The Touch

In the mornings, my two daughters are like comedy and tragedy, Oscar and Big Bird, Bert and Ernie. My youngest is always smiles no matter when I wake her up, but on a good day, my eldest throws the covers over her head and cries. On bad days, she throws the covers off and yells at me, "I want to sleep, Mommy!" shaking her entire arm like an overwrought librarian.

This morning, when I put Ria (the six-month-old) on her big sister's bed to get her dressed, she reached towards Ely. Blinking sleepily after her obligatory grunt, Ely reached back, their fingers touching just at the tips, reminding me of Michaelangelo's Adam and God painting. They touched for several minutes, and it was the most beautiful thing I have seen in ages.

"I Want Ariel!"

I'm not a fan of television. Movies are marginally better, but the sound of the TV still grates on my nerves. Unfortunately, my life has lent itself to rather more television/movie watching lately than I prefer. We have only a bare handful of animated, 2-year-old-friendly movies, among which are the Care Bears.

Ely is a Care-Bear-aholic. She absolutely adores watching the cute little bears bring love and caring into the world. This is wonderful, because of all the cartoons out there today, I'd much prefer she watch something with morals and meaning and storyline, like Care Bears. The problem with this is that we only have two, 30-minute tapes.

I am utterly sick of Care Bears.

So, imagine the depths of my joy when Ely declared "I want Ariel!" The best part about The Little Mermaid, as produced by Disney, is that there are parts of the movie which are hilarious to a two-year-old. I'm not talking about little-girl snickers funny, but deep, belly laugh funny. Few things gladden my heart as much as watching Ely laugh so hard her little body shakes when Scuttle uses the dinglehopper to fluff his hair, or when Max licks Ariel's face over the side of the ship.

This utter joy in the simple beauty of life is echoed when she observes the real world, too. This morning, as we stepped out of the house, she gazed up at the sky and said, light voice filled with wonder, "Stars, Mommy! Stars!"

I glanced around, and said back to her, "Yes, you're right! There are stars. Aren't they pretty?" all the while thinking how sad it was that only a dozen or so stars were visible in the city light.

It was then that I learned a very humbling lesson as she said, "Yes! Pretty! I like stars. Do you like stars, mommy?" I realized that she did not see what wasn't in the sky, she only saw the stars which were there, and she rejoiced in them.

Too often lately, I've been focusing on the empty spaces where stars should be, neglecting to notice the beauty that is there. I've been letting resentment and fear blind my eyes and keep me from trusting God.

I can't yet take her to the country at night, to show her how many more stars can be seen when observed from the right place. Yet, I ought to be able to remember that they are there, whether I can see them or not, whether I can share them with her yet or not.

And meanwhile, I can belly laugh at the simple silliness of life, and rejoice in the stars that can be seen from where I am now.

Beauty in Transience

One of the messages in the Last Unicorn is that although there is beauty in immortality, there is a far more poignant beauty found in things that fade and die.

Yesterday, my daughter spouted the line "leave me alone!" It affected me more deeply than I would have thought. I always knew she would someday leave me behind, but this simple statement of toddler independence nearly crushed me. It is the beginning of the end. It means that I will savor the scent of her hair when she cuddles me more deeply than I even did before. I will treasure every soft touch, and every sweetly concerned "don't cry, mommy."

It pains me to know that I am not capturing every second of being with her, holding it like a fluttering butterfly. I get too caught up in cleaning, cooking, unwinding from my day. How I try to freeze every feeling into a secret place in my heart, where the finger-tip memory of the feel of my dog's wiry fur is still tucked away, to bring out only when I need it most.

With a startling prescience, I see myself holding a pillow to my chest, alone in my room, closing my eyes and breathing in the remembered tickle of her soft hair. I can't imagine anything more precious. Even my whimsical mind cannot conceive of anything more beautiful than these moments, now, spent with her. Eternity cannot possibly be beautiful in the way that this is beautiful, because eternity does not die.

Full Moon

A few nights ago, the moon was full. I'm not sure what it is, but when the moon is bright enough to drown out all the artificial light I am surrounded with, it fills me with a shivery, silvery, quivery sort of power. Perhaps it is the string of women in my ancestry, gazing at the moon with that peculiar feminine connection. To me, the sun is always too harsh, burning my eyes and skin. The moon is soothing and gentle. I can see by its light without squinting. It doesn't suck moisture from me, leaving me headachy. I know it sounds a little new-agey Wiccan-esque, but I believe that it is merely enjoying a snapshot of God's creations with no sense of worship towards the moon. It delights me when the moonlight throws objects, worn by daylight's harsh mundanity, into mysterious yet crisp relief.

Sometimes I feel such a connection with the world around me, it seems I can almost tap into the power of God running through all things. Suddenly, I feel as though I am part of a vast living computer, not nearly as disconnected as I usually feel. When I feel that, for the briefest moment, I realize I am home.