Dear Precious Gifts, Here Are My Hands

The better of my writings are always birthed when pain hits heart. Tears from the depth of my soul smears the ink phrases of something too intimate to vocalize. The shrill of hurt cracks my internal window, leaving faint echoes exclusively for my auditory reach. There are no warmed arms or comfort laughs to hover over me or any noon day tea offered with refreshments from a delicatessen for a moment of serenity, nor a bed of roses to provide rest and relief for the weary. Only a consequence is left. This result leads me down to a crawl, pulling without discipline and guides me where emotional outbursts are confined and eventually loosed to be hung on the walls of the many pierced with the similar ache of heart as mine. My freedom of expression was once sequestered out of fear, confusion, inexperience, shame and the mere illusion that what I had to say would be regarded as irrelevant and worthless. But now I write with cause and with a fight, hoping to provoke awareness and an urgency for the lack there of. . . .to send an alarm that people with autism do matter. Their voices count. Their feelings are real. Their lives are significant and valuable. They all bring something unique to the table. But how would we ever know unless we as a society sit, observe, listen, and finally allow them to have the floor. An author advocating her cause said it best, “My heart is bursting with anguish. . . .and I’m praying God will let me do a little and cause my cry for them to be heard.” Her cause different from mine yet both ignited with passion, driven by relationship and built on the fact that perseverance is key to unlocking the door to achievement and change.
Here are my hands. They will embark on the hopes and dreams of these precious gifts, as I work diligently all the while to sketch smiles, to bring expectancy where uncertainty exists and to recognize talents and challenge them to keep trying and not think all is lost at failed attempts. Here are my hands painting a portrait of acceptance, sculpting a model of respect and composing melodies of understanding – all to point these precious gifts in the right direction. Here are my hands, applauding their successes and shining a light on moments yet to come, and giving them hi-5s because I am confident in who they are, even if they are not. These precious gifts, who many may call autistic, are not to be ignored. They are stars that forever twinkle in the world we live. And I, for one, am fighting for the pages of their story be heard. My sincere desire is to walk on sands of beaches where these gifts have not reached and prepare a better welcoming party for their arrival. In the meantime, my heart embraces theirs. My soul awaits to shake their hands and allow the pillow of my voice to cup their minds and ears to hear someone caring. . . . .determined. . . . .and standing in their corner. . . .always.

 

Thanks for listening,

Portia

 

 

 

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