Chumbawumba

Listening, letting go, and getting up again

A  few times throughout the day I get a sweet little notification on my phone from substack. 

You’ve got a new follower…

It makes me smile. It makes me wonder how you found me. 

If one of those times was you - if you’re new here:

WELCOME. 

I’m really glad you’ve found this space. I hope you experience the kind of soul resonance that makes you wanna stick around.  

But forgive me when I tell you that this essay – this one specifically? 

Is for those of you who have been around for years. Those, whose hearts soared and  broke with mine during the days I was still sharing more personal information about my kids on the internet snd in classes I taught. (I avoid doing so these days). Those who aren’t looking for a happy ending for me per se, but may experience a welcome sense of peace in hearing about a metaphorical  rainbow breaking through so many dark clouds.

A few Saturdays back, I was driving Myra (My 19 year old daughter who is Autistic), to an audition. But not just any audition. A call back audition. And not just any call back audition, a call back audition for one of her favorite musical’s of all time, Hadestown. 

The audition was four hours long. I spent most of that time filling out job applications and reading the gorgeous (and heavy–literally), The Covenant of Water by Abraham Verghese. Which, incidentally, I loved so much that I’ve been grieving since the moment I finished it. You should all rush to that link, or your local library and read it immediately. 

I didn’t know what to expect when I went to pick Myra up afterwards.

I was waiting in the near empty parking lot while the clouds were playing tag between bursts of rain and snow. It got darker. I got more nervous. Finally, Myra came skipping out to the car. Her head was turned down and to the side at a just so angle. The one that tells me she is gleefully reliving something in her mind’s eye. Her smile was giddy. The energy she carried looked too big for her body, which gave her gait a stumbly, rushed quality - as if she was trying to keep up with her joy.

When Myra  got to the car, before I could even ask how it went, she proclaimed,

“That was the best time ever! I made so many friends! Everyone was so kind….”

And so on and so forth. 

I drove quietly, nodding. My smile was as wide as the grand canyon as I listened to her gush. I am used to listening to my daughter. Having front row access to her heart, her precision of thought, the wild and endlessly creative corridors of her mind is one of the greatest privileges of my life. 

However, for long and frightening years during Myra’s teens, what I listened to most often was hurt and anguish pouring not only out of her mouth but her very being. It's not easy to exist in this world, period. It's especially not easy when the world is not designed for a nervous systems like yours. Often, the psychic pain she endured felt like a torture to her that was more than either she, or I could bear. Sometimes, despite expensive, intensive therapy for her mental health, the listening was all we had. 

So these days, to listen to my child, who is now a woman - one who like any grown woman - gets properly annoyed with her mother– to hear her overflowing with brightness from a good audition was a balm and beauty I did not take for granted. 

I wanted to treat her. I pointed the car to Salt Lake City to get us Ramen for dinner.

“Mom,”

Myra said. 

“That’s one thing about me. Life can be really hard, but I know how to make a comeback.” 

I laughed. 

I told her how many times I’ve thought the same thing. I told her that our family theme song could be Tubthumping by Chumbawumba. Do you know it?  Its a hit from the 90’s  that I found painfully annoying then, but suddenly regarded in that moment as poignant. 

Ok, I’ll come clean. I've had more than a few moments before that one where I suddenly found Tubthumping moving. Bless the members of Chumbawumba and wherever they may be “pissing the night away,” now. 

I put Tubthumping on  over the car speakers. Myra was not as impressed or moved as I wanted her to be. But she played along and listened  with me:

“I get knocked down. But I get up again. 

No you’re never gonna keep me down. 

I get knocked down. But I get up again.

No you’re never gonna keep me down.”

We moved on and  chatted about other life things - including the circle of friends she has now - how good it feels to be adored and feel secure in friendship. After we ate our yummy Ramen and Myra enchanted the server with her good mood, we headed next door to buy various goodies at the Chinatown Supermarket. 

Although its one of her favorite places, Myra clutched my arm as we walked into the market  – caught  in a sudden wave of sensory overwhelm and social anxiety. We took a deep breath -therapy has equipped us both with a long list of coping skills–and continued, still riding the high of the perfect audition. 

At one point, Myra saw an unidentifiable yet magnificently huge  sea creature bobbing up and down in a tank. She let out a very loud yelp of both surprise and awe. The people around us were startled by the noise. Then they began to smile. The noise had  frightened them, but the awe was contagious. 

This is a scenario we have lived a million times since Myra  was a child. The first was when I took her to see the movie, UP, for the first time in a theater. She was three years old. Her laughter was louder and fuller than anyone there. Often it came just before the joke was even finished. It made the whole theater laugh louder. The intensity with which she experiences emotion is so pure it can feel too much to physically take. Yet when allowed and explored without fear holds a mega wattage of voltage that is inspiring + life giving beyond measure. 

She was made for a stage. 

She was made for something large, like an audience or her art to hold her. 

She was made for now. 

She was made for many things, but her simple existence as herself is enough for me.

To have been on the witnessing end of that much raw energy for the years she's been “mine,” –- well — thinking of it zaps through me in my own overwhelming way. It closes my throat. It steals my words. It makes me realize with a shock, I'm not ready to let her go. 

Yet I do.

Yet there she goes. 

Chumbawumba,

Yan