Same story with my son. We seem to pick up the set-up just short of yet another punch line. The grandson quickly assimilated me into his conceptual world view, even learning my preferred greeting, “Gimme some wing, man,” accompanied by suggestive bent arm flapping.

I end up being not so very far away. I might live just around the corner for all the struggle re-integration seems to not bring. We hang out pretty well together.

Yesterday was my first full day spent in the company of my only grandson. It was an ordinarily extraordinary day in every way. Books were read, mischief, mostly minor, gotten into and back out of. Naps happened. Hot lunch was served. My son taught me that a ragged Vanilla Wafer can easily masquerade as an animal cracker if you tell the almost two year old that it’s a squid. We saw a coyote on an urban residential sidewalk in the middle of the day. We happened upon a huge flock of Sandhill Cranes, grounded, I guess, by the unusually frigid weather.

I dozed after the hot lunch and Roman circled around me saying, “Grampa nap.” He expresses great complexity, even deep emotion, in two word sentences, a cautionary for this longer-winded writer. He became my teacher, showing me where and how for dozens of house rituals, and he provided talking subtitles for every thing we did, implanting the experiences deep into my audible memory, by far my most powerful.

By the end of the afternoon, I was plenty tired, but not tuckered. A warming contentment spread over me as I began reflecting, making meaning of this sweet, completely ordinary, utterly extraordinary day. My daughter had invited The Muse and I to supper, and my contentment took up residence there as I helped prep, eat, and also clean up the sweet mess we made. After supper, we sat and spoke of consequential things, of careers and possibilities, of the future and of the past; satisfied.

Sometimes, traveling, I happen upon a day so perfectly crafted it takes away my breath. I stand in the center of a vast, warm, enveloping universe, a member in very good standing. Tomorrow might not resemble anything there, but this does not matter, for I’ve experienced timelessness, and this does not ever get consumed in the experience. It sticks, becomes foundational, no matter how high or falutin I might consider myself before.

History’s written in sloppy crayon, on an unsuitable surface, and our father momentarily feels his patience strained in its presence. It’s irreverent then, and sometimes sustains its sarcasm into a fondly-recalled, slightly embarrassing story which we will retell many times, hoping to re-experience that sublime contentment creating such history requires. We can only stumble upon the best stuff, accidents of birth tripping over accidents of intention to bring together unlikely delight. It’s tough to go to sleep afterwards.

©2013 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: Living, Manifesting