Spectrum Zen Teacher

Blue eyed child, I see you in the sunshine nibbling on watermelon and feeling the trees above you. I spot the dirt under your fingernails and am reminded of who you are…a sand sifter, a thought drifter, an “i love the simple things” kind of guy. I think of all the times I’ve found you not quite sitting, basically squatting, over a pile of earth. Your palms closed and a line of dirt swirling towards the ground. Your eyes focus, as if you are riding the dusty trail towards the soft pile below and I wonder where you are.

Then I remember mindfulness, and wish I could watch dirt slipping through my fingers with as much grace, with as much presence as you have. I wish I could hear the crackle of the oil in a skillet the way you do, when you smile and say “oh wow mom, isn’t that so satisfying?” I always have to think for a moment, and then I know it is. It is satisfying. All these little things you take time for … the black ant crawling up your arm and you simply but magnificently allow him to be. You tell me “look at how cute mom” and I see your face and think “yah, how very cute.”

My dear spectrum baby, you are a zen teacher. Your soul shines through your eyes and your freckles and your sweet speaking mouth. Passion glows through your dirty finger nails and your cradle hold on watermelon and ants and hearts and I see you.

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