My little neighbor, Kevin, started kindergarten last week. I know this because he told me. This telling is in and of itself quite an accomplishment because for the first six months after he and his family moved in next door, Kevin would run the other way whenever he saw me.
After two months of this disturbing behavior, I told my husband I was developing quite a complex. I found it incredibly disconcerting to know that I instilled fear in that child and tried everything in my arsenal to win him over. Truthfully, my arsenal was limited - a genuine smile, a wave, a friendly tone, a presentable appearance. I even briefly considered bribery, but that seemed somehow wrong. Despite my honest attempts, Kevin would take one look at me, turn tail and run.
I'm not sure what broke the ice about six weeks ago, but now Kevin and I chat companionably through the wire fence that separates our front yards. Mostly we chat about the trash collectors who come on Tuesday and how many trash cans they knock down, and which trash can we roll out to the curb first, and which has the most trash. He always asks me about Greg, who he never calls by name but instead refers to as "the other neighbor." And when Kevin chats with Greg, he never fails to ask about me who he also always refers to as "the other neighbor." It's easier that way, I suppose...we're sort of interchangeable neighborly replicants.
Anyway, I find my new friend to be incredibly bright, and fun and charming. Kevin is small for his age and with his dark-rimmed glasses and pronounced lisp he seems very fragile and sensitive so it's no surprise that when he told me he would soon be off to kindergarten I suddenly felt very protective of him. Although I was outwardly happy and excited at Kevin's news, the internal mom in me went into overdrive. How would he react to all the new people, and routines, and separation from his mom with whom he is very close? I worried about bullies, and playground rejection, and keeping up with the stronger, bigger kids. I had trouble sleeping the night before his first day of school, for crying out loud.
Kevin, meanwhile, chattered happily on about how even though his mom would drive him to school on the first day, he couldn't wait to walk to the bus stop on the corner so he could ride the yellow school bus with all the other kids.
Back in time fifty-five years. I remember my first day of kindergarten at Decima Allen School - a dismal, creaky old stone building complete with tales of real bats in a real belfry. An only child at the time, I remember walking into the classroom holding tightly to my mother's hand and encountering an eye-level forest of grown-up knees and more kids than I had ever seen in one place before. Although somewhat confused by all the activity I also remember feeling fairly confident until I saw Kenny Wright holding onto his mom's legs and screaming bloody murder, begging her not to leave him. "Uh-oh," I thought, scanning the room for an escape route. "He has insider information about this whole kindergarten thing." Eventually Kenny calmed down and the rest of that first day must have been uneventful because I have no memory of it beyond wailing Kenny.
Back in time twenty-five years. My daughter wanted to take the bus on her first day of school so I waited at the corner with the other moms. I remember watching my little girl as she hoisted herself up that first giant step into the bus, one hand on the rail, the other gripping her lunch box, watched as she took a seat next to her friend, watched as she rode away toward her future. Not all school days were as smooth as that first one, but on that day she was fiercely independent and I was - and continue to be - so incredibly proud of her I could burst.
I saw Kevin the other day and asked him about his first day of school. His face lit up, dimples framing his smile, as he told me how much fun it was, and how much he liked taking the bus, and that playing outside was the best part. We talked a bit more about school, then about trash cans. He asked about the other neighbor, and finally we said our goodbyes.
I am happy to report that I slept quite soundly that night.
Il Dolce Far Niente
The sweetness of doing nothing, il dolce far niente, is a wonderful Italian expression that perfectly captures the exquisite gift of living in, and fully appreciating, the moment.
Like most Americans, the ability to live in the moment was for me an abstract idea. Proud of my ability to multitask circles around most people, of my job as director of two hospital departments, of never sitting still for a moment, the concept of "the sweet do-nothing" was at once incredibly appealing and completely foreign.
The concept was foreign, that is, until January 2009 when life intervened and I was abruptly "reorganized" out of my job at the hospital where I worked for almost 20 years.So now, at age 60, here I am living an enforced life of "il dolce far niente." I find myself in the enviable position of having a lot of time on my hands and (initially at least) no idea what to do with it. Although I focus a part of each day doggedly searching for a new job, most of my calendar is so empty it echoes.
But to my surprise, rather than feeling adrift in days without schedules, meetings and agendas, I now know that there is such a richness, such a gift in enjoying each day on its own merit. Rather than controlling my time, I'm learning to allow it to unfold and am almost always pleased with what life presents me.
In this blog, I want to share that richness as I discover the beauty of simple things - while still coming to terms with being unemployed for the first time in my life in an economy that's tanking and where jobs are few and far between. What I hope will evolve through this blog (for you as well as for me) is a true appreciation for another way of living. We'll just have to see how it goes.
Like most Americans, the ability to live in the moment was for me an abstract idea. Proud of my ability to multitask circles around most people, of my job as director of two hospital departments, of never sitting still for a moment, the concept of "the sweet do-nothing" was at once incredibly appealing and completely foreign.
The concept was foreign, that is, until January 2009 when life intervened and I was abruptly "reorganized" out of my job at the hospital where I worked for almost 20 years.So now, at age 60, here I am living an enforced life of "il dolce far niente." I find myself in the enviable position of having a lot of time on my hands and (initially at least) no idea what to do with it. Although I focus a part of each day doggedly searching for a new job, most of my calendar is so empty it echoes.
But to my surprise, rather than feeling adrift in days without schedules, meetings and agendas, I now know that there is such a richness, such a gift in enjoying each day on its own merit. Rather than controlling my time, I'm learning to allow it to unfold and am almost always pleased with what life presents me.
In this blog, I want to share that richness as I discover the beauty of simple things - while still coming to terms with being unemployed for the first time in my life in an economy that's tanking and where jobs are few and far between. What I hope will evolve through this blog (for you as well as for me) is a true appreciation for another way of living. We'll just have to see how it goes.
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2 comments:
It is HARD watching them grow up! But so fun to see that light of individuality connecting (when they haven't yet learned lessons like fear, rejection, defeat, etc.). It's a roller-coaster ride, this being-in-the-world-with-little-people! :)
Yes, it's quite a roller coaster...and a tug of war, too, between wanting to protect them against hurt and rejection, but knowing those are lessons that will make them stronger and more empathetic as they grow.
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