Category Archives: Accompaniment

I am obsessed with my son’s dentist office.

The first time we showed up, they let me know that only children were allowed back to the exam rooms. Parents had to wait in the car or in the waiting room. 

When I first heard this, I had a pretty severe interior allergic reaction to it. (He was only three!)  Then, I considered their reasoning.  Their experience as well as numerous studies show that young people learn to fear the dentist from the grown-ups in their lives.  That is, the parents teach their children, non-verbally and without intention, to fear and resist the dental exam.  Without the grownups, the exam goes smoothly.  

The place runs like a dream.  My son loves the dentist.  The boundary works.  

We are always teaching, for good or for ill.  That something is scary, or not.  That someone or something is worthy, or not.  Let’s watch how we teach, and be grateful for the boundaries that save us from teaching something that we never wanted to.

Our firstborn learned to walk in the middle of a Chicago winter.  I was home with him full-time, so, to survive, we had a lot of indoor adventures together.

One of our favorite outings was to go to the children’s area at the planetarium by our apartment. 

During one morning at the planetarium, faint sounds of a choir carried into our area.  I heard it, but stayed seated.  My son lifted his face toward the sound, grabbed my hand, and ambled off toward its source. On the other side of the complex, we found a children’s choir and sat together to listen.  He was rapt, turning away only to make sure that I was listening, too. 

Attending to a child attending to beauty is a deeply remarkable thing.  I am convinced that, in moments like these, we are invited to become like children.

My four-year-old was recently gifted a book.

Dan Brown wrote it.  That was the first thing I noticed. “Pooossibly a weird one,” said my snap judgment.  I set it aside.

Some weeks later, my son found it and asked to read it.  

We opened it and were, no joke, entranced for the next hour.

The book is called Wild Symphony.  On each page is a witty poem and (with the free companion app loaded) an orchestral piece, composed by Brown and played by the Zagreb Symphony Orchestra, cleverly introducing the ethos of an animal.  Clues tucked away on each page teach the reader each element of a full orchestra.

The last page features a triumphant musical finale, with each animal playing an instrument that suits them.

Now, both of my sons ask for turns to sit and listen to the music.  They have logged hours of quiet listening to a full orchestra.

So, obviously, my first reaction could not have been more wrong.  It is one more reminder for me to attend to and relinquish my mind’s allergies.  These allergies often close me off from things that might enrich my life.

Memento mori, latin for “remember your death,” is a powerful spiritual practice.  When we recall that we are finite and that life is unpredictable, we can live with singular purpose and focus on the most important things.

Relatedly, I wonder what happens when we stop to memento infantia, “remember your infancy?”  

For me, memento infantia is an occasion to imagine great love.  Though I have no actual “memory” of it, I am certain that my infancy was marked by singularly loving care on my behalf.  Daily, hourly, thoughtful, (sure, imperfect, but nevertheless) faithful love.

If love is the root of all faithfulness, of all trust, we do well to remember our infancy.

My wife used to babysit for a child who would do the following.

When he pooped in his diaper and she approached to change it, he would squat down and tighten himself into a little ball and shout, “NO!”

As you can imagine, this reaction complicated the situation and made an unnecessary mess.

A problem denied is a problem made unnecessarily complex.