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She got a new bike. With a bell.
She's been wanting one for some time, had already added it to her Christmas list, when her cousin showed up at Grandma's with just the thing, outgrown. "I have a bike for Owen. Is it okay to give it to her?"
Of course she's thrilled. Paul pushed her up and down Grandma's road--the same road where he learned to ride. Back home it's round and round the house on the porch. Our road is rutted, gravel, too difficult for a learner to navigate.
Another day, after supper, she presented an idea. "Can you take the training wheels off my bike and let me ride around the porch?"
Paul, working on his computer, considered. "I don't think the porch is the best place to learn. We need to take you to the park to ride sometime."
"Can we go now?" she asked.
Paul looked at me, my face buried in my own computer. Dinner was done. It was two hours until bedtime. He was playing Sudoku, I was on Facebook. There was nothing pressing really, except inertia.
Clearly our attention was needed. So we all went. Barrett, too. Even my mom.
And although the whole scene has been replayed thousands of times each of a hundred years--a father running alongside a kid on wobbly bike--this time it was my kid. And my kid's dad. And my toddler chasing after them.
My family. Our moment.
I'm so glad I didn't miss it.
Dad catches me coming into the building at work. He holds up a plastic grocery bag and grins.
"Got a treat for lunch." He's excited as a young boy with a bag full of worms. (It's not worms.)
Later he spreads a newspaper across his desk, hands me a knife and a small jar of mayonnaise (Duke's, of course), two slices of soft bread.
He holds the tomato reverently--a beauty fresh from the garden this morning. Slices it thick, piles it on the bread. Lots of pepper, a little salt. Seeds and pulp drip onto the paper as he hands the first one over to me and makes another for himself.
As we each take a bite, closing our eyes for a moment, it strikes me: This is who he is. This is what he's taught me.
To savor. Enjoy. Take pleasure in the small things. See the beauty in the summer's first tomato sandwich, a bucket of purple blackberries, a hidden trillium, the smooth speckled skin of a trout, a watermelon in the compost pile, a beautifully written sentence, a shared meal.
That a beautiful life is made of small moments of joy...noticed.
A day spent at the bookstore. Coffee drink and browsing art books, craft books, cookbooks. Eavesdropping in the cafe. I decide to buy this book.
Later I tell Paul: "I'm feeling the itch to do something artistic. I'm thinking about trying collage."
With his usual sharp wit and insight, he says, "Maybe you should try photography. You could take pictures every day, maybe take a class online. You could even start a blog to showcase your photos. Or two blogs."
I'm starting to get what he's saying. Slowly.
"Or maybe you could write..." He smiles before moving out of the room.
He's being sarcastic, of course. But he's also right. And he is, in his way, reminding me gently once again that "Who I am is enough."
How quickly I forget.
I am taking a technology semi-break this week. I will be off Facebook, not posting on this blog. I will, of course, be on the computer for work-related research and communication, but while I am home I will limit myself to a 30 -minute email check each day (and maybe a quick Joy post for Jelly Jar Daisies) at night after the girls have gone to bed.
Other than than I will only be dealing with live, in-person communication. So, if you email me and I don't get right back to you, please be patient. It's not you, it's me. I need a rest and a little more of this:
I'll be back in about a week.
