Posts Tagged ‘intuition’

The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. (Albert Einstein)

Ella leads our play and I follow: trick or treat, hide and seek, happy birthday in multiple forms—bunny’s fifth birthday and mine. Ella plays the role of Daddy; I am Daughter. I ask how old I am today. The reply? Seventy. In the make-believe world, the next obvious question has an unknown answer. It doesn’t matter.

While my spirit keeps up with the imagination of my granddaughter, my bones don’t. My lower back aches. But, I don’t tell Ella. Later, when her daddy and Grandpa come back from their errands I will put heat on the complaining area. For now, I will move a tad slower.

Then, I notice the microwave announcing my food is ready. I didn’t put anything in it. My bed buddy is warm.

Ella admits she did it. She shows me how she placed the fabric-covered bag of rice inside and hit Express. “For your back.”

How did she know? And get this warmed for me so quickly? During hide and seek?

Ella goes to the toy room and grabs the box of bandages. She places a strip inches from the most annoying area. Comforting heat relieves the discomfort in my back. I sit leaned against the chalkboard on the floor in the room with the toys as we play.

“You are amazing, Ella. How did you know my back hurt?”

“And your throat, too.”

My hiatal hernia has enlarged and burned the inside of my throat. Not a problem I would share with a child of any age.

Ella’s Down syndrome may have affected her muscle tone and other areas of her development. However, she has been reading phonetically for several years. Her intuition is beyond exceptional. She is a blessing in my life.

I’m not sure she knows how to explain how she understands what most people of any age would never recognize. To me, the answer is a mystery. For her, she is simply being Ella.

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When you are grateful—when you can see what you have—you unlock blessings to flow in your life. (Suze Orman)

As I wait for the green light at an intersection in my neighborhood, I suspect the driver of the old black truck coming from the other direction is in a hurry although I can’t cite any evidence to prove this is true. My heart and mind are not focused on racing. The transience of existence slows my thoughts. I’m on my way to a funeral.

Let the driver make the first move, I tell myself. And see if I am simply being hyper-vigilant. The truck turns with jet-action speed a split section after the light changes.

We would have collided.

I thank God, then recall my best friend Linda’s intuition last night. We were at an outdoor concert. The air got thick and hot. I felt tightness in my chest and started coughing. “I think we’d better go,” she said. “The air is getting just too heavy.”

Lightning flashed in the distance. No thunder. However, we had scarcely hit the highway when the rain came down with such fury I could have sworn we were traveling underwater. Our friend Tom kept his cool as he drove. And I was grateful to arrive home safely.

Now I say goodbye to a friend’s granddaughter. She lived a good life. She was loved. She had autism; it did not own her. I never met the girl and yet her picture in the obituary notice draws me to her. I know her grandmother. And I understand grief. People who have special-needs folk in their lives appreciate the beauty of the bond possible with them.

I think about the wound on my Ella’s chest and wonder how long it is going to take to heal. And yet it will heal. Eventually. It only seems like an eternity.

We can’t celebrate everyone we love forever. I wish I had understood the power of each moment years ago. Actually, I wish I could carry that knowledge into the times that seem boring, difficult, or annoying. Now. As they are occurring and not later.

Intuitions are gifts. The scene at the light saved me from a serious accident. My friend’s insight saved four long-time friends from a mob in a thunderstorm. Neither incident spared me from the real world or a finite existence. Chances are tomorrow will offer opportunities to laugh, cry, get angry, enthused, embarrassed, frightened, anxious, or inspired.

I pray to cling to the gifts.

a smile from God

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How much does one imagine, how much observe? One can no more separate those functions than divide light from air, or wetness from water. Elspeth Huxley

My granddaughter Rebe and I go to a small local park. She has brought four of her children, dolls of varying sizes crammed into a single doll carrier.

When we arrive we see another woman holding an infant surrounded by five to seven children as well as a dog tied to a bench. The older children seem to be attending to the younger; I assume that the group is part of some kind of daycare but don’t ask. The woman has enough to handle.

One young man, who could be twelve-years-old tops, attends to a boy on a baby swing. The smaller child appears to be approximately two.

“Is he your little brother?” I ask.

“No, he’s my step sister’s baby,” the boy says. He stops pushing the little one on the swing and grabs an adjoining swing. When the baby swing slows and the little boy whines, Rebe pushes him.  I had considered pushing the little guy, but decided to wait until he became accustomed to my presence. Sometimes children are afraid of strange adults. Kids accept kids immediately.

“Thanks,” the older boy tells Rebe. He pumps his swing higher and then quickly lowers himself when my granddaughter decides to play elsewhere.

“You take good care of him,” I say.

He looks at me as if forming an unspoken response, but doesn’t share his thoughts. Something in his eyes startles me, a look suggesting complexity beyond his years.

A few minutes later the woman carrying the baby, leads the other children toward a shelter down a slight hill. The boy jumps from the swing mid-air, and then hands the little boy a cell phone, perhaps to distract him. “Got to go now,” he says.

The child in the swing shakes his head.

“Come on,” he says gently. “We have to go.” He lifts the toddler from the swing and puts him in a stroller.

I smile at the boys, in a reserved kind of way. I don’t know this pair’s story, not sure what I need to say—In fact, I sense that the caretaker doesn’t want to talk. I don’t know the boys’ names! Perhaps the older child is babysitting for an hour. Perhaps this situation is an everyday, overwhelming task.

The older boy pushes the stroller out of the park.

Rebe runs to the slide with her dolls and drops them down, one at a time. Our middle granddaughter hasn’t begun first grade yet. Her everyday world is relatively simple.Today she creates scenarios where we need to dive from play equipment into shark-and-alligator-infested water. Rebe magically turns into a mermaid. Then without warning, our six-year-old innocent child becomes Rebe again when she decides it is time to leave for lunch.

I am grateful for one-on-one time with my granddaughter, yet sad because I was not prepared to meet the young man and his step-sister’s son at the park. Perhaps I could have been helpful, perhaps not. Life’s whole does not belong to me.  Rebe tells me later that she loves me as much as the whole world and back again. If I could have one wish I would zap that kind of love around. But, I don’t know any genies, so with just one day at a time, guess I’m going the slow, uncertain route.

In the meantime I trust the evidence and my gut. Sometimes I will be right-on. Other times I won’t know one way or the other. I am only one small part of a very large whole.

everyone fighting a batle

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