two young children. They immediately headed in another direction. It’s kind of heart breaking, because he wanted to interact. He was interacting. They just didn’t know what to make of it. Frankly, neither do I.

I’ve read several posts on autism mama blogs lately that reiterate the belief that “behavior is communication.” Then what’s J trying to say? We’ve been trying to figure this out from the moment he was born (I’m not exaggerating here). How can we help him start to recognize his own needs so that he can get those needs met in a constructive way? And what exactly do we mean by constructive? I’m not trying to make him “normal” (as if that were possible), but honestly, when he acts like this in public, it’s easier to either shut him down by commanding him to stop or point him in another direction (away from the people he’s trying to interact with) than it is to enter into his world and try to help. That’s my struggle, and I’m not always proud of how I respond to it.

J’s IEP is coming up. In the next few weeks, there’ll be a lot of talk about what he can’t do, about the assumed benchmarks for his age and grade level, about his interactions with peers. I will inevitably cry while talking about him with his occupational therapist and his classroom aid and intervention specialist. As hard as it can be, I’m grateful for the reality check it provides. Not just in terms of Jonah, but also—probably more importantly—for me. I don’t know who needs therapy and educating more, J or me.

The two of us are forever inquiring into each other’s worlds. He’s always working to make sense of my sometimes volatile, ever-shifting emotions. I’m trying to figure why his after-school snack choice is sending him to the dark side as he screams at me, “But I DO want cheese! AND pretzels!”

It’s ironic really. John wondered aloud the other day (something I wish he’d do more often) how he ended up with two such intensely emotional folk. He says he’s no good at knowing how to help us. I know we can be confounding, but Jonah and I both name him one of our favorite people on the planet. It goes to show how hard it can be to help, and love, the ones you’re with.

Doesn’t he/she sound like an interesting chap/young lady? I also learned that he/she spent a good bit of time in the closet at school today before appearing at lunch. I also learned how the infamous Mrs. Jims gets herself clean:

“Mom, did you know? She sneaks into the [washing] machine when you’re doing the laundry! And she’s so small! She sneaks in your basket. And she leaves her clothes on and gets all washed up. She sneaks in your basket! And then she goes in the drier and gets hot and spins and spins! She’s so clever like that!”

In case you’re not up on Jonah’s new companions, you can read about Mrs. Jims HERE. They are invisible, but not pretend. “They are real!” This is a point of much emphasis. I’ve also learned that Mrs. Jims likes to hide in the bushes at school. That Mrs. Jims!

There was some anxiety tonight with both John and I being away at a lecture before bedtime. The boys were waiting for me with their sitter, and Jonah ran up to say, “But mom! You didn’t give me a hug and tell me goodbye!” Then much piling up on mommy with little boy endearments (Gabriel was generous with his rapturous chokehold of love, which involves G squeezing my neck with surprising strength as though he really is trying to make my breathing stop, accompanied by a rather manic expression and the word  ”Mommeeeeee!” squealed to the rafters).

It’s good to be missed. That said, we should get out more and get them a little more accustomed to other people putting them to bed. Just every so often. I mean, Mrs. Jims and Mr. Soapy make their own little getaways. Why shouldn’t we?

Jonah was insistent. But Jonah’s always insistent.

“He made a big mess Dad. Come and see.”

Much tugging of arms and clothes.

“He made a big mess Mom! Come and see!”

“Jonah, you’re supposed to be brushing your teeth.”

“But Mom, I have to Show you!”

In the interest of getting things back on track, I allowed myself to be led down the stairs, into the dining room.

Now let me be clear. Gabriel’s two. Every meal involves a mess. Almost every diaper involves a mess. Giving G free time alone in the playroom usually involves a mess that also involves messes in the kitchen, front room, entry way and basement. Entire shelves of books get cleared. Drawers of kitchen utensils. Stray nails (once a way can be found to reach them) get pounded into walls (one of G’s new favorite past times is unloading wooden puzzles of their pieces and trying to hang them on the wall—which involves, you guessed it, pounding, and the removal of whatever picture was previously hanging in that spot, often to the disadvantage of said picture). Diapers get dumped from their bins. Blocks from their boxes. Charcoal disks used to light incense are converted to a fine black powder by G-powered steam rollers.

So how bad could it be? Not so bad, really. But we’re down a complete box of Honey-Nut, Gluten Free Chex. And for once, Jonah wasn’t being particularly dramatic. He just ran into that problem of finding and speaking the words he needed when he needed them.

I am certain a good share of those addictively tasty morsels (so much for giving up wheat if all I’m going to do is chow down on sugar laden rice cereal) were “cleaned” up by dear Sophie (note dark dog shadow behind the glass door).

So started the day. Add to that an explosively dirty diaper (I haven’t gotten poop on my jeans in quite some time), and it’s hard to escape the feeling that some days are just assigned the lot of fighting fires.

[Postscript: I just found myself shouting one of those slow motion "NOOOOOOOO!"s as I heard G dumping the puzzles we just finished reassembling and stacking in their rack. Who's got the drama? Mama's got the drama.]

Okay, first the asparagus soup. As I considered what to make for dinner, I was haunted by a bunch of slightly wilty asparagus I’d bought last week and a bag of spinach not too long after, the loss of its salad-fresh days gnawing at me like an overdue DVD from the public library (we pay $1-a-day fines around here, provided we haven’t lost the movie [Nemo] altogether). Thank God for Google. I cobbled together a couple of recipes for asparagus-spinach soup, accompanied by Feeding the Whole Family’s easy-to-make-from-scratch vegetable broth. With the state of my sinuses, there almost wasn’t any soup; I had to restrain myself from drinking all four cups of the broth straight up. Might just be the cold talking…but no, I really do think it’s that good.

The only real changes I made to the recipe (besides making my own broth) were sauteing the onions/asparagus/garlic in butter instead of olive oil and adding another tablespoon at the end to richen things up. O yes, and a garnish of shredded asiago cheese (parmesan or romano would work equally well). Remove those tasty, though unnecessary, additions and this recipe is absolutely vegan. You can practically feel the green goodness flowing through your veins. But that would only be John and my veins, because the boys wouldn’t touch the stuff.

Moving on to Flannery O’Connor’s Wise Blood. Lead character: Hazel Motes. Ms. O’Connor can seem a little heavy-headed with the naming of her people. There’s Asa Hawks (the blind preacher) and his daughter Sabbath. We’ve got Mrs. Flood, the landlady. Enoch Emory, the 18-year-old park guard with terrible social skills, strange sensory issues (at one point, he rubs his body all along the front of a drugstore—something I’ve seen the J man do more times than I can count), not a friend in the world, and a strange obsession with blood and death.

I spent a good part of the weekend, on and off, reading Wise Blood for a book group I actually made it to Sunday night. Being sick gives me a kind of internal permission to put off laundry and cooking and crawl into the guest room bed. Never mind the general chaos of boys jumping, crashing, bouncing, hooting, rocking, and hammering (guest room doubles as their playroom/bounce house). I read through it all. I finished the book.

A short recap: Hazel Motes is riddled with guilt. Never mind that he’s founded the Church Without Christ and preaches to that affect from the roof of his “rat colored car” outside movie theaters on a nightly basis. In that funny/grotesque and just plain weird way of O’Connor’s, the violence he inflicts upon himself as a result of the violence he inflicts upon others is a study of a soul preoccupied with the truth. By all appearances, he’s a lost soul. But ultimately, he’s the only one not lost. For all his denial of redemption, I do believe he encounters redemption. More than that, he undergoes it.

Shall we conclude with the third eye?

J and G’s current music/cartoon of choice is They Might Be Giants 123s. Fun, and only slightly maddening (in the way that children’s music can get stuck on an endless loop in one’s head), it’s accompanied by unique collage-type cartoon shorts (one of my favorites: “Never Go to Work”). You guessed it. All the songs are about numbers. J has been fascinated by the number three song: “Triops Have Three Eyes.” Looked it up, and sure enough there’s a creature called a triops with three eyes. So John accordingly bestowed upon each of the boys their own third eye. This led to all manner of goofiness and some serious play.

Jonah was balance walking around the top of the climber. Unprovoked, he announced: “I’m not playing! I’m serious!” Just as serious was G trying to mimic his brother, only to be perpetually stymied by either John or I. He pretty much took it in stride, which means he continued to mimic his brother. He is the most stubborn individual I know. Next to my father.
And me.

Sometime later, Jonah nostalgically recalled how he loved to wear his overalls without a shirt when he was a toddler. Out came the overall, sans shirt, and he stayed that way all day, despite me asking “Aren’t you cold? Wouldn’t you like to put on a shirt?” Nope, and No. We’ve discovered the depth of J’s imperviousness to cold this winter. G’s a sturdy two-year-old, but he can’t take more than thirty minutes out in the real cold. J just keeps on plowing through—a trait that holds its own hazards but comes in handy when the drive to play supersedes all.

]]> http://jenniferjantzestes.wordpress.com/2012/02/06/hazel-motes-asparagus-soup-and-the-third-eye/feed/ 0 tangleruth veggie broth asparagus saute asparagus spinach soup third eyes serious play serious watching down time http://jenniferjantzestes.wordpress.com/2012/02/04/comfort/ http://jenniferjantzestes.wordpress.com/2012/02/04/comfort/#comments Sat, 04 Feb 2012 01:56:29 +0000 Jennifer Jantz Estes http://jenniferjantzestes.wordpress.com/?p=1581 ]]> Jane Austen wrote, “There is nothing like staying home for real comfort.” I’ve maybe had a touch too much of that lately, but I generally agree.

Along these lines, I’ve been collecting images. Sometimes I walk into a room and an object startles me, its placement in my world an offering. I want to somehow incorporate it. Sometimes the picture matches my sense of the thing (or person); sometimes too much gets lost in translation, and I abandon the effort. There’s only so much you can do with a phone (even if it is an iPhone—sorry Steve).

But comfort is a funny thing. When I seek it out, it’s terribly illusive. Like scanning a night sky for satellites. You can really only make them out if you don’t focus your gaze too particularly, their movement best caught out of the corner of an eye (not unlike the way my husband describes catching a glimpse of a ghost).

When it comes to relationships, comfort is like ways sly, coming in “on little cat feet” (okay, that’s Carl Sandburg, but the analogy holds). My attempts to grab at it or hold it too tight, too long are frustrating and defeating. Another example of the given as the best good. It’s a strange human conundrum, the way we need to stand apart and on our own but also lean into one another for presence and help. Folk rocker Ani Difranco puts it this way: “I know there is strength in the differences between us. I know there is comfort where we overlap.”

Things which have already taken place are remembered by means of images, whether for the purpose of inspiring wonder, or honor, or shame, or to encourage those who look upon them to practice good and avoid evil. These images are of two kinds: either they are words written in books…or else they are material images, such as the jar of manna, or Aaron’s staff, which were to be kept in the ark as a memorial…   –St. John of Damascus

Of course J’s intervention specialist gives him sensory breaks. They do jumping on a small trampoline and brushing. Sometimes she wheelbarrows him around. But I think, for the past year and a half, he’s been really into his work there, so multiple breaks aren’t usually necessary. I think maybe Jonah-at-school is getting a little bored.

On our walk home today I was introduced to Mrs. Jims, J’s new best (imaginary—though he insists she/he’s real) friend.

Jonah: Did you know Mrs. Jims is behind me? (He says with a glint in his eye and the corners of his mouth turning up just so.)

Me: Uh, Mrs. Jims?

Jonah: Yeah, she’s the one making me crazy. (He had been walking dangerously close to the curb on a busy street, flailing about.)

Me: Don’t blame Mrs. Jims. You’re in charge of your own body.

Jonah: No really! She pushed me.

(Didn’t really want to get in a shouting match here so I rerouted…)

Me: So I’m a little confused. Is Mrs. Jims a boy or a girl?

Jonah: I told you! She’s a boy.

Glad we got that cleared up. Jonah’s never really had much use for the segregation of the sexes. I got a little more info about Mrs. Jims from J’s intervention specialist. She has curly hair, is really small, and he met her in the bush at school. She is 10-years-old and never washes her clothes.

Later, J ran ahead (Mrs. Jims right there behind him, no doubt) up the hill. He’s really good about stopping at the curb. We cross together. Sometimes he just drops and lays like dead on the sidewalk, waiting for G and me to catch up. Today the neighborhood postman looked a little worried. He crossed over and smiled. “You all right?” he asked. Before Jonah could respond, Gabriel started going on about his sheep (wish I had a recording here—it’s something like a cross between “cheep” and “jeep”). Jonah quickly inserted himself into the conversation, interpreting for Gabriel and educating the kind mind on the wonders of Shaun the Sheep.

On a totally unrelated note, we found G in John’s office this morning. Not such a strange occurrence, as the word “no” has NO effect on him. But he’d picked up a prop, and I just couldn’t Not take a picture. (Note: not unlike sheep, this word comes out more along the lines of “peep”.)

I’m currently undergoing a dietary experiment. Remove the wheat. Cut back on the carbohydrates. Jump-started by my need to pay better attention to my body (I’ve struggled with various weakened immune system ailments for a couple of months now), what began as a necessity is turning into a choice. I think. The trouble? I love to bake. Big, flaky scones. Fluffy multigrain pancakes. Stretchy, crispy-chewy pizza crust. Homemade, whole wheat loaves. Oatmeal chocolate chip cookies.

Gluten is a kind of miracle. The sticky protein found in wheat (and some grains) acts as glue and elastic. And did I mention it’s delicious? Addictively delicious some would say. I stumbled onto a healthy living website/blog awhile back and read a provocative post titled “How Grains Are Killing You Slowly.” I was curious, and yes, I thought the author was a little kooky (she also advises giving up All grains and beans—right), but a lot of what she wrote made sense. Then I checked out Dr. William Davis’ Wheat Belly. A cardiologist who noticed significant reversals in heart related problems (high blood pressure and cholesterol, pre-diabetic or diabetic issues) in patients to whom he prescribed a wheat free diet—even patients with no known gluten sensitivity, Dr. Davis’ narrative and science made a lot of sense. He talked about the genetic transformations/mutations wheat has undergone over the years. He talked about the body’s chemical processes in terms of wheat digestion. Still, my inner skeptic was…skeptical.

I have never been one for diets and avoid fads on principle. There’s definitely a fad side to the promotion of Dr. Davis’ book (think Atkin’s or South Beach). Frankly, I was a little embarrassed carrying the book around in public. But. But. I decided to give it a go all the same. I’ve struggled for years with IBS symptoms that come and go in varying waves and degrees. I’ve tried removing almost all fat and milk products from my diet. Didn’t work. I even gave up coffee, but there wasn’t enough of a change to keep me at that for long.

Going wheat free doesn’t mean buying gluten-free products. I’m eating more protein—and finding that a couple of eggs with diced peppers and onions in the morning sustains me far better than my regular bowl of oats or porridge (and sustained energy is the name of the game around here). I’m eating more vegetables, something I’ve never done with any regularity. I eat lots of dairy. I drink water. I drink my coffee with cream.

And dang it, I feel pretty darn good. I don’t feel like I can say with certainty that it’s all about the wheat, but I sleep better and wake up feeling like I’ve actually slept. I don’t crash in the afternoon like I used to. My IBS symptoms have even decreased. This sounds like a testimonial, which isn’t what I set out to do at all. But there’s something here making a difference.

Still, what about the cookies? And the cake? The pasta? The scones?! I can’t tell you if I can keep this up, or if the benefits outweigh the obvious pleasures. But I did try out a new “cookie” recipe this weekend. Those apostrophes are meant to convey—”this ain’t the kind of cookie you imagine a cookie to be.” But wow, are they good. I’m not sure I’ve won John over (he’s a chocolate chip cookie connoisseur), but the boys love them, and there’s no sugar except what’s found in a couple of bananas. They don’t flatten out like a normal cookie. They’re more like granola infused banana bread bites. But there’s chocolate and there’s coconut (coconut oil actually holds them together, along with the banana) and there’s oats. And they’re darn tasty. Here’s the link: Nikki’s Healthy Cookies Recipe (her picture of them is more lovely than mine).

I love the blog they’re posted on, by the way. Full of deliciousness. The cookies are still a treat, but I’d serve a few up to the boys with their breakfast. I might even sneak down in the middle of the night. O wait. Leaving my bed isn’t worth the trouble. They’re also vegan, which makes them worth a try if you keep the Lenten fast.

]]> http://jenniferjantzestes.wordpress.com/2012/01/30/cookies-for-breakfast/feed/ 0 tangleruth healthy cookies http://jenniferjantzestes.wordpress.com/2012/01/28/sad-at-school/ http://jenniferjantzestes.wordpress.com/2012/01/28/sad-at-school/#comments Sat, 28 Jan 2012 20:02:12 +0000 Jennifer Jantz Estes http://jenniferjantzestes.wordpress.com/?p=1531 ]]> More often than not, Jonah doesn’t want to go to school these days. It seems that Christmas break threw him for a loop from which he can’t quite break free. Unfortunately, his wonderful, warm teacher—Ms. Jennifer—has been absent more than usual. She is so good at taking him by the hand and helping him engage first thing. Once Jonah’s into his work, I don’t know that he gives home much thought, but it’s the transition that’s the hurdle (I’m with you on that one J).

By the time his intervention specialist arrives, he’s usually good to go. She sends home glowing reports on a regular basis (yesterday: “I have to tell you I am seeing him reading! It is sooooo exciting. I am taking letters and making 3 letter words. He is able to sound them out and put it all together to get the word. He even sometimes will use the word in a sentence.”). Of course, what’s not to love about a young beautiful woman giving you her undivided attention? J’s always had a special place in his heart for the ladies.

One morning this week was particularly heart-wrenching, and John spent a good twenty minutes easing him into the classroom. He then hid from J’s view to watch for awhile. Jonah plopped himself down at a table with his head in his hands. He made crying noises (he’s perfecting the cry-at-will skill). Finally, some work across the room piqued his interest enough to unstick him from his glum.

But the sadness is still apparent. That same day he brought home a rather pitiful looking snowman worksheet. Dear me. The poor chap looks like he’s been nailed in the eye with a snowball. Even his stick arms suggest a certain woe-is-me.

I don’t know how weather affects J, but it’s doing a number on me this winter. Last winter was cold and snowy, but bright, for all that snow. This winter is shaping up to be all grey and slush. Dreariness dreariness.

We had a rough sleep of it last night, and plans had to be cancelled today for lack of energy and stamina. I was okay in the morning (with a cup of coffee in my veins) but felt overwhelmed and sad on our morning walk. Sweet Jo was at his silliness, trying to cheer me up. Unfortunately, silliness often translates to a degree of oblivion. I had to get after him several times for running into light poles and crossing the street without even pretending to look for cars. He remained sweet and contentedly held my hand for the rest of our trek.

Later, while we were hanging our coats to dry, he said, “You know something mom? You were fine this morning, and then you were not.” That’s the way it goes my love. That’s the way it goes.

The kind of marvelous thing about my time there was the waiting room. Yes, you heard me right. It was gloriously quiet. Not library quiet. Not even middle of the night everyone’s sleeping quiet. This place some how, some way, immediately settled my soul. There were other people waiting. A boy and his mother. A gentleman with a satin jacket reminiscent of Grease, with accompanying (and complementary) heavy gold chains. Two older fellows that struck up a conversation about the wonders of automobile factories. Even in the midst of their talking (they weren’t particularly quiet), the stillness prevailed.

These days, waiting rooms seem to be just another way to blast us with news or trashy T.V. or advertisements for the latest procedures and products or educational infomercials about a better diet/diabetic markers/how to take care of a child with a cold…It’s ridiculous. And maddening. Because you have little or no control over the environment. You’re a captive audience, and they are (whoever “they” are) taking blatant advantage of you being, well, trapped like cats. Maybe they think you need entertaining to keep you from lashing out at the nurses and doctors who are invariably keeping you waiting. Usually, it’s about selling something. Tack onto that the incessant buzz of fluorescent lights, and it can (subconsciously, at least) feel like a full blown assault.

But this was an untouched place. I realize this sounds a little silly. I try not to make a habit of hitting people over the head with my experience of spirituality, but when you experience something so Real, well, I think it does some good to say so. On that morning, on that day, in my particular frame of mind, I entered a place I haven’t touched upon in what seems like a very long time. Silence.

As the Swiss philosopher Max Picard writes in The World of Silence:

Silence contains everything within itself. It is not waiting for anything; it is always wholly present in itself and it completely fills out the space in which it appears…Silence is not visible, and yet its existence is clearly apparent. It extends to the farthest distances, yet is so close to us that we can feel it as concretely as we feel our own bodies. It is intangible, yet we can feel it as directly as we feel materials and fabrics. It cannot be defined in words, yet it is quite definite and unmistakable.

Since that day there’s been a palpable internal shift in me. It’s almost like I’ve met up with a very old, dear friend I hadn’t seen or communicated with in years. Why it is that I can access this friend now—why I’ve gone so long without her presence when she was seemingly near as the air I breathe—I can’t say. Receptivity is as strange and intangible as silence itself. But I am tangibly grateful. Just ask my lungs.