Friday, May 21, 2010

Winging It

When the 21st rolls around each month, I always feel a moment of panic that I have nothing to post on Hopeful Parents. I obsess a bit on crafting something hopeful -- I sit in front of my computer screen and scroll down my bloglist, clicking here and there, looking for inspiration. Then I might click over to Facebook and check my Inbox. That leads me back to my blog and then to the comments and back again -- well --  if you're a writer, you know the temptations. I realize when I do this, allow distraction to sort of set up camp in one part of my brain, that it's actually part of my writing process. Because while I'm clicking and skimming, my brain is actually working, subconsciously. 

And what came up tonight, when I finally clicked over here to create a post was an image of wings. The sort of wings that you see in classical paintings or Greek sculpture. The wings on the backs of the angels in disguise in Wim Wenders' movie Wings of Desire, long and silvery-white transparent, strong enough to fly away from suffering but an appendage nonetheless and a reminder of what is not. And what is.

My daughter Sophie's refractory seizure disorder of unknown origin, her condition, causes her and those who love her immense suffering, and there is really no glory, no blessing in that. When I sit on her bed and watch her seize, when my tears stop and I am able to willfully watch feelings of despair and anger wing it out, I do not feel relief or gratitude. I do not know how to feel. I am, instead, that black figure, head bowed, knowing and not-knowing, winging it.


Elizabeth Aquino is winging it with her family and on her blog, a moon worn as if it had been a shell.


  1. I never feel as if I have any words to say (give?) when you write your true heart because there is nothing, nothing I can add.
    Just- I love you and your true heart, your wings.

  2. Ms. Moon said it so well.
    Thank you for writing the deep truth of where you are right now. Your compassion, your suffering with Sophie, which you do every time she siezes, strikes a chord deep within me. It connects you with all mothers who must bear with, and bear witness to, and who cannot stop the suffering of their children. All we can do is "be here now, in love." Sending much love to you and Sophie, and your whole family.

  3. And that's enough. And BTW, I feel the same way every time it's my turn at Hopeful Parents.

  4. Only once has a child had a seizure in my presence, and it was not my child. Words cannot describe the emotions that ran through me as I sat with her mother and tried to offer support with my eyes, because we did not speak the same language. She, and you, are in my thoughts, and deeply etched in my heart. Beautiful post, as always.

  5. Hi, Elizabeth,
    I'm glad to have found you here, too, and am, as always, deeply touched by your post.
    I also have a similar process when trying to write, somehow the reading stirs the soup in the brain.