08/19/2023
This is from Adrian Wood’s FB page of:
Boy, he wanted to go in that lighthouse.
I knew from the moment I mentioned a trip to Cape Lookout there could be disappointment.
Life is like that though for the ones with autism, disappointment seems to sting a bit more.
And so, we try to avoid it.
Like having a friend take an Uber to the airport because he can’t stand not to fly if get within throwing distance of one.
Calling ahead to see if the snack bar has ice cream sandwiches.
And yes, even choosing destinations and activities that suit his needs like a trip to Seattle for his tenth birthday.
But yesterday, his big brother and friends wanted to go surfing at the cape and so, we went.
They matter, too.
The rising third grader was terribly excited to hike the stairs that go round and round.
When the lighthouse keeper regretfully told him that it was closed for repair, I braced myself for the aftermath.
A slew of curse words, crying, stomping, throwing.
Emotions that reflect the temper tantrum of a toddler and yet, they’ve been part of our daily for nine years.
To my surprise, he said, “Oh, no!” and seemingly swallowed his sadness.
We investigated the interior of the keeper’s house and walked the long boardwalk to the ocean side of the barrier island.
It wasn’t easy.
He talked incessantly about the lighthouse and how it ACTUALLY was open.
He hemmed and hawed and dragged his brown feet.
I never did get a chance to swim in the warm waters marked by August or sit in my chair beneath the umbrella.
All afternoon, I stood beside him on the ledge.
It’s a lonely place, I tell you.
But it’s beautiful, too.
Two people in a world.
Me coaxing him to join a land where people meander along well trod paths.
Him leaping from cliffs where rules and order seize the day.
We survived.
Made it back to the marina without a walk in the lighthouse.
As we moved towards the car, he took note of the yachts.
“Are you the owner?”
He asked each innocent passerby.
And so it goes.
A life that doesn’t involve sticking to sidewalks, not splashing others or keeping one’s hands to themselves.
And still, I choose him.
He is my lighthouse.