Just Don't do Anything
The Bear pointed out a small patch of rainbow trying to build momentum this morning on our ride out. He treated us to croissant sandwiches, a word which Puck has learned to pronounce very well, I might add. Must be that ancient French blood in there.
With Theodore and Gloria visiting Curly in Nashville, we were “critter watching” in the just-as-good-as new house out in St. Peters. So it was sort of even more like living in a hotel this time. Puck walked in the garage door to find a scavenger hunt already prepared for him. His eyes popped at each new Gloria-printed note he pulled from cabinets and drawers, ultimately leading him to a stuffed horse “Buck” fresh off the plane from San Jose, Donkey’s long-lost cousin.
“I get to keep him forever?!” he asked, crushing the huggable creature in his big paws.
After deciding that Buck had better not try the tree swing just yet, he asked for me to babysit while he got busy outdoors. Of course four minutes later…
Pound! Pound! Pound!
“Mom! Come quick! Aliens have landed!”
I never found out which aliens exactly, but Puck was already busy with Chutes & Ladders and the jumbo Lego box from the basement.
A little story…
Back in April, I took a little nap.
Six months later, I took another nap.
The end.
Yes, I bit the bullet, lanced the wound, downed the castor oil. Or whatever. I hate the idea of naps. But I figured that, hey, I’m getting older. Maybe when I come down with another cold that Puck handed me on a cute little silver platter, it’s best to rest instead of dragging out the inevitable process.
Basically, I’m too proud to nap.
And I know it.
The wind was really going at it like some Andrews Sisters stormy cartoon clip. Acorns thunking the deck and house with some fury in the afternoon sun. Puck spun around on the tree swing, really getting into some extreme swinging…
“Is this a boomerang swing, Mom?”
Aren’t they all…
Thought of the Day
I tend to mention this a lot – at least in other personal writing – but when I was a kid, I imagined things. A lot. All the time. No matter what I was doing, there was always something I could create out of any situation. Washing the dishes, long division, walking to Sunday School…
Then I turned about twelve or thirteen. I suddenly decided that I should stop imagining things. Why imagine anything? If God made things a certain way, what was the point in trying to change it in my head? Creation was absolute. Don’t tinker with it, I thought to myself.
But then I realized some long years later that my creativity is merely an extension of the Creator’s creativity. It is inspired by the reality around me. Whether it’s Star Wars moons or some concoction I have personally invented, it’s all an extension. Polluted, in a sense, as is all creation after the fall. Often perverted by the sinful twists that mankind tends to take when constructing ideas and arts and systems. But the point was made. I could imagine things and create worlds and stories and characters without feeling guilty about the run-off, so to speak. Which is why I did. And I still do when I have the time. Even if it only stays in my head and never makes it onto paper, which sometimes is almost better, in the end. There’s just always something lost in translation. Brain cells to ink is not always the best route.