I am EXHAUSTED.  Because I did not sleep last night.  Because I have seizures now.  So I started Topamax yesterday.  And though I was assured by the neurologist and the pharmacist and the pharmacy assistant I harassed incessantly about interactions with the other medications I take that everything was fine to take together, I was a freaking wreck last night.  I didn’t want to take my usual anti-anxiety medication that helps me sleep because the Topamax supposedly can make you drowsy.  I was hoping one might just take the place of the other.

See.  I refuse to be older.  I don’t even know what that exactly means, except that I think it means I have a scary reference lodged in my noggin somewhere that when I am 60 years old, I will be that lady with the four different pill boxes labeled not only by day, but by hour. And there will be lists everywhere to remind me of which medication to take when and with or without food, or water, or no water.  To chew or not to chew. To store in the refrigerator or in a dark cabinet. And I will have glasses hanging around my neck on a string so I don’t lose them.

I feel no discrimination toward aging itself. I just don’t want my body to feel older than my brain.  Right now my brain is at a comfortable 28 or so, and my body is chronologically 37 but running at a steady 32.  I can still touch my toes, I don’t creak all that much yet, I have gorgeous blood pressure (100/70) and the heart of a youngster.  I like to bounce the basketball around with my son, pick up all 63 pounds of RM to squeeze her, ride bikes with the family, hike with the SGM and walk at night alone for an hour or more.  Sure, I’m overweight.  But it’s a healthy fat.  I could probably beat most of you at arm wrestling because even SGM is terrified when I flex my guns.

I digress.

Seizures.  I’m not real excited to have them.  They suck.  I have the kind called simple partial.  I am awake and remember them.  As I said, they suck.  It’s like time stops and I am paralyzed while a lightning bolt strikes me in the face and runs down my body.  I might have a few jerky movements.  I can hear SGM talking to me, but clearly he is noticing at this point that I am busy at the moment.  After it’s over, I just want to sleep for days.  Or four days.  Yeah. FOUR DAYS.  That sounds dreamy. But there is shit to get done and I don’t want life passing me by.  Certainly not if I’m going to wake up one morning as that old lady with all the pill boxes.  I’m going to want to have some fun between now and then.

Anyhoo.  So I was nervous about taking the Topamax with my other medication that helps me sleep.  So while I noticed after about an hour that the Topamax had “numbed” my brain, I was annoyed because I wasn’t sleepy.  So I lay there awake all night not thinking.  Which seems pointless.  Usually I am at least thinking good shit up while I lay awake in a rage of sleeplessness.  Also, I am able to “play” music in my head, which is good and bad, sometimes it is a stimmy loop that is calming to me while it plays in the background and is definitely helpful when I cannot sleep. The Topamax distinctly dulled my ability to “hear” the intricacies of the music (I have been “listening” to the subway violinists, last night they sounded like crap lol).  While I can appreciate no seizures and less headaches, and I can even appreciate not being so attracted to every last visual and auditory detail around me, this is a huge step toward bland.  I wasn’t looking for bland.

Well. Have a great day.  I have to go and play outside now.  I’m going to look for my mojo.  I think it’s out there in the garden or something.

I was just tending to the farm and trying “not to get into any trouble.”  SGM’s boots had just hit the ground in Afghanistan.  RM was three years old and relatively healthy.

RM had transitioned into the special education preschool in district and was making very little progress.  When the autism diagnosis came, the relationship with the district became a cyclone of lies and deceit and I was swept up into their storm.

I don’t remember how bad it really was.  I only remember darkness and the feeling of spinning…

When I came to in an unfamiliar land, little did I know then that my house had landed purposefully atop the Wicked Witch that viciously ruled the Munchkins.

Another autism mom (RM’s YMCA teacher from more than a year prior) magically appeared descending through the clouds.  She was surrounded in an effervescent glow with a gentle smile that could kill and in place of an exquisitely sparkled wand she carried a bloodied and bruised wooden bat.

She did not hand over a pair of ruby shoes.  No.  She handed me the bat.

It would take entirely too long to explain the misadventures down the Yellow Brick Road in this one post, many are highlighted in the archives here.  But I will tell you that along the way to an appropriate outplacement I met many characters in The Land of Oz.

The Scarecrow led me in the wrong direction.

The Tin Man really had no heart.

The Cowardly Lion hid behind a title and a desk.

The Wicked Witch always waited until four o’clock on a Friday to mail shit to my home.

There were Flying Monkeys and a Forest of Fighting Trees.  All terrifying at first glance but would reveal themselves as completely ineffective at their jobs.  They relied on gruesome makeup and the special effects of words like “Due Process” and “Mediation” to keep up the charade.

I was desperate to make my way to Oz.  I thought the power I needed to find comfort at home again could only be granted by The Great and Powerful Wizard.

I honestly had no idea who The Wizard was.

I went to Congress and looked for The Wizard there.  I went to The White House, too.  I went on cable news and begged an entire nation to help me find the answer.  WHO is this Wizard?

WHO do I BEG for an education for my child?  WHO will fight for her?  WHO will LOVE her enough to say YES?  WHO will seek justice for her?

WHO IS THE GODDAMNED WIZARD??

When my child’s placement is threatened, WHO do I fight?

When her programming needs to be reframed, WHO will write the goals for her to access the same curriculum as every other child?  The science and the social studies, too?

WHO will teach me the laws and how to hold the district accountable?

WHO??

PLEASE. TAKE ME TO THE FREAKING WIZARD.

Oh.

What?

I see.

It’s me.

I was searching for what was there all along.  I just didn’t understand that I possessed the brains, heart, courage, and power to make it all happen.

Yes, I needed a little help from a Good Witch and countless other parents who shared their own experiences. Yes, I needed the bat once in a while to ward off The Flying Monkeys.  Yes, I needed to educate myself.

But in the end, it took only a few emails and a bucket of water.

Because really, truly, I had The Power all along.

So do YOU.

So do YOU, my friend.

Don’t let the cast of characters in Oz make you feel less than THE MOST IMPORTANT, EFFECTIVE AND POWERFUL MEMBER OF YOUR CHILD’S EDUCATIONAL TEAM.

The Scarecrow is not smarter than you.

The Tin Man does not love your child.

The Cowardly Lion will never have your back.

At the end of the day your brains, love for your child, and courage to take charge of the Individualized Education Plan (IEP) are the most tangible and relevant elements in a land somewhere over the rainbow.

When I felt like the characters I faced were not acting in good faith, I opened up The Curtain using The Freedom of Information Act (FOIA).  I used a State Complaint and the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA) to pour a bucket of water on The Witch.  You see, these are free and fairly straightforward tools that were created for ME.  They are nothing to be afraid of and they are actually very easy to use.  And if you feel that you aren’t sure of how to use them correctly, there are state and federal officials who get paid to enforce IDEA and FOIA.  That is their job.  They are not Flying Monkeys, THEY WORK FOR YOU.

Actually, everyone involved in your child’s education work for you, too.  Even Scarecrow, Tin Man, and The Cowardly Lion.  They are your employees.  YOU are The Wizard.

I finally learned that the IEP is my own legally binding magic wand and as The Wizard I write the goals that dictate the services my child receives.  If district and school staff are unable to execute programming that allows my child to access the general curriculum as outlined in her goals – separate goals for each core curriculum standard* – then I grab the bucket of water and pour.

There is no one to fight.  There never was.  I just needed to figure out that I AM THE WIZARD.

I. AM. THE. WIZARD.

And so are YOU, my friend. SO. ARE. YOU.

***

[*45 of 50 states have adopted Core Curriculum Standards and have/or are in the process of implementation. Individual states should have curriculum frameworks available on their education department websites, or for entertainment factor you can request the subject frameworks from your district BOE.  The very basic intent of IDEA is that every child, regardless of disability has ACCESS to the SAME curriculum as the general education population in ALL subject areas INCLUDING ARTS AND SCIENCES. Kids with autism deserve better than goals that are reflective only of basic human functioning - they deserve to experience the entirety of what this world has to offer.]

[Hello, Friends.  This morning I sent the following email to just about everyone. Attached was the State Department of Education complaint we filed last week. I am not sharing the actual complaint document here as it contains personal details, but the general content of the complaint is described in the below letter.]

Good morning, Governor, Ladies and Gentlemen,

My name is Rachel Kenyon, mother of RM (6).  RM is a special education student in the town of Manchester and attends the *** School.

Once again, our family has been subjected to unethical practices carried out by the Pupil Personnel Services (PPS) Staff of Manchester Public Schools.

Attached you will find the complaint filed last week with the State Department of Education, Special Education Bureau.  There were an additional 200 pages of documentation that we provided to support the complaint.  Those documents are available upon request to all parties in this communication. This complaint was filed after a Planning and Placement Team (PPT) meeting on March 4th, 2013, during which the Outplacement Coordinator of Manchester Public Schools (MPS), refused to listen to and accept a recommendation by RM’s neurologist and advised me instead to file for mediation or due process, or file a state complaint.

I spend much of my time advocating for special needs families when I am not advocating for my own children.  Sadly, time and again the families that seek out my assistance are also victims of the continued practice of MPS to say “no” to appropriate services for special education students, forcing parents into a corner.  Special needs families are struggling day to day.  We are the most vulnerable population within our communities while also the most underserved.  Most of our families do not have the resources to spend thousands of dollars on attorneys’ fees to push for the legal access to education their children are afforded under the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA), 504 and the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA). Rather, our families are being bullied to the brink of exhaustion within a system that is so inherently flawed that the Pupil Personnel Services (PPS) staff think nothing of laughing at parents and telling them to go ahead and file for mediation or due process.

Our family has endured several such PPT meetings where we were laughed at and ignored by PPS, and talked over by Board legal counsel.  We have been to mediation.  We have spent thousands on attorneys’ fees while my husband was serving in Afghanistan.  Years later now, I have educated myself regarding the rights and laws designed to protect my child’s best interest, yet I have never experienced a single member of the PPS staff exhibit an ounce of compassion or reason when discussing my child’s education. Instead, PPS staff have refused to even listen to physician recommendations and also refused the simple courtesy of including a school physician consultant in PPT invitation.  Even more disturbing, is that the Outplacement Coordinator for MPS was once RM’s in-district speech pathologist.  There was a time when Ms. Outplacement Coordinator claimed to love my child and enjoyed eating lunch with her each day.  Subsequently, it was Ms. Outplacement Coordinator who rejected RM’s neurologist’s diagnosis of autism in 2010 while my husband was in Afghanistan.  MPS then conducted an in-district evaluation while our family hired an attorney and pursued an appropriate Independent Educational Evaluation, mediation, and eventually outplacement.

My daughter may have disabilities, and she may need accommodations to access the educational curriculum, but she is worthy of the same high expectations that we place upon our “typical” children.  IDEA specifically states that right.  Please tell me that you agree we should have high expectations of our educators and PPS staff as well. Please share with us that you agree and understand that the accommodations and high expectations we have of our special children today will prepare them for a successful and independent future rather than a lifetime of dependence on social programs and dollars, incarceration, mental illness, or worse.

As a lifelong resident of Manchester, it is sad and so embarrassing to know that Manchester Public Schools has a deplorable reputation regarding special education.  The special needs community sees no improvement on the horizon.  How can we come together to change that?  Because requiring my Congressman’s office to attend and observe a PPT seems dangerously heading in the opposite direction of any hope that we can make our district great again.

While I continue to learn more about MPS and district practices, I also invite all of you to get to know my daughter and our experiences with Manchester Public Schools.  I invite you to witness the deep chasm between the best interests of our unique and amazing children and MPS practices.

I wish to take this opportunity to thank MPS for pushing me so hard to fight for my daughter’s educational rights.  Not only has it allowed me to pay it forward and teach other parents how to advocate for their children, but it has given me a national platform to pass federal legislation and bring these battles to light.  I have made multiple Freedom of Information Act requests to Manchester Public Schools. Please look for my upcoming articles with TIME, Huffington Post, Autism Speaks, American Military Families Autism Support, Babble.com, The Courant, The Journal Inquirer, Manchester Patch, and CTFEAT, as well as my own publication Welcome to StimCity.

Thank you for your time. I look forward to working with all of you to bring awareness and equality to the special education of our most unique and amazing children. Most especially, I look forward to seeing Manchester Public Schools work to improve their service to the special needs population and lift up our families rather than add to our burdens. I look forward to one day sitting across the table from MPS staff and having a sound, meaningful relationship which includes respectful dialogue concerning the best interests of my daughter.

Best,

Rachel Kenyon

My last post was the most painful experience of my entire life.  The words.  The responses.  The guilt.  The horror of labeling my own precious child in such a way will haunt me forever.

So why?

Why did I take and use my own baby girl, millions of minorities, and gay people to selfishly and disturbingly make a point? Why did I so callously satirize the entirety of every Civil Rights movement of our last several generations and grind them up into painful, shocking commentary just to make a point?

If everything about it and the language and words I used are so wrong, so hurtful  – why not delete it?

So much of me would love to slide my mouse over the word “DELETE” and erase the pain and discomfort I have caused good people who were here to support an important cause.  I would give anything to take away the pain of something so dark and evil with one click.

But my beautiful, brilliant baby girl deserves better.  We all deserve better.  We all must do better.

Because it truly isn’t just a word.  None of them are.

What lies in the shadows of such words is so much more.  Slavery.  Brutality.  Indignant and ferocious HATE.  Centuries of torturous treatment, institutionalization, and illegitimacy.

The following categories of people were denied basic human rights and legal status just less than one hundred years ago [in no particular order, and there are so many more not listed]:

African-Americans

Women

Homosexuals

Interracial Marriages

Unmarried couples

Orphans

Illegitimate Children

Refugees

Girls Who Play Hockey

Native Americans

Americans with Disabilities

Sexually Harassed Employees

ESL Students

Short Women Applying to Be Police Officers

[It wasn’t even until last year that employment discrimination on the basis of gender identity or transgender status became illegal under Title VII.]

You see. We have so much work to do for so many people.  My daughter is one of them.

Look at the list above.  How many of our fellow humans are still fighting to be treated fairly and shown respect, even after the law of the land has pronounced their Civil Rights?

IDEA and IEPs are legal frameworks for educating my daughter.  I thank GOD for that much.

But laws do not assure people’s evolution of acceptance.  That is something we change within ourselves.

Just as those who have fought so hard for Civil Rights would not hesitate to teach their own children to continue to carry the torch, I must ensure my child knows her worth by speaking up and telling her story.  All of her story – the good, the amazing, and the change we seek in this world.  Someday I will have the honor of sharing these stories with her and showing her that she was worth all of it.  Every word.  Every chapter.

Her story is powerful.

SHE. Is. Powerful.

More powerful than any word.

Thanks for stopping by.

Love,

Rachel

We all know one, right?  Or at least see them bagging our groceries?  Or maybe the cousin of a friend of a friend has this kid who’s stuck in a wheelchair and just drools all day?  Or what about the kid in your kid’s classroom that is always causing all of the problems?

You see, the other day I showed up at my retard’s autism school for her annual Individualized Education Plan (IEP) meeting and the district staff wasn’t there.  You know, those folks from the school district administration that are charged with that whole business of educating our retards, whatever that means?  Those ‘special education’ people.  Not there.  They didn’t show.

They phoned it in.

From eight minutes away.  Without telling anyone.  Without advising me of my right to refuse such an arrangement. My retard wasn’t worth the gas to show up.

So we went around the table per usual as each of the autism school teaching staff outlined my retard’s progress and areas of concern and what the proposed goals would be for the coming year.

I know… I know… it’s a waste of time to spend money on a retard like mine just so that she can grow up and become a productive and content member of society. Like that could even happen.

But then it was my turn to speak.  And I attempted to advocate for my retard because she is unable to advocate for herself.  Her silly crackpot neurologist wrote a letter of recommendation to increase the amount of time my retard spends in school because the proposed goals and objectives for the coming year were increasingly challenging and there were concerns that my retard would not progress without the appropriate accommodations to her school day.

I spoke up because as a parent of a retard, I am to be considered an equal partner in the IEP TEAM.  Did you catch that word there? TEAM.  And for those who fail to understand what the concept of an IEP meeting is, let me explain….

You come to the table with any and all relevant information concerning the retard and their educational environment, goals, objectives, strengths and weaknesses.  You review evaluations.  You discuss and agree to services.  Together.  As. A. Team.  You are not there to sign off on a draft IEP document that was created PRIOR TO THE TIME ALLOTTED FOR COMING TO THE TABLE TOGETHER FOR THE PURPOSE OF PLANNING AND CREATING THE IEP AT THE IEP MEETING.

Often when a retard has been in the same placement the prior year, a draft IEP document will be made available to all IEP participants, sometimes even in advance of the meeting itself.  This can be very useful because it serves as a TEMPLATE for implementing a NEW IEP.

But when you live in a school district that does whatever they want, however they want and are never held accountable to the laws and rights put forth to protect the retard and his or her parents, it seems pointless.

You see, retards are a pain in the ass waste of time and money.  They suck the school districts dry and create nothing but a black hole of resources.  Retards drain the economy.  Therefore, our school district would not entertain the crackpot neurologist’s recommendation.  Instead they violated my retard’s rights by refusing to even hear it.

Heyyyyyyyyy…. You know who the retards remind me of now that I think about it?  The niggers.  And the faggots.  Those worthless pieces of crap just wouldn’t shut up and go away so now we have to sit at the back of the bus and be subjected to queers who want to hold hands in public and dear god – some of them actually want to ruin the sanctity of marriage.  Jesus, it’s as bad as fucking voting rights for broads.

When the hell did we become a society that allows for such whimsical individual rights?

Pussies.  I sure hope our educational system doesn’t actually start readily following the law and providing the services those retards need.  Then there’ll be no one left to oppress and I’ll be stuck watching Real Housewives reruns on Bravo because I have nothing better to do with my time.

********************************************************************************

It’s not just a word. It’s an oppressive practice of denying human rights. End it. Now.

Love,

Rachel

Not a lot of people know autism by its other more clinical alias, “Pervasive Developmental Disorder” (PDD), which is the umbrella term for the five categories that spread across the spectrum: Asperger’s Syndrome, Pervasive Developmental Disorder – Not Otherwise Specified (PDD-NOS), Classic Autism, Childhood Disintegrative Disorder, and Rett’s Syndrome.

When you break it down, it’s actually easy to understand:

Pervasive = significant

Developmental = progression of normal growth

Disorder = deviation

It is the individual development of socialization and communication skills that are impaired in a person on the spectrum.  Autism is a broad spectrum disorder and is based in the exact neurology (or wiring) of an autistic person’s brain.  No two people with autism will share the same symptomology because like snowflakes, no two brains are wired exactly alike.  So I am only sharing my own experiences here. My snowflake.

I have always had a terrible time relating to my calendar age.  I never quite understood what a particular birthday was supposed to mean or feel like.  If you were to ask me to honestly tell you how old I am, I would guess about 22, but the reality is probably closer to 15 by the way I relate and react to adults around me.  I often feel like a child looking for the adults around me to lead the way when it comes to behaviors and how I am supposed to feel about the world around me.

When I look in the mirror, I am looking at an image that I recognize as myself but that I cannot connect to on an emotional or dimensional level.  I see a face.  I know it is mine.  But the eyes look empty to me. I can recognize if my face looks more tired than usual, or if my mascara has smudged, but I might as well be looking at a picture in a magazine because I have no feelings when I look in the mirror at the person staring back at me.  Maybe the reality of the delay in this sense is that I am like a small child who has not yet made the connection in their brain to recognize it is their own reflection in the mirror on the side of their crib that makes them giggle.  Or less glamorously, you could say I am the cat on America’s Funniest Home Videos that is picking a fight with the other cat in the mirror. Completely clueless.

So many things like this make sense to me now, as autism is a pervasive developmental disorder.  I now see clearly that I have matured at a slower rate than typical adults.  It is a rather fascinating concept on paper since clearly I can be responsible and can function with a semblance of maturity as a wife and mother.  However, on the inside I struggle to understand basic social dynamics and interactions with others.  I am still very emotionally naïve and often act with a very unrealistic idealistic interpretation of the world.  It’s a childlike wonder and expectation of goodness in others.  Why doesn’t that person want to be friends?  Why would anyone want to hurt me?  Did I do something wrong?

Simply put, I see things in black and white. I have more to learn still about the gray areas of how things really work in life, and how people really operate. I have used humor to guard myself against the perils of social intimacy and still I have stories of great manipulation and total ignorance of being completely screwed over by people with ill intentions.  After a while, it is no longer a matter of self-confidence in social settings, it is a matter of self-preservation.  If the clown nose fits, wear it.  Because people either avoid clowns completely or find them amusing.  No one picks a fight with one.  Right?  Humor to me is just as effective as the self-preserving cuteness of a puppy that just ate your favorite slippers.  It’s a saving grace.

Along these same lines, I have an immature level of self-control.  I still think it’s funny to burp really loudly at the dinner table.  I have been taught and have learned that belching with purpose is inappropriate, but I still think it’s hilarious.  So I can hold it together in public but that doesn’t mean I am not thinking about it when the waitress walks away from our table.  But here I let it fly and I say, “Excuse me,” and teach my son proper belching etiquette for when he steps out into the world.  But here in this place, we are home. So we burp. And giggle.  And I expect a high-five from my husband when my belch is especially robust.  Holla!

It had been a long day home alone with the kids. School was canceled hours before the snow had begun to fall.  RM had been stimming excessively for days as the barometric pressure dropped and she took to grounding herself over every single task.  I was mentally exhausted as any parent would be. Carrying a nearly 60-pound child to the bathroom when they refuse to go takes a bit of energy.

SGM was released early and on his way home by 4pm.  [Side note: That has NEVER happened before, so I thank the heavens for this small miracle. Usually, he is gone for days whenever severe weather strikes the state.]

I went about my ritual of tidying up around the house knowing I had just over an hour before SGM walked through the door.  Same as every day, I use three Clorox wipes to clean the bathroom sink, knobs and toilet.  Then I replace hand towels throughout the house with fresh ones, I empty and refill our humidifiers, I put my coffee mug and spoon in the dishwasher, I brush my teeth, and if there is enough time remaining before SGM gets home, I put on a little makeup.

Because the roads were already slicked up, it was taking SGM a lot longer to get home.  This was hard for me.  Not because I worried that he wouldn’t make it home safely, I never worry about that, but because it was straying from my expected timeline of events.  It was very agitating.  I knew that I needed to find something calming to do before I got too upset.  So I bundled up and went outside thinking some shoveling would be a quick session of heavy work to calm my nerves.  As I was starting the first run of the shovel across the asphalt, I caught a glimpse of our neighbor next door.  Instant panic set in because I knew a conversation was coming but I hadn’t seen or spoken to this neighbor in more than a month.  What would he say?  Would he want to catch up?  Could I just keep shoveling and maybe he won’t say anything at all?

He yelled over, “Hey there! How’s it going?”  I cannot describe the wave of nauseous terror that washed over me in that instant, and I like this guy.  This is a neighbor I feel very comfortable around.  Some nights in the summer he comes and sits out front with SGM and me and we all chat and have a few glasses of wine.  But this, this is different.  This is unexpected and one-on-one with no buffer to carry the conversation when I don’t know what to say.  It was ugly.  I won’t bore you with the conversation, but it ended on a note of whose snow blower is bigger.  Awkward!

After the exchange, I quickly shoveled the two inches of snow that had fallen so far on the driveway and sidewalks.  It didn’t take too long, the snow was light and the heavy work was just what I needed to regulate my nerves.  I felt much better.

Not long after, SGM came home and we made it through the dinner hour.  RM was doing ok, but The Boy was chattier than usual and I just felt completely overloaded with noise for the day.  So, regardless of a blizzard or hurricane or tsunami washing over the Connecticut shoreline, I was going for a walk alone no matter what.  With my weighted vest. Damnit.

Watching me prepare for a nighttime walk in the snow would drive anyone to drink.  I noticed SGM had a glass of wine going at this point.  I need so many small items that I have a difficult time gathering everything up and getting ready to go.  I try to leave most items in the same place together, but things like my iPod and headphones are quickly separated throughout the day.  Finally, armed with my weighted vest, iPod, headphones, headlamp, balaclava, gloves, reflective sash, inhaler and cell phone, I headed out into the blizzard. Well, almost. I forgot to grab my boots.  On Take 16 or so, I set about into the night.

There was about six inches of snow when I left the house at 7:05pm.  Plows had not made it to most of the streets lining the neighborhood.  I have particular routes I like to take, especially at night.  I like the quiet at night.  I like that there are no faces to see.  Even passing cars in the daytime you can see the faces, and I always have to look at the faces.  But at night, I am free from that.  No one else about.  Just me, my thoughts, and my music.

The first few moments alone, in the dark, feeling the gentle squeeze of my weight vest and the compression of my thermal base layers against my legs and arms, I feel weightless. I liken it to space-walking.  As the minutes go by and I wander further from home, I think to myself how magical it must feel to just lie down in the deep pillows of the crisp, white, sparkling snow and just be.  Wrapped in nothingness and silent. Just for a spell.

Then the soft trickling of a nearby run-off catches my attention and I follow its song.  I come upon the edge of the water and I stare.  Even in the darkness I can see every twist and fold of the water as it slides over the frozen rocks below.  And I think how soothing for those rocks.

I am jealous.

But it is time for me to keep walking.

My cell phone rings.  SGM wants to know I am ok.  It has been more than an hour.

The snow is now nearly a foot deep now and my beautiful family is waiting for me to come home.

Blizzard Nemo, self-portrait.