I remember being – what I can only describe – as a crazed mother.  My three year old son was just diagnosed with autism, I had a one year old, and my father-in-law, who I dearly loved and help care for, had terminal cancer.  But my mind was traveling a thousand miles an hour.  I admit, I neglected my daughter, steamrolled over my husband’s feelings, and I was running from myself; running from a fast approaching tempest of feelings of failure, incompetence, and doubt.   

I tried to learn everything by yesterday.  But I was so ill equipped to even know in which direction my heart wanted to go.  There was too much confusion with nothing to hold on to.  I knew I was drowning.  I felt flayed.  And I hated those feelings.  I started to hate all those mothers out there who had it so easy.  I started to hate a lot of things.  My vision became myopic.  And I thought to myself, This isn’t me.

So there I was, frantically searching for something to hold onto.  Something that would somehow speak to that inner compass and point me in a direction that said, Yes, go here.  Of course, it is so hard when decisions are left up to you.  So many out there are trying to convince you that they have the answers.  They have what works.  And how could I even trust myself when I knew my crazed mind had highjacked me?  I had little room for trust.  

In 2005, I stumbled upon RDI during one of my marathon internet searches.  As I read, something resonated in the centers of my intuition.  But this was not a mystical experience.  Rather, it was like a spark, igniting my prior learning about how we experience the learning process itself.  I was intrigued.  Uncertain, but intrigued.  I bought one of Dr. G’s early books and decided to test it out for myself.  

Now, my son was mostly a world unto himself.  There he was on the floor of his room, repetitive with his toys, his back to the door.  I made exaggerated stomps as I walked in.  But he showed no reaction.  I stomped even louder and slowly made my way around so that I was facing him.  As I came closer, he briefly looked up at me, and at that moment I just made a surprised, silly face, and ran out of the room.  Nothing.  A few hours later I tried it again.  Stomp, stomp, stomp.  Again he showed no reaction.  And like before, I came around to face him, he looked up at me, and I did the same thing.  But the next day, I noticed something different.  Stomp, stomp, stomp.  This time I didn’t need to work my way to face him.  He turned around and looked up at me.  And like before, I would make my funny face and run out of the room.  

Now, you could be thinking I’m nuts for doing all this, but I kept at it because I was noticing that HE was noticing.  As the days passed, my stomps became lighter and more subtle.  Eventually, I was sneaking in and he was picking up on my presence.  And then one day, something remarkable happened.  

There he was, same as always, sitting on the floor, repetitive with his toys, back to the door.  I begin my burglar-ing, sneaking into his room.  He quickly “catches” me, I make my funny face and run out of his room.  Then, he leaves his toys, jumps up, and laughing, chases me out of his room.  The funny thing is once he gets to me I have no idea what to do next.  But I don’t care.  Writing this now it seems ridiculous, even to myself, that I could have felt such joy in that one small fleeting moment.  After all, he could have chosen his toys over me, but he didn’t.  He could have been confused, indifferent, or thought nothing at all.  But that didn’t happen.  A game was afoot.  And we were both co-conspirators.  It felt awesome.  My compass needle shifted and pointed the way.  Yes, it said.  Go here. I finally had something to hold onto.  I found my direction.  I found me.  And step-by-step we found us.