I had the lucky opportunity to be a part of a community get-together last week; a potluck with everyone’s favourite dish, with games and boat rides. Just about every age group was represented, from a five-year-old all the way up to deep in the 90s. My favourite thing to do when in such a situation is to watch, watch and listen while I take it all in. I’m not much of a conversationalist. I listened to the voice of Oliver, age five, proudly wearing his basketball medal and willing to explain to anyone who might like to listen about how he came to earn this award as he bid farewell to kindergarten. His eyes were wide, his heart singing as he held up his single pointer finger to announce he was now in grade one, which is no small feat if you recall. Oliver wears his innocent perfection on his face. He informs everyone that he is very tall for his age, which he is, but that he is just five, in case there are those who might expect more of him than he is able to give. His voice still has the sound created by plump baby cheeks that haven’t yet completely slimmed away. Oh, how I love that sound.
Oliver and his siblings played in the water. A mother wood duck floated into the bay, bringing her brood of ducklings with her. These lovely creatures weren’t even slightly disturbed by this group of children, undoubtedly sensing their safety with them. Oliver was in his wee kayak, paddling ever so carefully so as not to bump into the ducklings as they swam around him. The look on Oliver’s face was filled with both wonder and awe that these tiny wild creatures would be so trusting of him. If you spend any time with a child, you will notice their keen ability to see, to see with fascination that which adults have lost sight of. Children have the gift of observation. I regularly complain of my inability to focus, blaming it on my aging version of ADD. I once was able to sit at my desk for ten hours on some days, pen in high gear. That may have helped my goal-driven brain to finish my book, but it came at a cost. I was unaware of the backdrop of my life. The sunrise came and went unnoticed, the greening of spring, the sounds of summer. Perhaps my brain now is saying “look around,” the way Oliver looks around.
I watched Oliver move through the group of adults on his “nanny’s” lawn. He quickly identified those willing to have a conversation, but I think few probably realized the importance of his message. Our vision, as adults, is set on “expert mode”; we already know everything we think we need to know. But Oliver’s message is contrary to our learned view. His observations leave him breathless. The quickest way to move from A to B is in a straight line, as we know all too well. If we watch our beloved children, we would know there is no such thing as a straight line. Adults become far more selective in what we see, and I suppose there is some necessity to that adaptation in getting things done. Children don’t worry about shutting doors and picking up their clothes when they are a mission of discovery. They are in no hurry to put on their shoes when they notice a spider weaving her magic.
I wanted to squat in front of Oliver as I said goodbye, wanted to pull him into my arms and whisper in his ear. I wanted to beg him not to hurry, to wander instead of race, to savour instead of gulp, to be curious instead of certain. I wanted him to know that time is precious, and we are a grown-up for a very long time and a child for such few days. I hope he will always hold tight to his five-year-old self.
wendistewart@live.ca
