scribblechic

Last night we attended a lecture given by your childhood hero, Bill Nye. Walking through the unfamiliar space you began shrugging and snapping, staccato movements on a loop of increasingly rapid repetition; enthusiasm stemming through your limbs like joy tapped into a morse code of movement. In an auditorium crowded with thousands of science-minded fans, you sat at attention as if the room had shrunk to accommodate an audience of two.

Stowed away in my purse was a note you had written Mr. Nye when you were 5 years old. So many years ago I envied this man the fame that you might draft him a letter given your disinclination for writing, the physical demands of shaping letters against the tide of faster ideas often a burden of inconvenience. I reasoned that Mr. Nye must receive so many letters that surely your effort would be lost in his company and as such I should be allowed to keep this time capsule in your penmanship for myself.

Yesterday I confessed my crime of hoarding a letter intended for someone else and had hoped you might gain a signature on the envelope, but the night did not lend itself to a private audience and we left the lecture for a leisurely walk. With long easy strides you casually forgave me my trespass and offered effusive thanks for the evening’s events.

It was enough to be present.

I think sometimes we all forget the luxury of this truth. So often we strive for dramatic performances of appreciation in celebratory moments, losing the elegance of a simpler delight.

In your letter you had invited your hero to play. Yesterday it was enough to find yourself in the same room.

This gratitude for what is and the ability to see wealth in less, it is such a small part of why I am so proud of you and such a large part of why I am better for your gentle lessons.

On the eve of a special birthday, I’m wishing you a lifetime of joy in small moments of mindfulness that you may always find enough within.

Love, Mom