Yesterday I went into the backyard, trying to find Emma to let her know it was time for lunch. She was lying in the middle of the grass, barefoot and splayed out like a starfish, looking up into the sky. I asked her to come inside to have a sandwich, and she replied, “I don’t think I can right now. I’m very busy.”
Observing her, I thought this was perhaps the most perfect visual of someone being decidedly not busy. But trying to be a patient mother and wanting to understand, I asked her what she was very busy doing. With a sigh, she sat up and said, “There’s so much to see – my eyes aren’t even big enough yet to see all of this,” her hand gesturing across the sky.
I looked up and around, confused. I didn’t see anything.
“What do you see?” I asked.
“The clouds, of course. They are so beautiful, but I can’t see them all fast enough,” she replied.
I looked up again, this time noticing the big, puffy clouds that filled the sky. I hadn’t noticed them when I had looked up before.
We all had these gifts of seeing. Then we stopped looking. Once we are familiar with the world, it stops holding our attention. As I flopped down next to Emma on the grass, lying next to her and looking up at the sky, I thought how nice it was to see the world through the eyes of a child, finding the world novel and fascinating. A place that is overwhelmingly full of the simple beauty of clouds.