Through the Eyes of a Child

Good, faithful friend, neighbor and bringer of magic to little boys, in the ways of men and tinkering, riding, loud, moving, mowing, grinding, things – Larry, who died, left his mark in so many ways.

One small boy, my grandson, calls Larry his friend, for the times when Larry took him riding and mowing grass, letting him believe he was doing the steering (maybe he was - who am I to say otherwise?), and earning himself hero status in the process.

When Rowen’s parents let him know that Larry, whom he had visited just a few weeks back, had died, he called me to tell me he was sorry.  We talked about Larry, this small boy of my heart and I.  And we spoke of other things.  And I suggested he might make Larry’s family a card, to which he readily agreed, evidence in his desire (an unusual thing) of his own loss, his own caring.

And I am touched beyond measure, loving even more (if that be possible) this tiny boy who carries my heart.

I am perpetually astonished at the world seen through the eyes of a child, for children do know the important things – playing with friends, shouting for the sheer joy of existence, weeping openly when they are sad, making a card to say sorry – moment by moment do they live.

And that, I suspect, is as it should be.

A Symphony of Mindfulness

adagio
Slow driving . . . the weight of the weather somehow requires it as the clouds hang low with the weight of themselves . . . the flutes and violins pick up their tempo just a bit on the radio. . .  I glance to my right and am dumbstruck by the simple scene seen so many times before . . . the cattle roaming, chewing, staring from the field . . . it is a freeze-frame moment of beauty and awe and I am brought into mindfulness . . . the state of being that takes each sense and calls for attention . . . where I am going, from whence I have come all fade into this moment, this now . . . it is what I imagine stepping into a painting might be like, but more, oh so much, much more . . . and I am awakened . . . slowly . . .

cesura
Taking my time over the mountain I usually glide past at hyperspeed, I drift down into Monterey where the clouds have risen a bit . . . there on the left – the first house . . . the black cat sits haunched in the grass . . . eyes keen on the thing before it . . . mole?  Or just a blade of grass?  Who can say?  The moment frozen . . . time suspended . . . in that just-before-launch millisecond of feline pondering . . . the cat symphony will reach its crescendo without me as I drift on . . .

forte piano
The wind pours itself into the apartment moving the vertical blinds in a rhythm only it can name . . . sitting in silence, we two hear the infrequent traffic ebbing and flowing, underscoring in the gaping quiet the distant sound of child voices . . . perpendicular to the wind I sit . . . half of my face feels its caress, the other mindless of what it misses . . . strong then quiet . . . strong then quiet . . . feeling more than hearing . . . I am mindful that God’s lungs breathe in and breathe out a world and barely a sound is heard . . .