Q should be sound asleep by now. I watched him earlier, sliding down into stillness. He patted his Scout toy, which was singing him lullabyes for the sixth time through, and then laid his fat little starfish hand down on the pillow next to his friend Scout's nose. His eyes had been fluttering, but stayed shut during the Brahms lullaby, only to pop open again with a wide grin as he anticipated the music stopping a few notes before it did. When the next piece began, the eyelash frills slowly fell again. When that piece ended, he sighed, but didn't stir again.
He's just beautiful, lying in there with a little round cheek pressed into his pillow, snuggled up to his favorite toy. Watching him tonight, I remembered, for what reason I do not know, telling his papa the story of the Velveteen Rabbit. We were friends at the time, in college, had been out together a couple of times, and were flirting a little over the phone as I finished design projects and he avoided writing something (my grades suffered, his did not). I mentioned the story to him and he confessed to never having heard it, a fact I found somewhat stunning. So, while all splayed out on the floor amongst paper bits and mat boards and glue and x-acto blades, I told him the story. About toys learning lessons, a rabbit becoming Real, and how having one's hair loved off is quite integral to the whole process, allegorically speaking, of course. A few weeks later, he sent me a Christmas card with a bunny on the front, and referenced the story. I was thoroughly charmed.
I'm not spending any time with my head between my knees or breathing into a paper bag. This is very good. I am glad that I'm not. I'm glad that we have a warm place to be when the wind blows and the rain strikes. I'm glad that I know people to be capable of great kindness and have in fact both witnessed and experienced it with some regularity. I'm glad that I have the opportunity to practice letting go of preconceptions, misconceptions, and certain ideas to which I may have become altogether too attached. Mostly though, I'm glad that I don't feel like I need to panic right now, even where it's perhaps more or less warranted, and that I can still make choices right here and right now; one always has the choice of response to one's circumstances, yes? Yes. It is good to have those choices and to be aware of them. (For reference - I might, one day, wish to become some sort of novice in, say, a quiet, monastic setting. Because I imagine that I might eventually need to go somewhere very quiet and just lie still for awhile. It'll be that or the table dancing.)
Trois.
