Where I'm From Now

Where are you from?

In that first moment of the asking, this question flummoxes me, and my mind instantly begins scanning the options:

Does this moment call for a short response or is it open to a more developed response? Does this person want to know where I was born? Or where I was raised? Or where I have lived the longest? Or where I came from most recently? Or maybe where I am now?

How can such a common question for so many introductory conversations between people never fail to give me pause... even a niggle of anxiety, if I'm honest.

For the short answer, I say, "I moved here from Okinawa," and if questioners want follow-up, they can ask. But mostly these days I respond, "It's complicated." Because it kinda is.

So, I was born in Utah. Although we weren't a military family, my family moved more frequently than most families. I actually attended nine different elementary schools while living in four different houses located in three different states--Utah, Colorado, and New Jersey. Granted, the houses were usually situated in the spaces of the most recent sprawl of suburbia, and school redistricting occurred as fast as the latest construction was completed, so I switched elementary schools several times without moving into a new home. Still, growing up I never lived in any one place longer than four years. In my entire life, I've never lived in one dwelling longer than seven years, and that finally happened for me as an adult when I lived in Drehenthalerhof, Germany! (For added context, though, I dwelt in six different domiciles while living eighteen years in Germany.) Second ranking locations for one-abode-longevity are Ashina, Japan, (near Yokosuka on mainland Japan) and Seoul, S. Korea, and both of them clock in at five years.

Maybe I should just sum up. In my lifetime, I have lived in five different states of the USA: Utah, Colorado, New Jersey, California, and Hawaii. As already noted, I have lived in Germany (three main locations but six different dwelling places), mainland Japan, S. Korea, and also Okinawa, Japan. In addition, I spent one summer living in a dorm in Antibes, France, while attending school for a master's degree and then the next two summers living in a hotel just outside of Pattaya, Thailand, while finishing up that master's degree.

A wanderer and a vagabond, where am I from?

If the answer to where are you from is where I am now, this is where I'm from:

The photo at the top: On many weekends and holidays, I drive about five miles to run this route along lava cliffs  overlooking the ocean. Of all my moments with nene geese (endemic to the Hawaiian islands), most have happened during a run/walk on this path.

Here's my nearest "big city": Hilo.

And here's my nearest town: Pahoa

And then here's my go-to beach on the Kona-side: Hapuna Beach State Park

(The fisherman showed up during the days of pandemic when tourists have become very few in number.)

Hair in the Time of Pandemic

Yes, I saw those posts yesterday about some of you finally "getting your hair did" or else how you now can at last make that appointment to "get your hair did."

Not yet my situation.

I am on week ten or eleven since I last entered--in my own behalf--the premises of any establishment that provides services for one's hair. Gratefully, I no longer have roots requiring touch-up (a time sensitive and messy process) because I have totally returned to my roots and sport a hue created by my own body's melanin...or lack thereof. But the last time my hair was anywhere near this long, I was a true a brunette.

Several weeks back I called my sister Amy because I knew that at one point in her life she had cut her own hair, and I could see the encroaching possibility for such an endeavor becoming necessary in my own reality. She shared her technique and then some tips, as in, have the hubby check the rear view to be sure the back profile looks right and then even it out if not.

Well, that tip will not be happening with my current circumstances.

Sporadically I go walking with my neighbor Sharon.

[Yeah, I know, I know, we are not part of the same household. Seriously, though, we use the full width of the street--she with her dog on a leash and me properly socially distanced, and we switch our relative positions whenever Bentley (said dog) needs to explore odors emanating from the opposite verge. Okay, okay, neither of us wears a mask in the presence of just each other in the great outdoors, but we really have mastered the art of social distancing and neither of us engages in very "risky behavior," spending the bulk of our days at home. Besides, talking to someone in the flesh every few days is probably a good thing for me.]

Also like my sister, Sharon has hair-cutting skills and can take scissors to her own hair without catastrophic results. On our walk a few days ago, she commented on how long my hair has become, and when I complimented her on how chic her hair looked, she confessed she had trimmed it up the night before...with a little help from her grown-up son who lives with her. And again like my sister, she endorses the idea of having someone else tidy up the back once your self-styling effort has come to its best conclusion.

SIGH.

Meanwhile, I continue to forestall any cutting of my own hair, and my hair proceeds in its lengthening process:

Nowadays on mornings when I run, I pull my hair back into a ponytail. Short and stubby it may be, but here I am once again, decades later in my life, sporting a ponytail.

Last week I actually purchased some different hair doohickies for experimentation purposes, hoping to expand my repertoire of hair presentation. On the other hand, maybe I'll just surrender to the ease of production--as well as a cooler, less sweaty neck--and adopt the ponytail as my go-to style.

Cultural Humility

How many triangles do you see?

When in mid-March I began social distancing--a practice that has involved not seeing my kid clients face-to-face--my supervisor suggested that I catch up with my training hours by participating in some on-line training modules. Because I am a paraprofessional and not a licensed therapist, my yearly quota of trainings is mostly achieved by just attending monthly staff meetings and peer reviews. This past year, however, I missed several of those due to both personal travel and Master Gardener lab classes that conflicted with meeting times; I was legitimately excused by my supervisor for not attending, but I also did not accrue the training hours. (In addition, we ended up not holding staff meetings or peer reviews in March and April--social distancing protocols--but we do have a staff meeting scheduled for May via Zoom.) Hence, for the first time since my employment with Hale Kipa,  I explored the permitted-for-credit online trainings offered. Laudably, I have learned relevant concepts and practices that make a difference for me, and, happily, I have found these endeavors to be both engaging and motivating.

During a nine-module course entitled Early Childhood Mental Health, I first encountered the term "cultural humility" in the final lesson, one which presented strategies to incorporate into your actual practice with clients, like being cognizant of cultural considerations--your own and those of the children/families with whom you work. And not only to be cognizant of culture but also to understand how culture can impact/influence relationship-building, interactions, and even perceptions. That module concluded with an assignment for self-reflection focused on these questions: Who am I? How does my cultural background influence my values, beliefs, attitudes, and assumptions? What is blocking me from hearing, understanding, and learning from the person/family I work with? What is blocking me from fully caring about someone else?

About two weeks later, I took a course titled Implicit Bias: the Influence of the Unconscious Mind (from CDC Train website)and was immediately struck with how the idea of cultural humility dovetails with the concept of implicit bias and the influence of our unconscious minds.

In this course I learned that at any given moment, our unconscious mind is processing 11,000,000 bits of information; it then passes along 40 of those bits to our conscious mind in that same moment. Even still we make around 35,000 conscious decisions per day. Crunching the data, our unconscious mind analyzes 99.999996% of all the information our minds apprehend and also determines which bits--as in 40 of every 11,000,000--to pass along to the conscious. It is the gatekeeper of information: founded on its own accumulating collection of memories, social/behavioral experiences,  and, yes, biases, it sorts through the bits of perceived information, "finding patterns" and "filling in blanks," ultimately deciding what to delete or ignore, what to emphasize or de-emphasize, when to distort, and when to generalize.

Here are terms and explanations of common biases:

confirmation bias - interpreting new evidence as confirmation of one's existing expectations and beliefs (Think guns, gun control, and mass shootings and how the same evidence is used to confirm various perspectives of the controversy.)

halo/horn effect - a first impression colors or influences one's perception of a person throughout (Here use common perceptions of men and women:  the woman is bossy and the man is assertive; the woman is shrill/strident and the man is authoritative.)

beauty bias - physically attractive people possess other desirable traits (Consider that 60% of CEO's are over six feet tall although only 14.5% of the population is over six feet tall.)

affinity bias - preference/appreciation for people with whom we have something in common

conformity bias - a strong tendency to go along with the group (as in peer pressure)

So back to that lead-in question of how many triangles you can see in the diagram. There are no triangles in the diagram--only three V's and three Pac-Man-esque blots. But we see what we expect to see.

Our unconscious mind is susceptible to all of the biases listed above, and although it works out fine at times, what about all the times when it does not?

Our unconscious biases are also not necessarily related to our conscious beliefs and desires--hence, implicit bias. The Boston Symphony--predominantly comprised of males for a long time--made the conscious decision that it wanted to diversify and have more female members. For auditions they actively encouraged more women to try out. When they still ended up predominantly male in number, they moved to having blind auditions. Yet the number of males continued to dominate. It wasn't until they decided to have those participating in blind auditions remove their shoes before entering the audition area that the number of women accepted as members of the symphony substantially increased. The sound that high heels made as someone, presumably a woman, walked across the floor triggered a response in the unconscious minds of the judges.

So certainly there are strategies to combat the biases that lurk in our unconscious minds and break the connection between bias and behavior. First of all, we must become more aware of the potential for bias to exist in any situation. We have to be willing to doubt the extent of our own objectivity and increase our motivation to be fair. And maybe most importantly, we must improve the conditions for solid decision-making: "Think slow." It's true--those admonitions to breathe or count or do some other little thing to expand the time between impulse and action have real purpose and powerful impact.

And now let's return to the idea of cultural humility. A mental health professional--an African-American woman--described her experience of working with a client, a mother with a four-year-old son who was still drinking from a bottle. The mother wanted to know how she could best end her son's continued insistence on drinking from a bottle. The therapist confessed that at first she was dumbfounded with the inquiry and thought, you're the mother and he is four--just take away his option of having a bottle. Instead, though, the therapist decided to continue the conversation: What concerned the mother about making an end to this behavior? What were the hopes and goals she had for her interactions with her son? The therapist then learned that this mother wanted her son to know that he did not have to just submit to a power figure, that he could negotiate with regard to his own wants and desires even with people in power positions. The mother felt it was important that the son learn some negotiating skills. The therapist then recounted her own thought processes as she considered how to best serve this mother: The mother and son were caucasian, and within the culture in which this boy would grow up, there could actually be a safe space for him to negotiate with people in power positions. Although such a scenario was not necessarily true in the same way for the young boys in her own culture and was not consistent with her own upbringing, for this mother and son, the option could quite possibly exist. The son would lose access to a bottle but maybe gain the power to choose what socks to wear or what flavor of yogurt to consume for breakfast. There were choices this child could learn to negotiate for and remain safe in his environment.

Universal truths exist and are commonly shared throughout many cultures. Yet, other cultural practices and circumstances vary in all kinds of ways. We, however, continue to feel more comfortable inside the design of the culture that shaped us and often judge others and the world through the lenses that culture developed for us. Cultural humility, though, allows us to acknowledge that our comfort and those lenses are not really validation that our culture is better than another or that it provides a complete understanding of our world and the human condition at large. Humility indicates one is teachable, open to learning and knowing beyond one's current state. Cultural humility is critical to building effective relationships between client and therapist in the realm of mental health, but I think it carries vast potential for the world at large. Call me idealistic, but I like to think that if we would strive to practice more cultural humility in our interactions with human beings in general, we would be more open to accepting other peoples' stories and experiences as being as valid and as important as our own, and together we could build a better world.

My Bit of Ireland in the Tropics: Dry Stone Walls

My friend Tammy tells people that in Hawaii Evelyn is building Irish stone walls. Well, maybe I am. From the first time I witnessed them, Ireland's stone walls have captivated me, and, as I continue to construct stone walls on my own property, there have been multiple moments of conscious acknowledgement on my part that they may be a wee bit like the the ones in Ireland.

Before writing this post, I decided to Google "Irish stone walls," and here is what I learned about one of Ireland's distinctive landscape features: "It is estimated that the Irish countryside is a patchwork of over 250,000 miles of stone wall. Because the land in many parts of Ireland is naturally very stony, in order to be farmed, it had to be cleared of these stones. Since there was no easy method of getting rid of stones and there was a need to create separate divisions of the land, the obvious thing to do was to build walls."

In addition to a long held affinity for Irish stone walls (beginning with my very first visit in 1993), I relate to a couple points found within the Irish motivation to build stone walls. (1) My property is markedly "stony"; indeed, it is predominantly lava "bye-products" atop of even more lava. (2) There is no easy way to get rid of the stones...and I actually rather like my stones and have wanted to keep them.

During that cursory research of Irish stone walls, I also discovered the term that describes my type of walls--dry stone walls--the traits of dry stone walls, and their reason for being: "At their simplest these walls are easily built. Boulders are piled on top of each other, often with the largest ones at the base and the boulders getting smaller towards the top, though sometimes this is a subtle thing at best and the stones seem much the same size throughout."

Right now I will confess that my modus operandi fits 'this is a subtle thing at best.'

The description continues with these points:

• These walls are built without any tools and with no mortar--the stone is not cut, though it may be broken--whatever stones are available are made to fit as well as possible. [TRUTH, although I do not break stones unless it happens without concerted effort by me.]

• The walls are often quite low and not very stable; they constantly need to be repaired by replacing fallen stones, a task which farmers still undertake regularly. [Yep, not overly stable, and I do reparation sweeps of the yard periodically.]

• However, paradoxically, it is their very instability that makes them good barriers, as livestock who are reared in the area are wary of trying to cross them, having learned from experience that they collapse rather easily, dropping heavy stones (painfully) on them. [Since my only livestock are feral chickens and stray cats, I have little experience with this virtue of dry stone walls.]

• Some of the fields surrounded by these walls have no gates; the wall is simply disassembled to allow entry or exit and then rebuilt. [Although entry/exit is not one of my issues, I have disassembled and reassembled portions of my wall because I continue to uncover more rocks, and my wall-building skills have improved.]

When I first moved into my house, though, the only visible rocks in the yard were several large boulders placed for "landscaping purposes"(think "curb appeal") to aid in the selling of the place. All the rocks that comprise my stone walls still rested, well concealed, under a shallow layer of gravel--also spread across certain areas for "landscaping purposes"--or a rusty colored, coarse-grained dirt. When I attempted to plant a few bushes, I quickly encountered an entrenched population of rocks. Thus began my excavation of the property and the commencement of rock walls, two endeavors that continue to this day.

This photo--meant to document the catchment tank in my backyard--shows the way the backyard looked when I moved in. Can you see any black lava rocks anywhere? You cannot. At that time I did not have a clue about what really lay below the surface of things.

Now here, maybe around nine months in to this home-owning gig, the wall has begun. Actually there were some shelves of lava rock just below that rusty-red surface that were not broken and leveled to create the foundation space for the house. You can see them incorporated into the emerging rock wall on the left and in the back. 

And these photos show my backyard dry stone walls as of this month:

Dry stone walls with orchids and hibiscus.

Indeed, I have not neglected stone wall construction in my front yard either, but I shall unfold that landscaping story on another day in a different post...perhaps one titled "How Lava Rock Dictates Landscape Design."

And for my own purposes, I shall conclude with the final stanzas of a poem by Patrick Galvin titled "The Wall" because, in the end, stone walls for me will ever hold this enduring, mystical aura:

You could measure the light

By the wall.

And

if you stood close to the wall

You could hear the Earth moving

The stars burning

And the sun

Sinking

Slowly

Into a folding sea.

You could measure the dark

By the wall.

My Hawaiian Life, part 3

Lehua bloom on the ohia tree in my front yard.

Wild orchid, one of many that grow wild on the borderlands of my yard.

Torch ginger bloom, located in the vacant lot on one side of my yard.

Gardenia bloom from the bush in my front yard.

Last October while perusing a local newspaper, I stumbled across an article about the Master Gardener Program at the University of Hawaii, Hilo, with an email address for those interested in application information. Well, that described me.

 I knew when I bought my house and moved to Hawaii that I would spend time working outside in the yard. I just never anticipated how much time! I head outside to putter and/or labor for an hour or two, and then four hours have elapsed. I really enjoy that time, too--the exploration, the discovery, the creativity, and the therapy. Combine all that with my smidgen of previous knowledge regarding growing stuff, an even larger portion of growing/gardening things that I have kinda sorta heard mentioned or read about in passing, and a quantum of stuff I know nothing about--especially for the tropics--except that I was certain it existed, and my interest in a Master Gardener Program is manifest!

I wrote an email requesting the application for the 2020 program, completed it and sent it into digital space, and heard nothing until December. At that time I received notification that an interview would be required as part of the continuing application process. I complied and again heard nothing until the second week of January, a week before classes would commence. I had been accepted!

Master Gardener Programs (also know as Extension Master Gardener Programs) are volunteer programs that train individuals in the science and art of gardening. These individuals then pass on the information learned during training as volunteers who advise and educate the public on gardening and horticulture.  In the USA, Master Gardener Programs are affiliated with land-grant universities and their cooperative extension service offices. (The University of Hawaii has programs on Kauai, Oahu, Maui, and two in Hawaii--east and west sides.) Master Gardeners are active in all fifty US states and in eight Canadian provinces.

During that first class in January, I quickly realized that compared to my classmates I ranked low--maybe even the bottom--for previous gardening knowledge/experience and science/horticulture background, but hey, I had desire and motivation in my corner! I also learned that not everybody who applied was accepted, so there's that.

And since then, every Wednesday morning, we Master Gardener interns (the name badge we are requested to wear has "intern" plainly printed underneath our names) attend class for three hours where we are regaled by professors and specialists located in various places across the Hawaiian islands, all affiliated with the University of Hawaii and/or the Hawaii Department of Agriculture or the Hawaii Department of Land and Resource Management, and all flown in for their presentations for us in the flesh--until two weeks ago. Now we all attend via Zoom, and we students view our presenters in their "natural habitat."

Overall, the quality of both presenter and presentation has been top-notch. And who knew you could have a PhD in soil?! (Now that guy was the absolute best presenter; with him elucidating the traits, histories, and potentials of soils, the topic became riveting.)

On two Friday mornings, we had labs. For the one in January, we went into the forest and learned how to identify rapid ohia death. (Ohia trees are endemic to Hawaii and usually the first to grow on new lava flows.) In February, we had a propagation lab in the the Master Gardener greenhouse on campus and each of us created our own starts by seeds, leaf cuttings, and stem cuttings to take home. (UPDATE: Only three of my six stem cuttings are still among the living. Despite my poor showing with my original leaf cuttings, which all propagated absolutely nothing, I have started three new leaf cuttings on my own and so far so good. Who knows what happened to the seeds I started in the lab, but they didn't sprout. To my credit, I have grown cilantro from seeds in the meantime!) We were supposed to have a grafting lab the first Friday in April after our Wednesday lecture, but only the lecture--via Zoom, of course--has transpired at this point.

Every Wednesday since that very first class, I leave each session amazed once more at what new pieces were revealed to the panorama of knowledge I have of this place where I live. Here are some of my favorites:

• Hawaii, the most isolated island chain on the planet, has only native species--endemic or indigenous-- that arrived by wind, wings, or waves; they were either champion swimmers, yacht racers, or balloonists. Hence, Hawaii has a relatively low diversity of native species but the highest rate of edemism, or native and found nowhere else. Hawaii flora is 91% endemic. Indigenous species are native but found other places. The sea turtle is the only native reptile. Forty-five percent of endangered US species are in Hawaii. 

• Alien species arrived with human assistance, some good, some ultimately invasive. "Canoe plants" journeyed over with the native Hawaiians and included coconut, papaya, taro, bananas, and plumeria. Thirty-four flora and fauna were introduced to Hawaii by native Hawaiians. 

• Sorry, but I, myself, am incapable of making the topic of soil riveting, but I now know that the soil I deal with in my yard is derived from lava (certainly no surprise), dominantly composed of coarse materials with minimal clay, is excessively well drained with low water retention and definitely acidic (due to high rainfall), and it has low nutrient supply capacity with only a fine fraction of it rich in organic matter. 

• One must be aware of a plant's required light needs because Hawaii's hours of daylight, to include twilight, range from 11 hours and 16 minutes to 13 hours and 50 minutes. (By the way, Hawaii has standard time all year round, no switching...because what's the point?!) The closer one is to the equator, the more equal the amounts of light and dark become. There are seasonal plants thriving on the USA mainland partially because of the up to 16 hours of summertime daylight, so in Hawaii--like if one wants to grow corn--one needs to find a "short day" variety.

• Although the grafting lab remains on hold, the lectures on pruning and grafting seriously resonated with me and not solely for their use in garden cultivation. As the lectures unfolded, the metaphorical connections of scriptural analogies to pruning and grafting re-emerged in my mind's eye with stunning clarity and emotional intensity. 

Classes conclude later this month, and although I hardly feel very masterful yet in my capacity as a gardener, I have learned to see and understand this land where I live with new vision, greater appreciation, and enhanced awe.

My Hawaiian Life, part 2

My house came into my possession somewhat equipped with basic appliances--stove/oven, refrigerator, and microwave--but I purchased a washer and dryer the first week I actually took up residence because laundromats are not places I prefer to frequent on a regular basis for weeks or months or years. In support of that preference, I have experienced a 4-year stint with laundromats once in my life (and I'm not even talking about the kind in the basement of a college dorm or apartment complex, something I've also done) Although there are some fun stories to accompany that four-year stint, I do consciously choose to have laundry facilities in my home whenever possible.

My dryer is electric--something worth noting here because electricity in Hawaii is expensive, and electric clothes dryers rank high on electricity consumption. Early on in my Hawaiian life, I noticed that many homes had clotheslines of various sorts and manufacture in the yard, in the carport, across the lanai, under the eaves. Last summer my "home improvements" included having a clothes line installed on the back lanai.

When I was a little girl, my mother did not have a dryer. I remember her hanging laundry to dry on a clothesline and that she had strategies and techniques to employ in that endeavor: one item of clothing shared a clothespin with the item next to it to conserve clothespins and line space, and underclothing hid in the interior of the clothesline configuration, concealed from perusal by neighbors and/or the public. Before my family had a dryer, if it arrived on the scene when we still lived in Colorado, I was nine or ten. I recall the clothesline in the backyard of the Colorado home and asking my mom why all the undies hung in a certain section--hence, that explanation! If the first dryer actually happened when we lived in New Jersey, well, then I was eleven. But after the first dryer, we always had both a washer and a dryer in our home. One time when I was in high school and we lived in Utah, I remember folding clothes with my mom and she told me how much easier laundry was with a dryer and that things like towels felt nicer when dried in a dryer than when line-dried, but not bed sheets; line-dried sheets were the best.

I have had clothespins in my possession at least since I was married, and I've carried them with me to maybe ten different places of residence across four countries and three continents, but I have never had a clothesline. Until now. Granted, I have purchased a few more clothespins to add to my collection now that I hang clothes on a line in real life on a regular basis. But until my Hawaiian life, I don't believe I ever envisioned myself routinely doing laundry using a clothesline.

My dryer is still employed, just not as often. Towels, for instance, are truly better when dried in a dryer--softer and fluffier. And occasionally a speedy dry-time becomes essential for some scenario or another. My mom was right, though. Line-dried sheets are the best; they have a certain crispness to them that no dryer can achieve.

I suspect my mom found doing laundry that entailed the use of a clothesline for drying purposes for a family that included multiple children quite labor intensive. Also, when there was a baby, she used cloth diapers as well! I, on the other hand--and there is just me--quite enjoy the hanging out and bringing in of clothes that dry on a line. I like breathing in the scent of freshly washed laundry, designing the line-up for each row, being enveloped in between two parallel planes of strung-up laundry, and reopening memories tucked away from long ago.


NOTE: Depending on the month, my electricity bill is $10-$15 cheaper than it was before I had a clothesline.

My Hawaiian Life, part 1

Two and a half years in, I live pretty much ensconced in a Hawaiian life, and it is good. But a lot has happened since the lava eruption of 2018, and I have decided what better opportunity to attempt to create some record of it than while in social distancing mode during a pandemic.

Although retired from a forty-year career as a teacher, I have a part-time job in a different career field these days--working as a paraprofessional with at-risk youth under the direction of licensed mental health therapists. Granted, my actual working labors are on hold at the moment as I engage in more stringent social distancing. Still, in more normal times I spend one-on-one time with my assigned kids, usually out somewhere in the community or driving around in my car. We talk and we do stuff and we talk. Except when one of your kids is a four-year-old. Instantly, the DOING totally dominates.

Until last fall, all of my kids have been teens or pre-teens except for a brief stint with a seven-year-old. And then this therapist approached me with the chance to work with the four-year-old, and the four-year-old was still three!

First of all, after serious toil, sweat, and almost tears (until YouTube and my car owner's manual saved the day), this happened--

something I had come to believe I would be omitting from my life experiences.

And then, this happened:

There was a three-year-old in my life for two hours twice a week!

Now he's four, and I have become well acquainted with the playgrounds of at least eight parks situated from Hilo to Mt. View to Pahoa--in addition to their restroom facilities, as adequate or inadequate they may be. I swing on swings again...when I'm not pushing said four-year-old on his swing so he can "fly." Occasionally, I even slide down the slide at his behest.

I now accept full blame for introducing another human being to the pleasurable hilarity of popping bubble wrap with fingers and/or by walking or jumping on it. I have returned to a zoo--a place with which I have a conflicted relationship since having had opportunities to view so many of those same animals in their natural habitat--because a kid with an intense playground obsession will forsake it all (cool zoo playground included) to lead me to each to new animal, to illuminate with steady chatter the details of teeth or eyes or color or sound, showing me again how to see with new vision the splendor and wonder of the world. I have learned to look for sharks at grates over street drains, although I still refrain from feeding them grass and I only listen to the four-year-old regale us all with the "Baby Shark" song. I construct castles again with building blocks, glory in building a tower, and screech-laugh at the destruction of a collapse. I have discerned that for a four-year-old, one with impulse control issues who is rarely allowed into the interior of many commercial establishments, a store can be a fantasy realm where even the discovery of shoes or red juice or blue juice or bread or a ball is a magical thing.

And I am humbled at his generosity and unexpected concern for me: I bring him snacks, and he is ever willing to share. One time I gave him a small package of Oreos, which he opened (with a little help from me, but he was in charge!) and then gave me one cookie for every one he ate himself. When he has multi-colored Gold Fish for a snack, we now play a game where we identify how many and what color(s) I receive. With colors, he is spot-on; with numbers greater than three, not so much. Numbers beyond three generally acquire the label "lots." And then there's the umbrella, something you may have already surmised holds great fascination for him. I carry two in my car because, you know, I live in a rainy land. When he enters my car, he inquires about HIS umbrella. He always wants to take it with him to the playground or wherever we may disembark. but I insist that it has to be raining. One time at the zoo, the day was misty, moisty, and I let him bring HIS umbrella, but I did not carry the second one. Eventually, when it began to rain with more intent, he wanted to protect me, too, with his umbrella. Of course, he also wanted to hold the umbrella, so you can imagine how well that worked. Still, I crouch-walked with him under that umbrella for several stretches, and I bet we looked cute!

Little kids, though, are not inhibited by social norms. Boogers and bathroom exploits, particularly the preponderance of toiletting explanations regarding "shi-shi" and "doodoo," can give one pause, especially when one holds said kid's hand quite frequently. Nevertheless, I am missing my four-year-old this week. Living life with the joie de vivre of a four-year-old is surely a worthy aspiration.