I received a call later last night from a mom farther away than I’d like to drive, asking if I might possibly want to work with her kid, as something of a life support, deal with his issues – “You’ve got issues, kid – kindly and with clarity as a helper. Join the team – Mom, Dad, the Kid.
I ask for help each morning to be wide open to all the offers from the day – that day – and one of yesterday’s showed up late. Me all sleepy and dreamy and, when the phone buzzed, ditsing around with a long-unfinished story, pecking at this keyboard, like a slow art gallery crawl.
Who knows. I’m something like third or fourth down the list of calls made, some young guy already coming to their house today for an interview. These days I’m mostly just showing up to each moment and seeing what’s happening, and this may be no more than a late-night celebration of the fact that unplanned journeys arrive like milkweed pods blowing in the breeze. Even just thinking about the possibility feels like a journey.
There’s something about autism, of which I know next to nothing. I told the mom I was 74, late in the call, and there was a moment of silence on the line. The story I was pecking away at when the call came is titled “Magic.”
See how all this stuff swirls around in a day.