Dreamy Blessings

Recently, I had an unusual dream. Not that I’d describe other dreams I have as usual. But once in a while a dream flies in on a REM breeze and just perches in your brain, waiting for you to pull out the binoculars and zoom in on the dreamy feathers of what landed there. 

As I took a closer look and processed what this nocturnal movie played in my overnight slumber, I began to think about what brought about such a scene in my mind’s eye. (If that’s where one “watches” dreams!). Often, I can connect the dots to arrive at one thing – or a series of things – that prompted a dream to show up in the way it did. How this one showed up – and just that it did – took my breath away.

In the dream, I saw and heard Zach. Saw him much the same way he looks now, yet “on another level.” He was sort of glowing. Smiling, laughing, and… speaking. His feathery hair was a radiant blonde and his blue eyes sparkled in a combination of contentment and delight. His laughter was a perfect blend of little boy giggles and young man merriment at the same time. In this sunlit scene were others…and a “significant other” which, I believe, brought about the dream as I’ll explain below…

First some background. In recent weeks, Zach found a class photo from the last school he attended. It was a glossy, 8 by 10 print which clearly has been smooshed in a desk drawer a little too long. Zach and his classmates were arranged in rows. Tall kids stood in the upper rows, and the other (less tall) students were seated in chairs up front. The teacher and the classroom aides stood like smiling bookends, perhaps to keep the more squirrelly kids in place just long enough for the photographer to click the shutter. 

Photo Credit: Andy Lee

For individuals with sensory challenges, posing for a class picture could prove upsetting. I knew some of the kids in the photo from my visits to the classroom, and indeed, I could pick out which ones were struggling with the midday sun on their heads, the outdoorsy noises of wind and whistles or sirens and speeding cars. For Zach, he would be thinking about how long before he could collect all the plastic chairs and restore them to their rightful positions inside the portable classroom. But, all were included, all stayed in position, and all probably received a copy of this photograph.

Zach was seated with his ankles crossed and hands folded in his lap. It made me smile to see him pose this way for a class photo; that was me every September in elementary school. On Zach’s right was a boy only a smidgeon bigger than Zach was at the time. And on his left sat a girl whose body language indicated either shyness or a discomfort with being in the plastic bucket seat. She was the smallest in the class. I noticed Zach’s and her chairs were touching. They looked cute sitting there next to each other.

So, Zach has become newly enamored with this photo. I began to notice the quality of the stare. And at the right angle, I could catch which section of the photo his eyes were pinned to. The girl. 

I then purposefully watched him when he gazed at the photo. Because he is a non-speaking person, I’ve learned to observe him in a way that affords me (to whatever extent possible) insight into his true nature. I have had decades of practice in trying to pinpoint what he wants, needs, feels. Of course that involves some guesswork. But I know my son well. And what I thought I saw in his gaze, in his tender expression, was an affection for this Little Red-Haired Girl. (She was actually brunette…but please allow me this allusion).

A picture of the print on my phone allowed me to confirm:  on the phone, Zach expanded the image and filled up the screen with the girl’s profile. He would hold the phone almost to his nose and look intently at the image. He didn’t scan around at other classmates or his beloved teacher, or even his favorite aide who supplied endless arm tickles. He stared, longingly, at the girl.

This sparked a memory for me. After the Covid lockdowns canceled school for too-many months, students returned mid-year to finish out what was left. There was no van service, so I was providing transportation. One day, as I entered the classroom to get Zach, I was informed that his eyes were red and puffy. Why?? Well, the person said, his buddy graduated today, so she left early with her backpack and other belongings, and Zach has been crying ever since.

Heart. Broken. 

Mine. His.

Photo Credit: Juila Ustinova

I tucked the knowledge of that memory into my heart. I did the best I could at that time to help his spirit heal. It was difficult, and then the campus was closed-again-open-again-closed-again for months on end as infection rates waxed and waned.  The memory of the Little Red-Haired Girl dissipated over time. Or so it seemed. I tried to find her…her parents…but I had no success.

{I haven’t forgotten about the dream. I’ll get to that momentarily.}

In a related vignette, about a month ago, my family visited Carmel. Wherever we go, we are in search of Zach’s favorite treat: sorbet. You name the flavor; he loves it. (Except basil mint. Not that.) 

Photo Credit: Roman Odintsov

We were sitting in a café where they had mountains of Italian gelato in the case, and, to Zach’s delight, four flavors of sorbetto piled high in the silver GN pans. When he devoured scoop #1, he pranced to the trash can to discard the cup and spoon before diving into scoop two. There must have been a bit clinging to the bottom of the paper cup, because at the trash can, Zach paused to lick out the remnants.  A girl about his age walked by him. (No, it was not the Little Red-Haired Girl.) Zach, though transfixed by the last traces of raspberry, looked up and watched the girl walk by. I saw the look…  And she, walking by, took notice of him. They had an eye-lock moment. As she turned her head, her long brown wavy beach hair scarved her neck, and when their eyes met, she waved sweetly and said “Hi.”  A huge smile emerged, and he bounced on his toes like Tigger. He then turned and sprinted to the table for his second scoop (mango).  The young brown-haired girl walked on to a table with her friends. I saw her look over her shoulder at him in a kind way. It touched me.

I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of something in my mom-heart. Something reminiscent of what I felt when I was told about the girl at school leaving. I sat there watching Zach enjoy his sorbet and thinking, how, under different circumstances, the connection by the door could have led to a conversation. To an exchange of phone numbers. To a text. To an invitation to a bonfire on the beach the next day. To a date perhaps. My imagination took off like a kite in a coastal wind. Only, that kite loses lift in the stormy winds of profound autism. Sometimes, it crashes in gnarled trees.

Photo Credit: Laura Stanley

Through the years, here and there, while cooking or gardening or sitting at a red light, I have found myself thinking about people in his life I’d never know as my son’s mom, because they were not there. School buddies, best friends, and romantic crushes. Teammates perhaps. College roommates, competitors from math tournaments, co-workers at his first job. Kids he ate lunch with at the cafeteria. Friends he hung out with on Friday nights. All of them, unknown…no paths crossed because profound autism acts as a far-reaching, nearly impenetrable barricade to the everyday encounters in life that some not affected by PA might take for granted.

Photo Credit: Magda Ehlers

Particularly piercing were, and are, the melancholy musings that hover sometimes and occasionally glide in, talons spread. They puncture. In those type of thoughts lie not only past heartaches but also a what-could-have-been sadness. What would Prom have been like for him? Would he have gone with a girl…a group…? Would he want to get married someday? What would a future daughter-in-law be like? Would he and his partner nest somewhere local or fly off overseas? Would there be grandchildren? What names would they choose? (If naming our backyard dragonflies gives a hint, then my grandchildren would be Otto, Monty, or Stony. Pretty sure Stony would not be a good name.) There is emotion intertwined in woeful thoughts such as these that even the best adjectives cannot adequately describe.

Sometimes, it feels to me as if profound autism is a vulture that descends slowly and strips – down to the bone – certain hopes and dreams clean away. At times, it feels as if PA picks and picks and picks away at so-called normal life, leaving scavenged bits on the ground. I have not, do not, and will not live surrounded by scraps and fragments though; those ugly bits disappear (maybe 95% do…) with determination, willful positivity, and most significantly, with God’s loving help. 

Photo Credit: Salvatore Satizaba

Yet, because I’m human, there are, naturally, times that the bluebird of happiness gets chased away by something darker with a bigger wingspan. It can engulf me before I recognize it, and wistful what-ifs dart around my head. Honestly, it is only with the Holy Spirit’s help that hope happens by in those heavy-hearted moments and heals my heart. I believe that once in Heaven, what was once lost will be restored. What I, as Zach’s mom, cannot bring to my son in this life, God will redeem for him in eternity. Those thoughts are the scarecrows that deter the dark things and prevent them from landing.

The other night, while watching a Hallmark movie, Zach fell asleep sitting next to me. I watched the sweet sleepy face drift off and wondered what his dreams are like. If he understands what dreams and nightmares are. If he remembers them at all.  Maybe the gooey-ness of Hallmark generated wistful thoughts of the girl at the beach café and the girl from school. These thoughts touched upon my mind like a dragonfly kissing water. Zach shifted and smiled. Was Zach dreaming about the Little Red-Haired Girl?

Well, that night, I  dreamed about her. 

Photo Credit: Polina Kovaleva

Yes. In the dream, my mind experienced some magnificent moonlight imaginings. The dream provided a motion picture filled with vivid visual imagery. It was so life-like that when my alarm sounded, I had to pause and discern dream from reality. 

In this dream sequence, I witnessed Zach and the girl from school together…smiling, laughing, scampering about as if involved in an invisible game at the park only the two of them knew how to play. They looked carefree and joyful. There was no hint of disability. They were not at a table in a special ed classroom. They appeared free and delighted by something my eye could not see. They were laughing – and talking – to each other, and to others. People other than me were around, and I had the sense that they, too, saw this and shared a feeling of elation from witnessing Zach and the girl in their swirly dance and giggly delight. At one point, Zach became aware of my presence from off to the side, and he intentionally turned his head, looked me in the eye, and just beamed out the biggest smile I had ever seen.

In this dream, I was treated to glowy glimpses of breathless giggles, smiles so luminous and genuine I couldn’t help but smile too, and the oh-so-precious sound of Zach’s true voice. I wish my mind could recall the words I heard him speak, but my heart knows the sound of the voice that spoke them. 

As I laid in bed after waking up from this dream state, I felt a tender melancholy. That feeling of sheer contentment for having had this moment in time…being treated to such a moment. Yet, the feeling is layered with sad yearning because I can’t bring that moment, or that dream, back. And – I cannot make such a moment real. I saw something dream-real that, in real life, is only but a dream. 

Photo Credit: Okan Demircan

How I wish I could have collected the images and sounds from this fluttery dream sequence and preserved them. I’d spill them into a gilded birdcage and set it upon my nightstand. Then, I could lift the little latch every night and release the lovely memories so they could fly above my pillow, sending glittery stardust swirling around while I slumbered.

But, as is the way of dreams, the dreamscape receded like sun-touched fog departing a verdant valley. What pieces I retain, I also embrace. Zach was happy in the dream. He looked happy, sounded happy, acted happier than happy. He had a lightness and a glow about him. Zach has the vitality and vibrancy of a hundred hummingbirds anyway, but, there, I encountered a more radiant Zach. Illuminated. Alive in a different way.  

And although my efforts to find the Little Red-Haired Girl and reconnect these two friends have proven unsuccessful, she showed up in this dream. She was there, with him, and they were together. They were filled with joy to see each other. I experienced them as free from the limitations that are certainties in this life; in the next, I believe those limits will be lifted, for good. For all of us, really.

I have gratitude for this gift that was delivered, feathery quiet, as though gently set upon my mind by unseen wings. However it came about, this dreamy blessing will stay with me until the time comes that dream-real is rendered heaven-real.

Click the link for a lovely poem to reflect on, by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)