Hank carried home more than a dozen books in his backpack yesterday, after 4th graders walked to the library. How lucky are we to live in a world where people spend time writing fiction for the rest of us to enjoy?
Mary Oliver says the world offers itself to your imagination.
Books help us consider all sorts of realities. Once we consider them, can we construct them?
A few weeks ago Hank read a novel about a Korean family that included a paper-folding legend. For hours after he finished the story he folded and folded and folded until he had his own jar full of stars.
Not sure exactly what to do against this current iteration of the apocalypse, his effort seemed like a decent use of time.
Tucker is writing a research paper on woolly mammoths and dire wolves and the ethics of genetic engineering. He created a resume and is applying for summer jobs, auditioned for honors choir and section leader and is studying for Advance Placement tests. He still helps the historical society and knows arbitrary facts about obscure songs and finds time to spend with friends. I see him walk through the world and wonder, Could I be more relaxed and nice? His behavior indicates access to some cheat code for the universe: chill and be kind and it will all work out... He did not inherit this breeziness from me.
We are doing fine, fascism notwithstanding. The lilac bushes are in bloom, each branch in rivalry. How lucky, to live under the same canopy of sky as scented flowers and these remarkable boys? Tolliver has been preparing a new outdoor living arrangement for the garage turtle. He's given careful thought to all sorts of details, and gently introduced her to her new digs last night. Turns out a really effective antidote to low level anxiety may be to sip sun tea and watch your child nurture nature. I know what books and art can do for imagination, and I find myself interested in what love might do for it too.
