The Wonder
Beauty seduces us. This morning’s sunrise is doing that to me. Orange, lavender and fuchsia pulsate through the clouds. The room is a warm yellow. Storm’s acomin.
Joy is just beyond that edge, where the clouds lose their bloom and we see the true bleakness. After all, we have no choice, time marches on. There’s no point in weeping over each lost sunrise.
In my case, I take things in pieces, isolate the bits that make me feel something. Every so often I pull back and realize what others must see.
Yesterday, we ventured out of the house to visit. My son dresses himself and - unless I think he’ll freeze or boil — I try not to fuss. But you know how it goes, you see through the eyes of others sometimes (or think you do) and I saw him in his 6-year-old-finery: one pant leg inside a filthy boot, the other hanging free, a jacket covered in dust, a red scratch across one cheek, a smear of toothpaste across the other, hair standing up on one side…. Asymmetry.
Frankly, this is pretty close to his usual. Cartoon characters spring to mind; a cloud of dust and mud in his wake. It’s far from beauty, unless you can look beyond it and try not to think about the ensuing mopping and laundry. That is childhood, the very best part.
He and his friends — girls and boys alike — don’t look upon March and April with the same disgust as adults. The mucky puddles and blackened snow are building materials. Sticks and rocks are gathered and used to enliven their imaginary world. He has declared that this is his favourite time of year. He still remembers the winter of two seasons ago — a winter that adults mention with a shiver — when the snow reached record levels and then it rained and froze. Our driveway had to be chipped, rather than shoveled. He was by my side, happily piloting a sizeable chunk of ice (an iceberg!) through a deep, slushy puddle (a harbour!).
My dusty house is spectacular in certain lights. We lay together on his bed the other day, looking into a shaft of light. I told him to imagine that each mote of dust was a star, that we ethereal beings were able to peer into the universe. Then I told him to blow, and we watched the stars scatter in chaos. I think I’ll hang onto that memory until my last breath; the two of us in a sunny bedroom, snugged into our imaginations, before he grows to an age when he will, must push me away. I love the wonder. The trick is to find it and let it dazzle you.
