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Tuesday, June 24, 2014

It's an eyes-half-open kind of night

I'm almost asleep. It's been 6 months since I last wrote on here and I'm sorry for that.

I've been thinking. Thinking a lot since school got out. Thinking about small worlds.

Today, I went to the eye doctor. A pretty mundane activity. But the technician took me in the book and had me stare at that little black box in the computer screen and told me to click the mouse when it blurred. And for several minutes, that little screen with the box was my whole world.

It reminds me of a time not long ago in February, when I was at Camp Sunshine. Working with the littlest ones, we were the first group to head out for horse-drawn carriage rides. The other counselors and I each bundled up several kids. We wrapped and wrapped them in scarves galore. Finally we had 14 tiny little beings, stumbling about in their oversized winter gear. Each had seen more than they should have. Whether patient or sibling, they had all spent too much time in busy hospital halls with the florescent lights and beeping monitors. This must feel so serene to them, being in the quiet of a snowy Maine winter.
Finally, we got onto the carriage, and I held one of the youngest, Ronan. Too little to climb the ladder, I hoisted him onto my hip. We sat in the back of the wagon, our own little corner. I wrapped him up in a fleece blanket. His little nose poked out, his hat almost covering his eyes. And for those wobbling moments on the back of a wooden cart in rural Maine, Ronan was my only focus. He was my world. I stared into his soft blue eyes and clutched his fleshy hands wrapped up in tiny mittens. He didn't make a sound. He didn't squirm. He almost fell asleep. It was Ronan and I, cuddled in close, a bright-eyed baby boy and me. He was my whole world.

I love that focus that comes in tiny experiences. You'd never think back to them unless...unless what? Unless the stroke of genius returned whispering, Remember this moment. It's worth something.


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