We are watching Ethan's every move. Noting what makes him smile. What makes him curious. What makes him unhappy. It brings new understanding to the way people interact with each other, how we weave into each other. As we watch him, he watches us and together we figure out ways of being together, slowly sussing each other out day by day.
I also learn about myself, and maybe about people generally. Watching Ethan, life is divided into simple needs. Food. Warmth. Play. Love. Somewhere along the road, we might get all confused, knotted up and discouraged as the struggles in life seem more complex.
I've been using baby nap time to read a book about Milton Erikson, a legendary hypnotherapist who used stories to help his clients overcome problems (My Voice Will Go With You, by Sidney Rosen). Erikson encouraged people to not lose childlike curiosity and playfulness in the midst of frustration. The first of his stories in the book is called 'Learning to Stand Up' and really captures the long-forgotten frustrations of getting balance coordinated between legs, feet and hips for a child learning to stand for the first time. The tale is possibly intended to remind the listener that we have already overcome such great challenges. The skill to overcome the greatest barriers is there, even if it is forgotten. And we are encouoraged to maintain the fresh, creative perspective of a child, even in adversity.
I see Ethan, each day, making another small change in his movements and behaviour to accomplish his goals. Getting food. Reaching for something he likes. Interacting in ways that invite as well as show love.
And children love in a beautiful way. Without concern for how they seem or what others will think of them. I was out for coffee with friends the other week. Ethan and my friend's child took to sizing each other up. Staring un-ashamedly for ages before deciding 'I like you' and smiling without a care if the feeling was returned. This is how all love should be, given without fear or demand that it be returned. My friend's child, now almost 2, left the cafe crying to be leaving his new friends.
These times are as beautiful as they are tough. My mind goes to Noah and what he might be doing. What he might be like. In a quiet moment, during a peaceful baby nap, I was sitting in the springtime sunshine in the backyard looking at the cherry blossoms starting to bloom. Baby monitor clipped to my belt loop, I thought of Ethan's lovely smile and how intensely wonderful he had made my life. And as I looked at the delicate blossoms beginning to form I thought of how intensely painful life felt without Noah.
Mind drifting to Noah's funeral, a line from the Lord's Prayer popped into my mind, 'Your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.' The day of the funeral I stood silent as the prayer was recited. How could I ask for God's will when it was so wrong and painful? Sitting watching the blossoms and listening to the silent baby monitor, I felt gratefulness that Ethan came to me. I was suddenly struck by how much I wanted one part of God's will - or whatever brought Ethan to me - and not the other, the part that took Noah away. And even still, that brief moment in time I had with Noah was a gift that I wouldn't trade away given the choice. I could only hope that the same will that brought Ethan to be with me here on earth was looking after Noah somewhere in heaven.
I am sad. And yet every time I think that I can't get through, I do. Like the child in Erikson's story, like Ethan, I find ways to adjust. Like every child, I always have done and always will. Like that child standing for the first time, my balance can be off and I might fall. But I can try to steady myself and start again, maybe getting a bit further next time. Part of what can help when missing Noah is being immersed in the experience of love like a child would be. Without the demands that make love about satisfying my fears. Is there love without pain? Like the my friend's child, falling in love with a new friend, so unconcerned about the outcome, crying and sadness still follows when the one you love leaves, even if it's not forever. That true and unselfish love is as wonderful as it is painful. Then every moment with the ones you love feels like a wonderful gift, no matter how it turns out in the end.
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