Many years ago, one of my daughters’ playmates wandered through our sugarhouse with a huge pine branch over her shoulder. My then-husband and I were working in the kind of frantic way we often did in those days, sap-turning-to-syrup boiling fiercely in the pans. The playmate was a slight and quiet child. She moved through us and then disappeared outside again, enmeshed in whatever imaginative world.
On this below zero morning, heading towards my oldest daughter’s birthday, this photo taken by my friend comes into my email, which reminded me how much of my approach to parenting little kids was let them wander around the world. More than a few times, that seemed to have evolved into a kind of what the heck is happening now sense from the kids.
Just for the record, we swam a great deal at this beach, too, although never in the frozen months.
The horizon’s edge, the flying seacrow, the fragrance of saltmarsh and shoremud;— Walt Whitman
These became part of that child who went forth every day, and who now goes and will always go forth every day,
And these become of him or her that peruses them now.