Park Pilgrim

In undergrad, I read Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, in which Annie Dillard spends a year examining a little stream that ran behind her house.  I always thought that it was such a romantic idea, a way to truly be a writer.  I was so impressed by her dedication that I spent some time admiring the blades of grass on our college green and tried to be quite serious about the whole ordeal.  While I couldn't ever really see how she (or Thoreau for that matter) were able to divine quite so much from nature, the idea of taking the time to observe and appreciate one's surroundings has always appealed to me.  Perhaps what has surprised me the most about motherhood is that with SC our days feel sufficiently slowed. She is the change happening right in front of me.
Despite SC's view that we will never return, we go to the park daily, sometimes twice in one day.  SC examines the mulch, picking it up piece by piece, and unsatisfied with just a tactile inspection, attempts to taste it.  For a few weeks, SC was absolutely enamored with the bucket swing, and I would swing her back and forth for an hour.  We watched the traffic...here comes a school bus...now two more cars...now a truck...another school bus.  An endless litany of traffic announcements, which SC eagerly took in, craning her neck to see the next vehicle.  The world is new for a toddler, and nothing is more exciting than seeing a school bus, a yellow whirl lumbering down the road.

I reluctantly peel her away from the park to go blow bubbles in the driveway.  Most of the time she is most entertained by the stones on the flower bed.  Picking up each smooth rock, and depositing it some place new, she is a gardener in the making, I suppose.  Meanwhile, I entertain myself by blowing bubbles for her, watching them dance by the windows, before they vanish into the sky.

1 comment:

StephTheBookworm said...

Love it! Isn't it awesome how the little things are so fascinating to them?