A Beautiful Place To Walk

 

It’s hard to say what the impact of Covid isolation has had on Coleman, but I’d say his attention is one of the first things that comes to mind.  All of the hours without a schedule left him with a lot of free time to wander and stay inside his head.  We tried to keep him busy and fill his day with meaningful activities but it was a long day to fill without school.  During this time, he’s grown more absorbed in his own thoughts, and getting him to attend to things has become more difficult, even with things he loves to do.  Playing games and reading a book are a constant back and forth of “are you listening Coley?” and stopping the game/book and telling him “When you’re ready we can start again.”  But even that works less frequently.  His inability to stay focused makes me wonder how much of anything he really absorbs, and how realistic it is to expect him to retain complex, multi-step actions.  But then, something small and wonderful happens that reminds me yes, he is capable, he is listening.      

One day last summer, we went for a walk at the harbor.  It was early in the day and the beach was quiet and warm.  During Covid, we developed a routine for exactly where we would start and end every day.  If you know Coleman, you know there is always a routine.  Choose your first route carefully because it will be become the same route you have to walk every time.  Our walk took us north along the beach to the rocks, up to the walking path and we followed that to the end.  We turned around, went back the same way, down the path, across the beach, past the parking lot, past the boat launch, around the statue and back to the car.  He loved the walks there, scripting out loud and smiling, and it was nice break from the monotony of the day, so we took him nearly every day, sometimes twice.  One morning as we made our way off the beach and onto the walking path, we passed an old woman sitting on a folding chair, reading a book.  She had a tiny folding table beside her and I envied how peaceful and relaxed she looked.  I nodded and said “Good morning” as we passed her, Coleman outpacing me and jabbering away to himself as he strode past her up the pathway.  On our way back, she stood up as we approached.  “Every day I am here, I see you or your husband walking with him,” and she looked over to Coleman. “He seems very happy.”  She was older than my mother would have been but still she reminded me of her.   “He is happy!” I said, half lying because I left off the words right now, and added “He loves walking here.”  Coleman was beside me, looking down, and repeating segments of a Max and Ruby episode and laughing.  I always feel like I have to explain him when he does this, to ease the awkwardness of his behavior, but before I could start she said “He reminds of my friend’s grandson.  He has autism too.”  I was relieved to not have to explain him.  Coleman stopped scripting and looked at us.  “Well, I just wanted to say he is lucky to have you.  I’m glad you have such a beautiful place to walk together.”  I laughed and thanked her and Coleman and I continued on.  Coleman led as I followed him back down the path, across the beach, past the parking lot and the boat launch, around the statue and back to the car.   “That was a great walk Coley!” I said.  He smiled. 

Later that night, as we were getting ready for bed, I said “I hope you had a good day today, Bud.  Thanks for going for a walk with me this morning!”  He looked up at me and said, clearly and without hesitation,  “I’m glad you have such a beautiful place to walk together.” 

So when I think I’m not getting through to him, or I think he isn’t absorbing, I remember this story and I know.  Somewhere, somehow, in some tiny corner of his brilliant brain, he is absorbing it.  He’ll use it when he needs to.