THE INCREDIBLE SHRINKING MAN – A Grown Son Seen Anew

My son, Jeff, is 42. He lives about 1,200 miles away, and I haven’t seen him but
for our two or three brief visits a year since his mother and I divorced when he
was four.

Despite my considerable failings as a father, Jeff has grown up to be a smart, creative, principled, loving man. He’s had his share of disappointments and heartaches, but he’s carved out a life that works for him. And, while I may not agree with all the decisions he’s made, I respect them…and him.

          Suddenly, this big, six-foot-two, 42-
          year-old man shrank before my eyes.

When we’re together, as we were for a few days this past week, it’s hard to remember that Jeff is my son. Sure, we share memories from his childhood; I teach him whatever I know that he's still interested in learning; I ask about his life, and offer advice and support when he needs it.

But usually it seems we treat each other more as peers than as father and son. Lots of good-natured give and take—joking, challenging, comparing tastes, the occasional boast.

This visit has been an especially rewarding one. For a quiet man who generally keeps to himself, he seemed to truly appreciate me and all his aunts, uncles and cousins gathered to celebrate Independence Day as a family. And I enjoyed him…
a lot.

WHERE’S THE TIME GONE?
Yesterday, I drove Jeff to the airport. We hugged, exchanged I love yous and said good-bye. Then he turned and walked toward the terminal doors. Suddenly, this big, six-foot-two, 42-year-old man shrank before my eyes. All I could see was him as a three-year-old.

My throat tightened and the emotion welled up. At that moment, I saw in him all the beauty, innocence and vulnerability I find in my three-year-old grandson, but which I thought I’d long since lost with Jeff. To be honest, I’m not sure I ever felt quite that same chemistry of tenderness and awe, even when he was that little kid, when he—and I for that matter—needed it most.

      Isn’t that something we all dream of: 
      turning back the clock in every way 
      but for our knowledge?

We parents always seem to learn these lessons too late. During our kids’ tender youth, we’re so overwhelmed with the enormity of our responsibility and so underwhelmed with our own competence and emotional stability that we’re barely holding it together, much less exuding pure patience and love.

Sadly, none of us ever gets a do-over on those parts of parenting we botched as twenty-somethings. Or do we?

REDEMPTION
I realize Jeff will never again be three. But he will be forty-three, and, give or take a few decades, isn't that as good an age as any to start seeing anew that pure, precious, child-like heart and soul I know still reside at his core? And perhaps be more like the father I wish I’d been so long ago?

This is something I guess all parents—and eventually our progeny—learn: that at some deep, internal level we continue to see them as little children, no matter what their age.

After all, my son is still my son, and I am still his father. God willing, I have some time to know and appreciate him as if I were new to the game—but with the added perspective, patience and wisdom only 40 years can bring. (Isn’t that what we all dream of: being able to turn back the clock in every way but for our knowledge?)

        Try, if you can, picturing them as 
        small, sweet and innocent once again.

My little epiphany has been a blessing, even though it comes late, during the slow, certain ebb of my life. My guess is that many fathers who divorced when their kids were very young never get that chance; some may not recognize it when they do.

Has your relationship with a grown child—or anyone for that matter—grown old? Do you find yourself keeping just a little distance between you, or perhaps taking him or her for granted, because you're both adults? Try, if you can, picturing them as small, sweet and innocent once again. Because deep inside, under all those layers life's woes have heaped on them, they still are...we all still are.

It's not like your time together is suddenly going to transform to true magic. But the way you feel about them just might. If they notice something's different, let's just let the reason be our little secret.

TOO CLOSE TO SEE – As If For the First Time

(This is the fifth post in my series of reflections, As If For the First Time, describing the most mundane of daily activities through a fresh lens, one of innocence and wonder.)

When I was a boy, an up-and-coming comedian—later turned actor, director and producer—named Andy Griffith gained fame for "What It Was, Was Football," his description of an American football game through the eyes of a country bumpkin who'd never seen the game before.

One bunch got (the funny lookin' little pumpkin) and it made the other bunch just as mad as they could be! And Friends, I seen that evenin' the awfulest fight that I ever have seen in all my life! They would run at one another and kick one another and throw one another down and stomp on one another and grind their feet in one another and I don't know what-all, and just as fast as one of 'em would get hurt, they'd tote him off and run another one on!

PHOTO: Ames, Iowa Historical Society

In the decades since, that bit has come to mind a hundred times as I've learned, little by little, to give small wonders their due, to see them, as much as possible, as if for the very first time.

For, you see, I'd noticed—and continue to notice—an awful lot of people acting strangely blase about new discoveries that clearly would have knocked their socks off when they were kids.

I've never quite trusted anyone, including myself, who insulated himself so from curiosity and wonder.

LOW-HANGING FRUIT

So what happens to people to suppress that young, fresh, impressionability we're all born with? Part if it, I'm sure, is just a natural tendency to take for granted things our minds no longer have to expend any energy processing. That blase, been-there, done-that attitude also seems to be a hallmark of the young and/or insecure—people trying just a little too hard to prove their wisdom and maturity.

Whatever the reason, I've never quite trusted anyone, including myself, who insulated himself so from curiosity and wonder. If being a bit childish and having more questions than answers is the price, then I'm reaching for my wallet every time!

I'm fortunate enough to have travelled to a few places around the world, places with different landscapes, climates and cultures. It's been easy for me to experience the wonders of life in such places as if I were seeing them for the first time… because, in most cases, I was.

Things like the glow-in-the-dark trails of dolphins rocketing through bioluminescent plankton in the Sea of Cortez. Like the exquisite smell of jasmine on a warm August evening in Seville. Like the humble plant (mimosa podica) I saw in Costa Rica, which recoils and curls up to the touch. Like the thundering, guttural cries of howler monkeys or the flamboyant splendor of the illusive quetzal bird.

REACHING HIGHER

It's one thing to be awestruck when things are new and exotic; it's another thing altogether when you want to experience the same amazement with things you see all the time. And that's what my musings here are intended to be all about: finding wonder even in the simplest, most familiar things.

You can't change who you are or where you live, but you can change the way you see.

How does one do that? I try to imagine myself always the visitor, just as I'm the visitor when I travel. I try to remember that, as familiar as a robin might seem to me, to a stranger it might be stunningly exotic. I imagine eavesdropping on that visitor's email or call home: …and we saw this one bird that seemed just a dull, grayish brown all over, but suddenly it turned and flew away and I could see its whole breast was bright orange and it had these elegant little white dots on its wing tips!

Don't let yourself get complacent about all the amazing wonders that surround you every day. You can't change who you are or where you live, but you can change the way you see.

See freshly, creatively and, as I like to say, generously. Give even the most familiar of wonders the benefit of that generosity. And remember that all of these everyday things, though you may have seen them a hundred times, were indeed brand new to you when you were a child. Now and then, put aside your schedules, your preoccupations and, yes, your indifference, and be that child.

Don't concede wonder to anyone or any place.

HEY PAL, HERE'S YOUR WONDER!

To those who still feel wonder lives anywhere but at home, here's what I say: Show off your constant tropical climate, and I'll strut the abiding rhythms, the stirring beauty of my changing seasons. Your ocean and palm trees are nice, but behold my landscape blanketed in pure, dazzling white snow.

Mention your swaying palms and I'll give you rolling hills ablaze in orange, red and gold. Boast of your jasmine or bougainvillea and I'll tout my block-long thicket of luxuriant lavender flower clusters, all breathing the heavenly scent of lilac. Offer me your quetzal and howler monkeys and I'll return the favor with an indigo bunting and a moose.

Get my drift? Just because you may live, as I do, in what some have described as a pretty flat landscape and a harsh climate—or let's say you live in the desert, where lush is a word reserved for someone with a drinking problem—don't concede wonder to anyone or any place.

Remember, no matter where you live, no matter how commonplace your surroundings may have become for you, they are, indeed, wonders. The difference between seeing them with a yawn or with jaw dropped in awe is your openness, your humility, your expectation of wonder.

EYES OF A CHILD – Like You’ve Never Seen Before

What is it about the eyes of a child? Could they possibly be any wider open, any purer, any more completely in the moment? When the downy little head of a one-year-old turns your way, and those great, round eyes meet yours, you can’t help but be struck by both how voraciously and how generously they see, eagerly grasping every detail, yet with an innocence that’s utterly free of judgment or guile.

There’s also something especially disarming, I think, about eyes that look up at you—as children's eyes usually do. Could it be some instinctual comfort we experience when we’re dominant? If someone’s looking up at you, they must either be smaller or in a subservient position and, therefore, pose no threat.

Does it tap into our inherent drive to protect and nurture the innocent and vulnerable? Or do we see something in that gaze that puts us in touch with the sacred? Might we, at some level, associate it with the way a newcomer to heaven might perceive God?

Every observation within their pull swirls inescapably into their possession, as if swallowed
by a benign black hole. 

Whatever the reason, I’m utterly undone by kids' eyes—captivated by the way they envelope and explore everything, including me, as if they were holding it, turning it over, feeling it. Their capacity seems so far out of proportion to their size. Every observation and impression within their pull swirls inescapably into their possession, as if swallowed by a benign black hole.

INNOCENCE LOST

A baby’s eyes are just as enchanting for what they don’t show. They harbor no assumptions, no prejudice. The vulnerable way they gaze up at you would be the same if you were Miss America or Quasimodo. They’re not yet well versed in fear.

Expectation, disappointment, competition, prejudice—none of these attitudes is intrinsic to homo sapiens. They're learned. That’s why you don’t see them in a one-year-old’s eyes…and why you may start to see them in a two-year-old’s. What does that tell you?

Oh, that we could learn to give and receive 

that sweet, open, vulnerable look more often!

It tells me that the brightness that fades gradually from some children's eyes is getting obscured, layer upon layer, by lessons we wouldn’t teach them if we knew any better. Like sheets of sheer gauze, the first few of these filters may escape notice, but add enough of them, and the wrapping becomes nearly opaque, all but blocking the curiosity, delight and wonder that should remain every child's essence.

I WANT THOSE EYES

Some kids manage to keep that essence, that clarity, in their eyes longer than others. Even a child who’s learned to frown, pout and throw tantrums can, at other times, when the “attitude” falls away, give the most unguarded, most innocent of looks. I’ve seen it in the eyes of ten-year-old boys, who look up at their dads as if to say “I want to be just like him.” I’ve even seen it—though I must say very seldom—in the eyes of an adult. Oh, that we could learn to give and receive that sweet, open, vulnerable look more often!

When I’m with Nature, I try to put on my child’s eyes. It's not always easy. (Maybe I just have too much on my mind, or can't find and remove all those layers that come to cloud the clear innocence of one's perception.) But I want that openness, that vulnerability. I want to be so free of expectation that I can’t be disappointed.

Above all, I want to see everything as if I’d never seen anything before.

The eyes are the window to the soul. –  ENGLISH PROVERB