Right Now, It's Like This

Dancing, caring, living, creating. And, reluctantly, RFK, Jr.

If the following seems like a random assortment, welcome to my brain.

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Wishful Reflection

I’m glad my exercise studio has no mirrors. That way, I can imagine my Jazzercise moves are not at all inconsistent with the film in my head of my niece’s promo for her competitive dance team: (Watch this, I’m she’s amazing—)

danzteamproject

A post shared by @danzteamproject

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Carers Everywhere

My husband and I are firmly in the “sandwich generation.” On some level, caregiving comes up in every conversation with our friends. We are all looking out for our children, our parents, our spouses, our clients, our students, our neighbors, ourselves.

The way we will survive all of this <gestures wildly> is by acknowledging the helpers, reminding ourselves how much care is integral to our lives. We belong to each other.

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Reset

When I hear my son get up long before his normal wake-up time, my first reaction is a disappointed sigh, quickly followed by guilt for feeling this way.

On the other side of the wall from my office where I’m trying to read, write, meditate, and get grounded for the day ahead, I hear him “resetting” whatever I’ve touched this morning. I hear the loud squeak of my electric teapot against the counter as he pushes it back to its “correct” position. The clink of the spoon in its ceramic holder. The click/slam of the pantry door. I hear his beads spinning, but his voice is quiet today.

Image by Amy from Pixabay

Not long ago, I would have allowed this early wake-up to disrupt my whole morning. I’d jump up from my quiet space to check on the kid who is checking on my kitchen, ask if he’s OK, see what he needs, suggest he get more sleep. Too much talking in the morning would make us both agitated.

But I’ve learned it’s me who is disrupting my morning. My worry over helping him settle is what unsettles me.

He’s doing his thing. I just happen to live here, too.

Even on the mornings when his noises signal a sour mood, he still may not want my presence. Yes, I am late in figuring out this obvious thing. He and I are both accustomed to my hovering.

I try to imagine that my 26-year-old son is awake, in his own apartment maybe somewhere across town, where his mother can’t hear him.

I reset myself, take a breath, and prepare my voice to be welcoming and kind for the moment he comes to find me.

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Different Paths

I felt vicarious glee to hear Noah Wyle finally got his Emmy. He’s a skilled actor who has done the work in the years after that fleeting second when I was his peer at a summer theatre intensive in the olden days of 1988.

I’m not envious of his success. That would have never been my path.

My tears, then, surprised me, on learning how he shared his joy with his young daughter, a kid who happily rearranged their mantle, no less, in hopeful anticipation of her father’s award. But that is also not my path.

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Simply This

With only a slight prompt from his speech therapist, my son came to tell me: “We’re going to Safeway.” Hearing that rare full sentence, so casual and clear, was the best part of my day.

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I Don’t Want to Write About This

RFK Jr. isn’t saying anything new about autism. I’ve been hearing these things for years.

When my son was diagnosed, in the years between Dr. Wakefield’s Lancet study and its retraction, our new developmental pediatrician cautioned us about diet and deficiencies, about vaccines and Tylenol (back then, there was speculation that we’d ushered in our children’s autism by giving Tylenol after their shots).

For a few years, I followed groups who spoke of “recovery” and “rescue” and who raised suspicions about the CDC. Another doctor told me the most important thing I could do for my child was to believe that his interventions would work.

I haven’t written about my experiences on the “biomedical” front against autism. By the time I started writing about my kid in 2012, I’d stepped away from doctors who talked the way RFK Jr. does.

It’s still hard to untangle my opinions about health and wellness from those early years following doctors who believed the traditional medical establishment was missing something.

I haven’t given my son Tylenol in 23 years, just to be “safe.”

I’m not saying this because I agree with the unfounded claims they’re touting from the nation’s highest office. I don’t. I’m saying this because these irresponsible “announcements” could impact even the most careful parents’ decisions. Fear (and misplaced hope) can do that.

I know the families who have put their faith in RFK Jr. are trying to help their kids.

And, I agree with John Oliver when he said “…experts agree that there are times when RFK and this [MAHA] movement are pointing out real problems” with our country’s health—but they have latched onto misguided “solutions” that “can range from the superficial to the outright dangerous.”

I don’t believe Kennedy and his crew have the answers. They are barking up old growth trees. They won’t find the culprits they’re looking for, although there are certainly a few nuts squirreled away up there.

Photo by Transly Translation Agency on Unsplash

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Refuge

I like writing about books for Atticus Books & Music, because it reminds me how good it feels to read them.

Atticus House of Quirk, Issue #6: “Save Civilization. Read a Book.” (Image by Lennart Heim on Unsplash)

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So Polite

If you are holding something that is of interest to my son—even if you do not offer it—he will stare at you and say, “Yes, please.”

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Yes, You Can

You can find my husband’s art here and here and here and here.

His “Tribute,” a calavera honoring Cesar Chavez, is my latest favorite. It is currently on display at the Día de Los Muertos exhibit at Tohono Chul in Tucson, Arizona.

“Tribute” | 36x48 | Mixed Media (license plates & bicycle chain) | Chuck LaVoie

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A Reminder I Shouldn’t Need

In a guided meditation (offered on

Dan Harris

’ Substack), Vinny Ferraro spoke of learning how to carry the quiet (what you’ve practiced on the cushion) out into the noise of your regular day. Later, when I asked him if he had any words or mantras he uses to reconnect to this stillness during real life, he offered a phrase he returns to often, to feel his feet on the ground and to remind himself that “fundamentally, I’m actually all right.” He says:

Right now, it’s like this.

Now, that one, I should remember!

Thanks for being here! Catch up on previous “read aloud” versions of It’s Like This, now available in your podcast player: Go here for Spotify and here for Apple podcastsand here for YouTube.