My 13-year-old son and youngest child is away at camp. For a month. Ahem. Did you hear me correctly? A month. Thirteen years old. What is up with that? I miss him, and so I am reprinting this "Bringing Up Mommy" column I wrote for Knight-Ridder/Tribune News when he was 9.
FOREVER MOMENTS
The best part of summer vacation was not the pizza with the award-winning sauce or the shuffleboard game or even the soft-serve cones that were big as Mrs. Simpson's hair and cost only a dollar.
The best part was the sky.
"Look! The sky is purple!" said my 9-year-old son as the two of us walked through the village square along the shore of Lake Erie.
It was a signal.
And as the sun cast its last reflection of the day on this great expanse of Great Lake named after an Indian tribe, my young son and I stopped.
"What else?" I whispered.
"I hear flip-flops flopping and a basketball."
I waited, quiet, so we could offer full attention to the unmistakable sounds of a child's summer sandals slapping against the sidewalk, and, sure enough, a basketball bouncing on the village court.
"I smell fish from the lake," I said.
"Hmmmm," my son said, and he took in a deep breath through his nose.
"I see the lights of the boats," he said, his eyes wide open now.
"I feel a light breeze on my arm," I said.
"I feel happy in my heart, and peace," he said.
"I feel safe," I said.
With each pronouncement, with each observation, my son and I experienced the summer night more deeply, until we were satisfied we had imprinted another "forever moment," as we have come to call them.
It was not unlike the moment we chanced upon a few weeks ago while riding bikes: Instead of racing along the trail in a hurry, always rushing to see what's around the bend, we had decided to open our hearts and our five senses, one-by-one, to each curve along the path.
"I see shadows on the trail from the sun."
"I hear the sound of a lawn mower."
"I smell the crispness of the air."
"I see a turtle!"
We saw nuances and details that we typically overlook when we are thinking about what we're going to have for lunch or when boys' soccer practice is going to start up again.
We noticed that the leaves on the same tree appeared to be different shades of green because of the slant of the sun. We distinguished between the call of doves, crows and what I call tweety birds. We experienced and recognized the wind and the sun in our faces. We felt peace.
The constant, the mainstay, in these moments is what we feel inside. So far, when my son and I have stopped to be where we are, we have reported to each other feelings of safety, happiness and peace, which makes me wonder why we, why all of us in our family, why all of us everywhere, don't allow ourselves these moments all the time.
When my husband and I are sitting at the soccer field watching our children, when our family is all together at the dinner table, when we are playing a board game, when we are saying our long, ritualistic good-nights, cuddled up to each other, instead of thinking of what we have to do tomorrow, instead of worrying how much higher gas prices are going to go or how we're going to pay for college, we could be having a different experience.
"I hear the tick tock of the clock."
"I hear an owl outside."
"I feel your skin against mine."
"I feel the love between me and you."
We've all read the pundits, the philosophers and the theologians who remind us to live in the present moment: "The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time," sings James Taylor. "Do not dwell in the past. Do not dream in the future. Concentrate the mind on the present moment," said Buddha. "This it the day that the Lord hath made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it," says the Psalmist.
I had thought this would require some kind of paradigm shift, some measure of life-commanding attention.
Now, having had these moments with my willing child, I know that the present moment is as easy as leaving my post, stepping outside and calling to my young son, "Want to have a forever moment?"
We sit on the front stoop, him in his sweaty, dirty play clothes and me in my apron from the kitchen where I've started supper. And we listen to the wings of the birds and the beginning of a summer evening, emblazoned now forever.
