It’s been a bit of a rough road, all this moving business. New town, new house, new school, new friends. All the “newness” has taken a toll on my daughter lately; it can be a drag being the odd-man-out when you’re nine, you know?
To combat the strain of the unfamiliar – and maybe even to foster a bit of nostalgia – we’ve been trying to find places in our new town that are similar to our old haunts. Tonight we stumbled onto a really cool fountain that, on a 90 degree evening, just begged to be run through. We had a great fountain in our old town, and my girl was so excited to find a new one here to check out.
She wasted no time getting the lay of the wet-land. I had settled on an outskirt bench with the bag/towel/flip-flops. The sun was at that pinnacle where it shimmers extra brightly, knowing it only has about an hour or so before it will lazily sink down for the night. The water bounced off the beams of light in the magical way that rivulets do when they move in time with the glimmer and glow. And as I looked over at my girl, running and jumping through the liquid, I was moved in the most interesting way…
I quickly felt pulled inward toward the action. I simply had to move closer. Not because I couldn’t view her from my original perch (as I could, easily), but because I needed to be close enough to see her joy, up close. To watch her weave in between the water spouts and see the gape of her mouth as she laughed. To hear her squeal as she soaked herself in the lazy creek bed. To be near enough for her to attack me with a drive-by sopping hug and spray me with her long winding wet hair. To witness her exuberance at catching the last little waterfall before the water shut off for the night.
How much I would have missed by staying at the edge of the action, with my nose in a book. How grateful I am to have lifted my head up, instead, and moved close enough to be in the moment with her. To not only see her joy, but to feel it. And just watch it flow.