Color this beautiful

My daughter stood on her tiptoes and reached into the fridge for a snack, then brought it over for help opening it. She poured herself a cup of water. When we moved into this house, her curly head barely reached the bottom of the refrigerator door. The water dispenser was way out of reach. I no longer have to interrupt my workout when she needs a snack. Little things, big milestones. Every day I am awestruck by how she unfurls into the world. 

When I learn things myself (writing, riding a bike, learning to be patient, whatever), I feel pride and growth. When she learns, I feel mostly wonder. Pride, as all parents feel, I suppose, but mostly awe. Things I didn't know before becoming a parent: that it is possible to look at another human being and see them at all their ages at once, a continuum of being from past to future. Her five-year-old body, no longer covered in baby fat, holds floppy, fuzzy newborn heft and the promise of long muscle. This growth is an eventuality both mundane and mind-blowing. 

There is obvious wonder in expansion and possibility. Can I approach the other end of life with the same sense of awe? Human brains shrink with age. The change is as irreversible as my daughter outgrowing her onesies. Each day she grows is a day of babyhood that will never return. We shed memories old and new all the time. The mystery of forgetting: How this person who does not remember talking to me five minutes ago still knows my dislike of cooked carrots when she stirs them into lunch. This is mundane miracle too, when a mind sheds the world that is too much. 

Can I learn to be amazed instead of afraid? Can I learn to love the colors instead of regretting the end of summer? Fall was always my favorite season. 

[Post title: "Oh, would that my mind could let fall its dead ideas, as the tree does its withered leaves! And without too many regrets, if possible! Those from which the sap has withdrawn. But, good Lord, what beautiful colors!” -- Andre Gide]

Don't talk about guns.

 

It is okay to take the time to breathe. To think of the ones who never will again. To ride these waves of air, each one bearing me closer to the ones who struggle to catch their breath today. This sea of grief we share. I couldn't sleep last night thinking of shoes in the hallway or the garage. Toys on the floor, the notes to selves in the morning that they'd make their kids clean up when they got home. In years when I hurt too much for my own words, I'd grab others' descriptions and fling them into my own sorrow, hoping to plug the hole, block the pain, soothe the wound, repair that gaping mouth with things that belonged to other people. Today I see those words and they slip past before I can grab on. Instead I hold this imagined mess: shoes. toys. two days' worth of laundry. mud from the park. crayons. endless art. 

Parallel

 

Two projects on my plate: 

One involves working with a class of preschoolers to create a piece of art. Every child will contribute. I keep the thing on track and on budget. I can give them colors and paper and brushes, but can't control what they will do with them. Still, it's up to me to make the final product beautiful, cohesive. 

The other involves working with 9 other highly-qualified professionals in my line of work. Each of us will contribute. I have a deadline and a word count. The higher ups have provided themes and ideas. Our job is to make the final product beautiful, cohesive, and delivered on time. 

The vagueness of each weighs on my mind. Ten days from deadline, I wish the outlines were more apparent. But I sometimes use paints and paper to muddle my way through story structure, and there is an odd comfort now to the instability of both pieces. To parallel a favorite poet: If the ground held still, we'd have no need for balance. You only seek your footing when the ground is unstable.