We ate our pumpkin french toast, warm and sweet and fresh from the crockpot. We packed up lunches and filled water bottles and went on our merry way to explore a new piece of Colorado. The aspen colors are peaking right now and the juxtaposition of bright yellow aspen to deep green evergreen tree gets me every darn time.
Tonight I read the chapter where Charlotte and Wilbur meet. Not the one where she says they'll be friends and ends on a total cliff hanger that drove my 7-year-year bonkers, but the one where Charlotte shouts her salutations and Wilbur wrestles with the idea of being friends with a kind and pretty predator. We are reading the book now because it took this long for my arachnophobic son to be okay reading a book about a spider. He hangs on every word. The silly goose stuttering her responses and the nervous Wilbur shouting for his friend and the gentle Charlotte making the first move toward friendship. Goodness, I love those quiet moments with Elliot. We prayed, working on memorizing The Lord's Prayer, and his hand grazed mine and he picked his cuticle and I just felt life and love so big in that one nothing moment. Somehow I get to be here with them doing this. All of this.
It is hard. It is obviously not walk five miles to carry putrid water home to a small hut hard. That is a hard I cannot fathom. It is obviously not flee my home country, risking my life with each passing step hard. That is a hard I don't remotely understand.
It is still hard. There is not enough of me to go around. I want to do right by them. I want to raise them to love and honor and cherish this world, to laugh gut busting laughs, to reach a hand out to a friend in need, to ask for help, to find the silly in everything, to dance when the need arises, as it is known to do, to love, to sit in their hurts and grow from them.
I guess I just want them to see all of the best and the worst this life has to offer because, good gracious, it sure is filled to the brim with both, and to celebrate the party and to hold someone's hand and wipe tears at the funeral.
And every day I hope I do more to help them down that road, than to steer them in another direction.
Today was described as "magical," "B.H.E." (translated to best hike ever for those of you that weren't in our car on the way home), and "I keep thinking I'll wake up and this will be a dream." Those are high praises and right on target.
I just feel so small here on this big earth. I stare at these trees and these mountains and these little sticky toddler hands and these growing so big kids and I try to understand my little space in all of this.
Today: hike, eat fudge, give baths, feed children and animal, correct math, take the dog out, sing all the highest notes along with the Phantom of the Opera CD, read books before bed. On paper, this is not important stuff. It means nothing.
It didn't feel like nothing. It felt like a piece of life that I want to relive over and over again.