“May I go outside and play?” Shau-yu asks.
“I need you to go to the store first,” her father replies.
On My Way to Buy Eggs by Chih-Yuan Chen starts simply enough. In this father-daughter exchange, it seems Shau-yu’s intentions for the day are reversed, but her trip to the store becomes the play, not a postponement of it. She chases shadows, greets neighborhood animals, transforms found objects into treasures and the back alley ways of her surrounding area into magical places. Imagination allows her to see her ordinary path in a new light – that and the discovery of a blue marble and lost pair of glasses.
The everyday nature of this story is where its power lies. Not only does it showcase childlike wonder and the power of play, On My Way to Buy Eggs proves that life occurs in the small moments. The true experiences occur in the in-between.
Shau-Yu returns home at the end of the book. The two final pages of the book, a spread of illustration, show her playing in the background while her father prepares supper with the eggs in the foreground. The wordless scene incorporates all the facets of her journey. Whimsy and the necessary intersect. Real life and the imaginary merge.
Children form identity through a sense of belonging, a place to call home, a combination of play, responsibility, and autonomy – all of which Shau-Yu encounters on her way to buy eggs.
Putting a woman who has given birth three times, the last time nearly splitting her in two, on roller skates probably isn’t the best idea. But that’s what I did this past weekend at my friend’s daughter’s birthday party.
My eight year-old was fine once she remembered what she’d tentatively learned at other parties, but my four and six year-olds needed assistance and my there was no way my husband was getting out there. The last time he skated was the ice variety and let’s say the ice nearly melted from the heat of pain-induced oaths he uttered. Plus, I enjoy skating. I loved it as a girl, forcing the wheels over the pebbly asphalt of my street, gliding along the multi-layered laquer of roller rinks. There was a freedom and euphoria in the way the wind pushed my hair back and the music thumped as I floated along. I thought I was the cat’s pajamas when I mastered cross-overs.
But that was when I was young and nimble; limber and loose.
The other day I used muscles I hadn’t used since childbirth – or at least since the physical therapy following childbirth to put me back together. Keeping my feet from drifting too far apart, I had to pull those adductor muscles to attention and, oh, that got my attention. I managed to haul my foot over for one cross-over before I felt the other one start to slide out. The thought of my pelvis in the aftermath if I ended up in a split on the floor was enough to dissuade me from trying any more. My groin muscles were already pulling; I didn’t want to strain any of their neighbors.
But, when one of my girls took a break, or refused to take my hand, I would speed up, feeling the familiar rush of air. My godson, brother of the birthday girl, took a shine to the disco ball at the center of the rink and kept gravitating toward it whether he had skates on or not. When his father went out to be sure he stayed in the center, out of the melee of circling skaters, an impromptu dance party popped up. His brother and sister, my girls, and husband sans skates, joined us and grooved to Daft Punk disco-style. It still had the same effect as my favorite Michael Jackson song way back when.
I don’t know if it’s the act of skating itself or the associations it engenders, but it’s a whole lot of fun. There’s no way I could last as long as I used to when I could feel myself rolling around the rink even after I’d taken off my skates. And I’m sure my body wouldn’t forgive me either if I tried. But as the birthday girl asked me as she rolled by, “How’s your skating going? Is it going good?”, I can say, “Yes, yes it is.”
Apparently I’m drawn to morbid and depressing children’s books. Save a sweep of the memoir section on our walk in, the children’s section is the only one I get a chance to truly explore while at the library. So perhaps it is some deep-seated need for adult content even if it must come in child format.
Ironically, I try to keep my ‘child’ selections from my own children, keeping them with my books rather than their stack of picture books. But if they look like ducks . . . my kids expect them to waddle like ducks and inevitably find them.
One such duck is Under the Big Sky by Trevor Romain. The main character is sent on a journey by his grandfather, approaching the end of his years, to discover the secret of life. If he does so, the boy will receive all of his grandfather’s riches. Not a bad carrot to waddle after, and so, the boy sets off, querying objects, animals, and people as he goes. The answers he collects are rich examples of metaphors, which present wonderfully teachable moments for young readers in trying to suss out both their literal and figurative meanings.
Understandably, there is no one easy or straightforward answer. Expecting that there was one, the boy becomes discouraged. He finally crosses the world and many years, searching. Upon his return to his grandfather (who, honestly, I was surprised had not died by this point), he reports that he has not found the secret of life.
“But you did find it,” said his grandfather. “Your journey itself was the secret of life. And along the way you have learned everything you will need to enjoy a full and rich life.”
And so the boy does attain his grandfather’s riches; in fact, he had them all along. As do all of us on this journey of life. Apparently it takes an adult reading of a child’s book to remember this. Who knows? Perhaps if children do read books like this, they will discover the secret sooner.
I ordered a gift subscription to an inspirational magazine for my great aunt last year. I signed myself up for their email newsletter as well. Free spiritual advice and inspiration? Why not?
Over the year, I’ve amassed quite a collection of unread inspirational emails. Their subject lines lure me enough to prevent deleting them, but not to click and read. Usually, I save them to read at another time when I can devote my undivided attention to them. We know how that usually goes. It would be better to do a cursory review, pausing on a point that piqued my interest, rather than not at all. Plus, most times, the title is the most appealing part of the missive, much like a short story that does not live up to the promises its title made to its readers, which I would find out if I took two seconds to glance at it.
Still, I let the siren song of one entitled “The Secret to Happiness” captivate me and I clicked – not right away, but the other day I finally did. There’s a simple secret to happiness? Do tell. I must apply this magic solution as a salve to my weary soul. My cynical side did cry out, saying it’s a spiritual newsletter, you dolt. Of course, they mean to pray and worship and turn everything over to God – like you’ve been avoiding doing, but know you should. You already know the secret to happiness, but refuse to do anything about it. But, like most weak humans, I would much rather find a simple solution outside myself than do any real work inside myself. I viewed the video expectantly.
Surprisingly, there was no explicit reference to spirituality except for one man’s personal testament in which he cited Jesus Christ as his Savior. However, there were allusions to spirituality all over it; transcendent precepts such as gratitude, thoughtfulness, mindfulness, treating others as you’d like to be treated. By not directly referring to it, the filmmakers even more strongly prove that spirituality must be woven into the fabric of everything we do, every interaction. It must be innate, unconscious. It will lead us to things like gratitude, which apparently is the secret to happiness.
The day that I watched the video, I had tried three times to get a snarky post out of my system. While not full-strength, there was still some venom bubbling in my veins from residual stress and I wanted to purge it. But the fits and starts of writing and watching of this video gave me pause. Maybe what I needed to get it out of my system was to shift my mindset and get grateful! Being so gosh-darn cranky, I wasn’t feeling it and I sure as hell didn’t feel like writing a letter to the person I was most grateful for, let alone calling them to read it. But maybe just the shift in the current, the river rock blocking the stream, can divert enough to at least create the space for a change.
However, if in the meantime you should come across any quick-fix secrets to happiness, let me know 😉
Not all of them. In fact, there were some added ones more involved than the usual ones. I’ve been getting a lot accomplished, doing a lot. But it’s hard to see the progress when some of the more essential tasks have fallen by the wayside.
Sleep. Sinus health. Writing. Clean dishes.
It seems like the mania that accompanies summer weekends has followed me into fall and beyond. And chock full days are not conducive to sleep, when late nights are the only chance for a quiet respite. And hay fever season compounded by a deviated septum and lack of rest, forcing of fluids, and neti-pot usage is just nasty.
The treadmill I’m on seems to have unrolled and stretched to the horizon like a ribbon of roadway.
I need to say no. I need to relax. I need to prioritize.
But, aside from the mundane daily requirements, a lot of what we’ve been doing is fun.
I was bone-tired by the end of last week and the attendant bunkbed mania that ensued. And I’m still digging out of the misplaced objects and displaced duties that occurred as a result. My chi is not where it needs to be. And it snowed for the first time today and my husband is leaving for a business trip. And I’m a worry-wort who does not take things one at a time.
But I stayed in my pjs till early afternoon yesterday and wrote an exciting short story in its entirety. I’m catching up on laundry and the pile of dishes in the sink is not as high as it was. Only one half of throat hurts now and I’m not drowning in mucus. My daughters are thrilled with their three-quarters of the way done big top bedroom. And tight squeezes from beloved family members feel even better when your body is battered and broken.
After all, the object of juggling is not to hold all the balls at the same time, but to rotate and transfer them, holding each one only lightly at a time
Chopping Potatoes 