One day I was walking home for lunch when I noticed a woman and a young girl walking on the sidewalk opposite me. The adult monologue sounded familiar: “Come on! Hurry up!” I smiled: the way of a harried mom and her child—or at least it seems that way to me. We are in a hurry, and they are blissfully unaware of our sense of urgency. I could hear the clip clapping of the little girl’s flip flops as they snapped against her bare feet. The inevitable happened, and I heard a sudden wail. “My shoe! My shoe!” In trying to hurry, she had lost one of her shoes. Her mom went back to help her look. I offered to help. “No, we’ll find it. Oh, here it is!” They went on their way. And I continued my journey home.
As I made my tuna sandwich (to the extremely concentrated stares of two small dogs), I mused a bit on the drama of hurrying parents and dawdling children. I wish I could say that I had never said those words to my sons when they were little…but I know for certain I did. Why, I wonder, was I always in such a hurry? I remember strapping one of my sons into his car seat one afternoon. As I got into the driver’s seat, he startled me by declaring, “I never want to grow up.” I immediately asked why. And being a thought little person, he replied, “’Cause, all you ever do is work-work-work: errands-errands-errands.” Yikes. That was a hard truth to hear coming from a four year old!
On another more recent day, I was walking in the park to get some steps on my pedometer (a health and wellness goal), and noticed a mom and two young children walking in front of me on the path. They were not hurrying. (I’m pretty certain they were not wearing pedometers!) The little boy was scurrying from one side of the path to the other, like a puppy, pointing out this and that. His wise mother let him lead the way and take his time. I have to confess that I hadn’t brought my “puppies” to the park with me for my walk, because they tend to do the same thing. (There are so many exciting things to smell and see, after all.) After a bit, the mom reached down to pick up the little girl and carry her piggyback. By the time I caught up with them, they were just stopping to rest in the shade. I complemented the woman on what good walkers her children were. “They love to walk,” she replied. The little boy came up from behind his mother to let me know that there “are fire ants right over there!”
Children are such good teachers, if I will only take the time to pay attention. They know the secret of meandering, of discovering moments that I miss if I allow myself to be distracted by my busy brain, and the endless list of tasks and worries. Dogs are too.
Being away for the last three weeks has allowed me to slow down. I have had time to listen, to pray deeply, to write, to read. And notice stuff.
I sat in a beautiful garden every day. I felt the sun on my face and waited for the hummingbirds to flit among the flowers. Did you know that Anna hummingbirds make a delightful creaking sound? It reminds me of an old screen door being opened and closed. I breathed in the scent of dozens of different blooms, trying to identify each one that merged into a perfume that nothing in the world could replicate. And then I took some yoga classes and learned how to really breathe. (It’s harder than it looks.) I watched a stranded helium balloon in a tall tree in the neighborhood, feeling sad that it ruined the profile of the great tall oak–until the slanting sun turned it into a molten golden orb against the darkening sky. I rediscovered the delight in small moments. I savored. I stopped hurrying.
Now that I am home, the temptation is to go back to everything I left behind—the busyness, the eternal demands of the calendar and the never-ending lists. My head is filled with all the to-dos of fall. I look forward to what lies ahead. But I hope that I can hold onto the lessons learned from children, and from taking time away. May it be so for all of us.