when we are outside
together, if i let my
hand dangle at my
side, air passing between my
fingers, he will reach
for me. without saying a
word, without looking
to see if my hand is there
waiting, he takes my
hand in his, never doubting
that it will be there.
When I hug my son he tells me, "I love you too, mama." When I lift him up first thing in the morning and nuzzle my nose in his neck, breathing in the last vestiges of baby that still cling to him, he says it. "I love you too, mama." All throughout the day, I speak no words, but he hears me anyway and acknowledges my silent gestures with, "I love you too mama."
The first time he did it, I froze. I just looked at him, and kept looking at him, long after he'd wriggled out of my arms, and moved on to some new activity. For him our exchange was nothing to ponder. It was simple. I thought about how we (we being adults on the whole) believe love to be some complicated thing, but maybe it's not.
Maybe we come into the world knowing what love feels like, looks like, sounds like, and it's only what we learn and tell ourselves about what love "should" be, that makes it seem so complex. Maybe we could all use some time getting back in touch with our 3 year old selves, who knew love could be found in a look, or a smile, or even shared silence.
My son has made me more mindful about the love I show myself and those around me, because it is so much than the words we say.
If you're walking too quickly, if your eyes are cast down at the device in the palm of your hand, if your mind is too busy with the tasks you didn't get to yesterday and the ones still left for today, you may not notice.
You may not see the tiny purple flowers pushing their way up between mounds of dead leaves and half frozen earth, or the tiny buds sitting perched atop barren tree branches. You may not notice that most of those buds are patiently wrapped up inside themselves, waiting for nature and spring and a shift in the air to give them the go ahead, while others, in a burst of enthusiasm and optimism, are already showing their colors.
They signal to the birds who spend their mornings singing their gratitude for the blessing of another sunrise that spring is not only on her way, but that she is here.
I watch my little boy watching the world, and his noticing gives me permission to be still, to be present, to be of the world and not just in it.