on accompaniment, attentiveness, and contribution
Our boys enjoy the occasional “what if” game. The other day our older son asked, “what if you could *only* move when someone told you to move?!”
His brother then began to “control” his movements with his speech. And if his brother didn’t tell him to move, then he was stuck.
If we are attached to the approval of others, our actions are bound in a similar way. We are subject to either manipulation or paralysis.
Far better to root in something real.
It is possible to not realize that we spend a disproportionate amount of our energy on things of little consequence. When we do, we major in the minor.
We do this with our health when we obsess about a dietary detail, but don’t exercise much or give ourselves the chance to sleep well.
At work this can happen when we clamp down on a problem the resolution of which will not actually move us forward.
And then, with limited time left, we minor in the major.
The tricky part is that majoring in the minor feels like we are doing something productive. We are not.
Let’s major in the major.
Every day, our children notice what captures our attention. They take outstanding inventory of our focus and so come to know what we value.
Realizing just how much they understand helps me become better than I might otherwise be. Principally, this entails decreasing the number of things that I try to pay attention to.
When we enter the world of Maurice Sendack, Fred Rogers, Roald Dahl, Mo Willams, or the geniuses who write and produce Bluey, we know instinctively that we are in the hands of special people.
They have clearly cultivated a special attentiveness to children and then create a world rooted in this tender perception that invites all to rejoice in a child’s way of proceeding.
Our boys have stumbled upon another writer with this same gift.
Abby Hanlon’s Dory Fantasmagory is a delight for all comers, especially sassy younger children who may feel a little left behind by older siblings.
The fifth book in the series is our favorite, but we are re-reading them all to make sure.
The most valuable things reside on the other side of discomfort.
The vulnerability of commitment.
Sharing something that is deeply important to us with another.
Taking the first awkward steps to learn a new skill set.
Sitting in quiet non-judgemental awareness with one’s own mind.
These moments can be quite uncomfortable… but if we are able to see this discomfort as something enormously valuable, then we are able to grow.
Our younger son just turned five, so we do not reach for the Sandra Boynton volumes much these days.
Still, I often recall my indebted to Ms. Boynton’s work, especially for this gem of an essay published in 2021, around a year into the pandemic.
I find it, as a parent (and especially as a parent who can sometimes undervalue a thing like a birthday cake), to be an essential reorientation around “what is essential.”
So, parents, thanks for the work that you do, especially in the provisioning of light-heartedness in the life of your littles.
Last Saturday morning, our sons wondered: Where was our camping tent? Could we put it up in the attic to play in?
A bit of context on this tent.
Once described by a friend as “the condominium,” this tent is wildly fun. It is a beautifully crafted, with shockingly large dimensions for how sturdy it is… one of those feats of elegant engineering that makes you proud to be a human being. We stalked the delivery truck for days when it was on its way.
Here is a low quality yet illustrative photo of its dimensions and the Duplo village inside.
And, when we put it up in last weekend, I realized it had been nearly three years since we had used it. Three years! What?! How did that happen?!
I often forget things like this… and also things more fundamental… those resources and realities that, when acknowledged and engaged, lead to an abundant, grounded life.
In other words, what we need is here.
We all desire to be connected, but hesitate to connect.
We all want to be seen, but rarely submit to the discipline of really seeing another.
We all love to be part of a thoughtful gathering, but often lack the initiative to plan a gathering and then extend an invitation.
Opportunity lies within.
That situation that ramps us up emotionally…
Am I in charge of that situation?
Or is that situation in charge of me?
If I can sit with what makes me upset, I am on the path to responding wisely and prudently.
If not, I won’t ever be in charge.
Last week, I wrote about “brave spelling,” the approach that encourages literacy students, as they learn to write, to sound out a word and spell it as best they can, allowing them to compose fluently albeit imperfectly.
Like this:
I am finding that, as a grown-up, reading “brave spelling” is a formative and worthy exercise. Here is the work that it is achieving in me.
I read more slowly. You just can’t read brave spelling that fast. You have to slow down and consider the child and what they are actually saying. This is good. It breaks me out of the habit of considering a text (or a child) habitually and more quickly than they deserve.
I read with tenderness and and a sense of play. Read that penguin example again, and you’ll feel what I mean. Right? Ruthlessly cute. Considering a child with tenderness and a sense of play is a good place to engage.
I suspend evaluation and to compulsion to correct. When first considering a bravely spelled text, the emphasis is 100% on understanding. This breaks my tendency to evaluate and correct.
Our son’s teacher told us that if you do correct, only correct one word per text… but mostly just appreciate the child’s communication. The correct spelling will come. So if I do give feedback, it is occasional and well-discerned.
And I read with a sense of awe. I have no idea how he is becoming literate – but he is, and quickly.
We can learn lots by accompanying someone who is learning.
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