Why Do You Spend So Much Time Tapping Those Little Black Squares, Daddy?
A letter to my 2-year-old son about why I write
Dear Son,
I’m writing at my desk when the pitter-patter of your feet speeds closer. You smell of maple syrup and peer up at me with the same wide brown eyes I had at your age. You are already 2 years old.
We’re as close as two humans can be and somehow still a mystery to each other.
I imagine your silent wondering.
Why do you spend so much time tapping those little black squares, Daddy?
I’m glad you asked, son. It gives us another chance to explore together, and I hope we do this for the rest of our lives. Someday, you’ll discover your own answers, but for the moment, here’s mine:
I tap these little black squares because life moves incredibly fast. One minute, you’re a snuggly ball nestled on my chest, and the next, you’ll be bounding into your first kindergarten class.
So, I write to slow down — to see more clearly and feel more fully. I write to extract my thoughts from the darkness and spread them out in the sunshine to study their secrets. I write to make sense of the universe and unlock something closer to truth.
I write to be honest with myself and ask the same question you’ll ask one day.
“Who am I?”
As you grow up, you’ll learn that culling meaning from experience requires reflection. Events flicker in and out of existence as quickly as they appear. So, I put everything aside to create a space for inquiry. I tune out the buzzing creation and tune into myself. I enter the aliveness of here and now.
I write to touch something essential, even though I know that anything real is much more and much less than what I could ever put into words.
Sometimes, I only understand a situation once I write about it. I need to scatter the pieces of my consciousness onto the table and put them back together like a puzzle, to sit under the lamplight and allow myself to be illuminated.
“What do I truly love? What am I afraid of? What am I willing to suffer, fight, or die for? What am I called to do?”
These are the riddles I sort out on the page.
And what about the flood of emotions that surge through us? In this area, son, you are a born master. Emotions flow through you like water; you laugh, cry, scream, and delight with no resistance or residue. It all emerges and vanishes within you like magic ink, never leaving a trace.
That’s not easy for us adults. So, I write to feel my emotions and release them. As you ripen with age, son, you’ll learn how important it is to express yourself instead of bottling things inside.
When the earth spins too quickly, I write to view circumstances as they are and dream of how they could be different. I write to celebrate aching beauty and find the courage to weather dark storms.
I write to connect, to perceive how inside and outside are one, and to walk the edge between the two. I write to feel the heat of my own fire, stoke the flames, and share solace with others. I write to allow something larger than myself to flow through me and into humanity.
For you, son, it may or may not be writing, but you will encounter yourself in one form or another. Life will push, pull, and stretch you to your limits. It will reveal a fierceness you never knew you had, and your wounds will become a source of healing.
You will soar to the heights, fall into gorges, and rise again stronger. By trial and error and countless ups and downs, you’ll find your way home.
For now, I’ll offer you my warmest smile, hugs and kisses, and our adventures together. As you travel, I’ll always be by your side, whether you see me or not, and we’ll bring a little more light into this world before we leave it.
Love always, my son,
Daddy
