Relearning to Learn

For some time now I have been spending a lot of time thinking about the concept of learning how to do something. Now that Lily is, actually, learning how to do so many things (Annika is, too, but in a nonverbal way, of course, which means she can't explain how it feels), learning has become a part of my daily life, although more as an observer than a participant. I have been taking Lily to swimming lessons all summer, and watching her learn how to swim. I have been sitting by her side as she has learned to write and read. And today, she insisted on taking the training wheels off her bike. "I want to learn to really ride it," she declared.

It is the hunger, the eagerness, the excitement of learning that I see in her and crave. To my tremendous joy, there is no fear of failure or fear of any kind associated with learning something new for her. Occasionally, there is frustration, as there should be. But it has not yet proven much of an impetus.

It is the sheer determination, as well, that I miss. Watching her today, balancing on her seat and pedaling, eyes ahead, chin set, as Ben ran along beside her, holding on, I couldn't help but remember my own precarious perch: the bike was blue, my grandfather had set aside an afternoon, and again and again I coasted and fell. One time, I rode right into the reddish-brown fence that divided the side yard from the lawn around the swimming pool. The funny thing is: I don't remember when I learned, or if it even was that day. It is the learning, the trying, the struggling, the refusal to give up that I remember, and I believe there is a lesson in that.

Lily did not learn how to ride a bike today, although she is close. It may be next weekend, or the weekend after that. But as I watch her wheel the bike out of the garage, arrange her foot on the lead pedal, settle herself onto her seat in the weeks to come, I will also watch her stumble, fall onto the grass, under the bike, scrape her legs and turn her ankles. And I will be fine with this. And when she does start riding on her own--experience that moment when she realizes nobody is holding on (at which point, she will fall)--I will be fine with this, too, with one caveat. I want her to always remember, as I must, that the falls are okay too.