This week has been a tough one. Regardless of where you stand along the political divide the latest actions by ICE have been impossible to fathom. Yet here we are, feeling the same unbearable loss we felt on a particular December 14th and September 11th and January 6th. I don’t want to write about this latest pain like I have authority nor do I want to hold you in that place of trauma but I do want to acknowledge our collective outrage and sorrow, and to remind you to do whatever it takes to find a life-raft for your own survival.

Mine is as it has been for over a year, by seeing through the eyes of someone quite precious.

This little fellow and I have had plenty of interesting conversations these days. With ‘why’ popping up more and more. Just this week I told him we could peel the bark off the sticks we collected. He kept looking at me with skepticism. As I rambled on and on, showing him how smooth the stick got once we got all the old bark off, he remainder cynical. What did this stick have to do with the noise a dog makes? he asked. Would it bark? Awwww, okay buddy, yes, English is filled with such homographs, so so sorry. Same word, different meaning. Needle came up next. And then an avalanche of other confusing words. Curiosity 3.5.

Words are just the start of everything he wants to learn. We discovered varieties too. As in thistles. Along one path we found both globe and milk thistles. He got as close to the thorny leaves as he dared and pointed out the differences between the two differing plants to anyone strolling by. We walked over a mile searching for more of these unfriendly plants but by the end, he adopting any name he wished for other unknown plants. They were long ones too. Like Chibaboochoo. I thought it was Wild Mustard but no he insisted, it’s Chibaboochoo. Yeah, little guy, you’re right. Make it your own. Living is your art after all.

There is a ball that he’s particularly fond of because he can kick it so high with ease. Like straight up into the sky. He’s a big fan of the sky too. Can spot the moon no matter the time of day or if it’s thin sliver barely waxing its way back to visible. Planes and helicopters and hawks and hummingbirds are equally part of our banter as we adventure together. Looking always. Mostly up too. So so so much looking up. Seeing clouds as they follow us here and there.

On the run. On the scoot. We move forward. Somedays I drag behind, weighed by the lies and hurts and scandalous news feeds and headlines. Tantalizing and distracting and often misleading. But then I remember to allow for his joy. His right. For adults who will use reason and science and empathy and history and respect to pull us away from the brink.