always making meaning

The Fawn

For one of the occupational therapists who was my clinical instructor where I completed my final fieldwork today :)  

Some of the clients we see are on the autism spectrum--which is infinite.  The therapists at my clinic utilize the DIR (Developmental, Individual Differences, Relationship-Based) framework, which is grounded in face-to-face human interaction.  Central to this framework is the concept of following a child's lead during play, enriching and making his/her initiation of words or play meaningful.  My apologies if using an animal metaphor is in any way offensive; this poem was intended as a metaphorical reflection on a therapeutic interaction.

In the gym,

its red water pipes above,

and ships hoisted with ropes

As crass and inappropriate as the association may be,

I recall The Miracle Worker,

The tale of Anne Sullivan and Hellen Keller.

And the climactic scene at the water pump

As “w-a-t-e-r”

became water:

The Key that unlocked the Beyond.

Some days I cannot help but hear

The white noise of water rushing

As you, miracle worker, set to work

Busying yourself

With what brings water

With what brings life:

What game,

What barely mentioned idea

What toy that catches the eye

And as the water rushes over,

You are sticking your hand out

Over and over again

Looking for that twinkle in the eye,

Your subject of interest:

a young stick-legged fawn

Playing in the grass just beyond the riverbank

And you search for that

glimmer in his eye,

a leg tentatively dipped into the stream,

You desire him to hold it there,

As your eyes meet across the riverbank

And are held for breathless minutes

We know a miracle is at work here.

Like in that play,

When water

Led to watershed

A linking of word and sound and feeling:

a gateway to all beyond.

And here are you,

enticing him from across the riverbank

Because all you know is this land that you live on:

Firm ground, critically rooted

in conversation,

in emotional understanding,

in reading expressions and tone of voice,

In webs that emerge in complex and multifaceted ways

As numerous and unimaginable as the blades of grass under the bed where he is standing, knobbly-kneed and tongue-tied.

And you want to dip your body in the stream that lies between you

And for him to enter this current, too,

long enough to know that you are feeling the same water.

When the wind settles,

Your hands form a cup, and he echoes “cup,”

And you take it to mean—

As you’re always making meaning—

A cup of water.  And you bring a cup.

And you are breathing, watching him drink.

And soon you will be pushing him on his tire swing

back to

Sail away

To some distant land

But in your head is the thought:

The sun is hot.  And over your life a million eyes in the world

will bear down upon you, my dear.

So come again soon, to the edge of your woods,

Where we can dip our legs in this cool current

And together, wonder at where it leads.