Treasures

My son collects treasures. Nothing thrills him as much as a day spent wandering along the shore, or between the trees, or amidst the remains of a construction site - truly - searching for little items. An old twisted bit of rope. A particularly fine rock. A bent nail. It strikes me that I have spent countless hours watching his little body bend, examine, then straighten with some small object clutched in his hands, his head bowed as he beholds his latest discovery. 

On top of the bookshelf in his room, a collection of bits and pieces spreads. To many, these might appear simple, ordinary objects, perhaps even rubbish. For my son, they form an altar at which he worships delight. Sometimes, I grumble as I dust his room and carefully make my way around each treasured item. More often, though, I reflect: what a gift he has given to me, to anyone who gets to join him in this quest. I can be in a truly terrible mood and the sight of his little body stooped in near-reverent observation of the most ordinary, and sometimes the most extraordinary, (and sometimes those are the exact same thing), brings me a smile. 

I’ve operated under a misunderstanding, it seems, that it is my job to teach my children how wonderful the world can be. Not so, my son tells me by showing, as he combs every moment with curiosity and attention. He knows, better than I, that wonder is always there, ready for us, an open invitation. He takes my hand and he leads the way, as he did five days after the election last fall, when we walked along a beach shockingly vibrant in bright November sunshine. “Look, Mom!” The mantra drew me, again and again, from my spiraling thoughts back to my body, my senses, to my son’s small face beaming up at me, a new treasure in his hands. 

His heart is enormous and, every day, he throws it out at the world: at the sap dripping from the taps, the salamanders crossing the road, his friends at school, his teachers. He loves with abandon and I watch, my heart breaking open over and over again in the process. It is so generous, this love, offered with palms wide to a world that can be so cruel. 

“What if our job, as parents and educators, is to minimize trauma and preserve our children’s opportunity to encounter the world with wonder?” The question was put to me recently by a new acquaintance, a person with a deep background in both education and parenthood. I paraphrase, but the essence of his question is there, and it resonated in my being as core truths do, taking up residence, shaping my understanding. I don’t mean to suggest I should shelter my son; the world is there, after all, waiting for him with both the call of the loons and the bombs dropping in Gaza. 

But what if my son - and all the bright, young beings - came into the world knowing everything I am trying so hard to remember? What if his young being is so full of love that it spills out, as it clearly does, infusing rocks and pieces of bark and dropped feathers with a damn-near-magical aura? What if the tears that spring to my eyes as I witness this great love fest are not tears of fear but the bittersweet ache that comes when we recall a deep, buoyant truth, one that connects directly to the core of our longing?

After all, it is truly gorgeous, this world, even in the midst of all the horror and all the destruction. And I am sure of nothing so much as this: the only path to something whole on the other side of everything that would tear this world into shreds has to be paved with the same love I see radiating from my son, daily, at the most ordinary aspects of existence. 

So, yes, kiddo, I will take your hand. Show me your treasures. My job is to remember.