Dear Little One,
The summer doldrums are upon us. I see you and your brother draped across the couch corners and I get it. Hot. Too hot for afternoons outdoors. We are stuck – stuck with one another in our living room. Stuck until we burst.
Truth be told, I love it when we burst.
In a burst of creativity and confidence, we planted basil, strawberries, tomatoes, and peppers. Now we have a loving responsibility to our tiny garden. And in turn a responsibility to each other, which is what love really is, isn't it? Responsibility. Care. Wanting the best for each other, something more than us. We help each other remember to weed. We indignantly check for slimy, squishy, saboteur bugs. We hose-rinse and munch on juicy berries, bursting with freshness. We grow together as we grow this little tradition.
We burst forth during our annual trip to The Great Sand Dunes National Park. As the four walls of our little house dissolve into wide open world for delving, big mountains of sand for climbing, conquering and sliding down. Starry skies for unkempt dreaming, we are reborn. Imaginations put us in Neverland or on a long-forgotten island or wherever we want to find our treasure trove of memories.
Sometimes we even burst over into other families. It's the best. I particularly loved the scene of you little ones spilling over onto the neighbors picnic blanket at a recent concert in the park. The high school music instructors burst into a jazz combo and were flying us all to the moon that night. I still see you, me, Papa, the neighbors from down the street--all those kids--all finding heart-filled smiles at the trumpet sound under the canopy of oaks.
I hold these memories tightly in me now. The shutters of my eyelids are burned with your image.
In all these little and big ways we are building our family history. As we take hold of our summer traditions, plan and embrace them, we are going—a little higher, a little further in—to our home. Let's pay attention and keep on bursting forth together.