Bicycles & Wonder

I stood out on the drive way of my brother's house, watching his two kids. They had their little bikes out, spinning up and down that concrete strip.

My nephew just turned three. He doesn't really ride his bike, he just pushes with his feet along the ground while sitting on the seat. It's more of a shuffling approach.

A Younger Lijah

"Hey, Lijah, put your feet on the pedals bud." I told him.

Lifting his feet he put them on the pedals and pushed down hard on both at once - a look of fierce determination on his face. He didn't move.

I reached down and pushed on one foot, then told him to press down the other. He altered his pressure painfully slow from his left to his right, creeping forward. After about three minutes, he went back to happily shuffling again.

There are some things that we do so often that we don't even realize that they were once unknown and had to be learned. I was too young to remember my first steps and I don't recall learning to pedal clearly either. But I do remember my big sister teaching me to pump my legs, propelling myself back and forth on the swing set. I remember learning how to ride without training wheels. My first attempt was downhill at a park by our house. It ended disastrously as I veered off the path, headlong into a cherry tree. It took time.

One of the greatest joys of being an Aunt is re-experiencing a discovery of the world. I have a Ray Bradbury quote tacked up on a cork board at home - the first line reads "stuff your eyes with wonder." I can see that's what my little nephews and niece are doing when I watch them. The little breakthroughs are huge milestones of progression in their lives.

When I see Lijah bike, or my baby nephews start to take their first steps; I see in their smiles that they are saying 'Look at me, look at all that I am capable of!'

I hope they never lose that sense of wonder about themselves.

Little Prayers

Four over-ripe bananas sit in the fruit basket. Their yellow peels are speckled with deep brown spots. And so you say,

"We should make banana bread" because their perfect-meant-to-be-baked-bananas. You can already almost taste it.

But it has been a long week and your mother sighs do-we-really-need-to? You look at her, worn down and remember how much she has always already-done-for-you. It starts at birth and ends with cleaning the dishes from yesterdays party. We're always indebted to the mothers who already do-so-much.

"It just seems like a lot of work," she says, "and it's hot and that would mean turning on the oven"

It is hot. Sweltering.

"Alright" you say and smile. And it really is alright.

But then you hear a knocking on the door. A small tap, tap, tap. And a loud little voice calls out "I hear the t.v. on, I know they're there. Why aren't they answering?"

Mattie's mother calls out to him from their yard to stop, come back later.

You open the door. He smiles up at you from the 3 feet 6 inches of himself, a big grin. "This is from Beverley," he says, handing you a package all wrapped up in a clear plastic film.He runs back out into his yard.

It's a loaf of banana bread. From the neighbors.

and also maybe from God.

Summer Morning

The mulberries are ripe this time of year. Saturated with the dew, they're so plump and full they hang heavy on their stems. They drop off the trees and scatter across sidewalks. I think if I'd brought Tupperware with me on my morning walk, I could pick enough to bake a mulberry pie. 

Today, the whole sky feels plump enough to drop at any minute; fat raindrops down on my head. It's classic Ohio humidity. 

Summer is ripe as well - big and deep and cherry-purple. The hours are long and delicious - full of  possibility. I remember somewhat distantly that decay is implicit, and this abundance is not boundless. Before I know it, Autumn will have fallen and these mulberry trees will be bare.

These Miles

These miles burn inside my thighs for days. When you see me, you might be deceived into thinking that I am so small - yourself a giant in comparison. But I have a secret – I am the sky open wide, wind rushing by with millions of miles on my skin.

Runner

Can you imagine if stars only happened only once every fifty years? We would all probably just stand outside, staying up all night to watch them. We would soak them up with awe.

When I run they are always there though, so instead of peering curiously at them, I let them peer down at me. I focus on my ragged breathing - in through my nose, out through my mouth. I focus on the rhythm of the music pounding in my ears and try to keep my feet in tempo, even when my legs are aching.

I adore running on the snow, where my feet are the first feet to ever fall. It makes me feel like an explorer of a new fantastic world. I feel like an astronaut on the moon - "one small step for man..."

I think that if I could run to the moon, I would. If I could run all the way to the stars up in sky then I would. And once I was there, in distance space on my star, I would turn around to look at the earth. Imagine seeing earth for the first time in your life like that like a cut out circle from black construction paper. I think I would just stand and stare at it. I would soak up that picture of earth in awe.