Apologies for some recent gloomy, cryptic, pointless, faux philosophical entries which I would call ramblings if they weren't so brief. I will try to be less self-indulgent, a little more focused and alert. So moving on.
Late this afternoon, the three of us--me, Lily and Annika--were making our way down Seventh Avenue to meet some friends at a playground. It was a glorious afternoon: sunny and warm but not hot, and the air felt clean, and passersby were smiling at each other, and people were eating at outdoor cafes, and I had an iced coffee, and Annika was relaxed and contemplative in her stroller, and Lily was quite literally bounding joyfully down the street.
In fact, I was so lost in my own thoughts that it took me a while to realize quite how joyfully. I snapped to when she tugged my arm and said, decibel high, "Mama? Can you please listen to me sing this song?" and then without waiting for a response from me belted out a mostly accurate version of the "Spoonful of Sugar" song from Mary Poppins as though she were Liza Minelli in Vegas.
Although in another frame of mind I might have tried to shush her, her exuberance was contagious, and the equally joyful responses she got from everybody we walked by pushed all such thoughts out of my head. When she was done, we walked a little more in a companionable silence until I realized she was moving in a strange way, lifting her knees high and sort of pitching forward, then rolling back holding her arms out at her sides. "I'm a bike, Mama!" she said, as I pushed prosaically beside her.
"That's great," I said. "Do you wish you were riding your real bike?" This, because I had promised her we'd bring her real bike into the city, and I had forgotten, as well as, apparently, my general prosaicness just can't help making its buzzkill presence felt.
"No, Mama. I'm not riding a bike. I am a bike." Oh. I watched a little more closely. Sure enough, as I really looked, I could see that she was, indeed, being a bike, her legs the turning wheels, her arms the handlebars, stiff at her sides.
Shortly thereafter, we reached the playground, and as soon as I sat on a bench she was off, a flash of blue, with her friends, to the other side of the space, without looking back. I could hear her peals of laughter, her organizing voice, clear across the expanse. And I found myself thinking, as I sat and followed her voice, so strong and clear and confident: Someday I will tell her thank you for this, for being able to jolt me back to the self I want to be by sheer virtue of her personality, her lack of self-consciousness, her faith in herself and in me. So often, and I am sure many, many times to come, but for now I mean today, this afternoon, on the stretch of Seventh Avenue from 16th Street to Laguardia Place. Thank you, Lily, for being so essentially you, and in being you, bringing me back to myself.
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2 comments:
This is what I like so much about your blog. We all (I hope) have these times, when we are immersed in the wonderful present and know it and appreciate it. How typical it is to think “If only I could freeze this moment?” We want to hold these instances tight, to clamp on to them and we try, but their significance gets crowded out by all the other things that happen in the course of a day, a week, a lifetime. This blog ensures that these notable times are recorded. Years later, you’ll be able to read them, and even if you can’t recall the exact event; your feelings, and most of all the tributes, will still exist. While not necessarily the reason for this blog, an added bonus is the treasure of memories you are recording for Lily and for Annika. I can imagine Lily many years from now asking you: “Did I really do that Mom? Did I really pretend I was a bike?” Perfect!
Amy - I just discovered your blog and it is very interesting. What ever happened to your proxemics project? What is the status of the other projects you have in the works?
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