Trash Cans and Curfews

Today I felt loved. I felt loved today because I went to the spider infested side-yard and dragged trash cans to the curb, rubbed my hands together to get the idea of spiders off of me, and then sat twitching for the next hour feeling imaginary ants crawl up my legs. You're probably thinking (besides that my reaction was positively pathetic) that this is the weirdest expression of love that you've heard of in a long time. "A long time", however, is the very reason why I felt loved today. For it has been a very, very long time since I have performed such a task. How then, you ask, did trash get out of the house and yard? I will tell you. I attribute our clean house and yard to my brother and father. I felt loved today because the boys in my life have always done the simple yet disgusting task of taking care of the refuse in my life. I had forgotten the cost of the dignity which I was privileged to and the care with which these dignities were made available. Now I live in my own house, with responsibilities that are less than savory. I realize that I have just made myself sound like a spoiled little princess, so I will not hesitate to mention that I consider my house and the adjacent responsibilities a considerable blessing which I welcome with a willing heart. With this particular article, however, I am merely recognizing how wonderful it is to be cared for.
Ok, so I never really had a curfew, it just sounded nice in the title, but the point is, my dad cared for me, my mom, and sister in the little things, that the regulations and expectations that he did have of us as teenagers in my family were, from my perspective, acts of protection and love and proactive growth into adulthood rather than mindless regulations to keep my freedom and expressions captive and away from "where I would rather go".
People call me old fashioned, (people call me a lot of things) but I cannot deny the overwhelming amount of safety, love, and satisfaction that I receive from being taken care of. I have an independent personality type, such that it is often easier for me to do things myself in the first place, but even so... I loved that I could always expect to not have to take out the trash. Not that I didn't have household responsibility, but that I didn't have to do the dirty jobs and it was taken care of by the men, was always so "nice" in my head.

Child's Heart Meets Practicality and Cynicism

I have the greatest job in the world. I am the nanny of a precocious two-year-old. I have almost memorized the Dr. Suess A B C's book, learned a new language, and tapped into his unique style of playing that goes beyond building blocks. It is so fun to learn about so new a person, but I have discovered that in all the newness there isn't really anything new about the rudimentary fabric in the make-up of this child in comparison to any other child I have come to know. He is unique in so many aspects of his character and personality, but he has the same desires as every other kid: to be known and to call himself beloved. His brow furrows when I ask him to use his fingers to point to the thing he is trying to say with his mouth because I don't understand sometimes. He preciously calls out my name when my shoulder is closed to him when sitting side by side. He emphatically boasts upon facing his fears and discovering there really wasn't anything to be afraid of. He remembers and re-actualizes (even at such a young age) what he did for you that made him feel very important.
These are the very things that I love about being around children, which is, in short, the ultimate teacher for how to treat grown-ups. Desires don't change with time, we've just learned how to put them on hold due to our culture of cynicism, practicality, and too much disappointment. We forget that we want people to open their shoulder when they sit next to us, or encourage and affirm our steps to conquering the scary fronts in this world because we have been hurt enough to retreat into our own selves for our strength, or be co-dependent on others for our significance.
The "lesson" that I have been particularly attentive of recently has been the one of body language. I almost fell asleep during the little boy's half-hour science show but was awoken by his desire for me to be present with my eyes and body, being attentive to the same thing as him or even to watch him watch the show. When my back is to him in the kitchen, he tries to get my attention by calling my name as he sits on the counter and watches me cut fruit. Even if we aren't talking or playing, just sitting and looking at doggies walk by in the park, he is not content when I slouch. Right now he is so irresistibly cute that he knows he cannot be ignored, but what happens when he gets older and grown-ups will have normal "older-boy" expectations of him. To save ourselves from embarrassment, we learn to stop calling for attention like that, but we never stop wanting to call so as to be noticed, recognized, and to feel important, like ourselves are worth being noticed or turned towards.
So, we are tempted to be moral because adults like good children. Or we hate being moral because parents only like good children (or at least convey this message with their bodies and words)... and how deep is a love that is conditional? So turn your body, your attention, your eyes, your ears, and your words toward the people who are afraid to ask for it, because chances are... they want to, but are too embarrassed to admit that they want you to do that for them.

Born a Dreamer

"Seconds pass whether your doing something in that second or not". My dad has always said this when trying to help us understand the importance of proper time allocation. I am, and always have been a daydreamer so this project of using every second to do what is needed in that moment, has only been partially effective. If you are studying with me and you haven't seen me turn the page in a while I give you permission to ask what I'm thinking about... it is probably not Kant's Groundwork on the Metaphysics of Morals. The big question that I have always asked myself is: how do I stay focused on the task at hand? Or, why do I let my runaway trains of thought distract me from the less exciting things of life? Lately, however, I have been asking the question: how does this tendency speak into my personality? Yes, I must find a way to focus myself and to pursue the task given me with everything I have to give, but if I keep dreaming about more exciting things or interesting things, what should I do? Should I capture my thoughts and channel them into the written word? I like creative writing and poetry and am always scratching down bits and pieces of things that flow into my mind, or even words that sound nice... like apothecary and syllable and solstice. Sometimes I daydream about a pretty word that I have read and then I reach the bottom of the page and realize that I wasn't actually reading that whole page. So, how to capture and focus at the same time? I don't know... I'll let you know if I find out. (By the way, the illustration is from one of my favorite childhood stories: Appelemando's Dream a story about how a boy's tangible daydreams affect his town, and the methods they use to capture the dreams).