Ancestry

“I do love a good mystery!” Finn said as we were tromping through the snow earlier this week on a midday walk. We were tracking something. We guessed it was a raccoon. The tracks were very clear in the otherwise undisturbed snow.

“You like a good mystery, huh?” I responded.

“Yeah, you know,” he said, “like trying to figure things out, hunting and digging up skeletons and things.”

“Skeletons?!” I asked.

“You know. Mysteeerious things!” he said in his deepest and scariest voice.

The tracks seemed to be heading back up the hill toward our house.

“We are definitely on it’s trail now.” he said quickening his pace.

Erin and I have gotten sucked into the Ancestry world for the last couple of months. We decided to do the DNA tests at Christmas time as a gift to each other and just recently got the results back.

They show you a map of the world with splotches of color on the countries that your DNA likely came from.

England, Wales, and Northwestern Europe dominated mine. With some Ireland and Scotland, a smattering of Norway and one percent of Benin/Togo in Africa.

It was all I needed to head down the Ancestry rabbit hole. There are so many paths to follow there.

The first few generations aren’t as difficult, thanks to work other family members have done.

There is one photo of my great-grandfather and mother with eight kids in front of a cabin that looked vaguely familiar. I think my Mom has a copy. A cabin they “built with their own hands” according to the caption on one posting.

Further back there seems to be a direct relation to a noted burgomaster in Holland.

Was he like the Burgermeister Meisterburger in Santa Claus is Coming to Town? So many questions.

More “hints” led me to ancestors in various generations who seemed to have respectively fought in the nearly every war that has been in the US. This was ironic considering that most of them descended directly from the burgomaster whose most historical distinction was that he was arrested for trying to reduce the size of the military.

On Ancestry, most of the real stories are hard to find. But finding simple connections seems to be getting easier with the digital images of so many records now available. Looking through the old census records it’s easy to see how important good penmanship was in those days. Often names are misspelled or written poorly, then transcribed incorrectly.

There are a lot of tracks leading to the wrong place. Some leading to nowhere.

But the ones that lead to a relative you never knew you had are fascinating to follow.

The DeWitt name is more popular around this area than almost any other place I have lived. But so far I haven’t found a local familial connection.

On our walk this week, Finn and I followed the raccoon tracks all the way back to our house right up to the back door.

I’m wondering if any of my ancestry tracks will do the same.

I do love a good mystery.

Bread

We make bread fairly often in our household.

“Cooking class” has become part of our homeschool curriculum, but making bread has been a part of our routine for some time.

Finn’s preschool and kindergarten years at Acorn Waldorf School reinforced that with a weekly routine of “bread day,” where the children mill the grain and form their own tiny loaves of bread. Finn often brought home little bread animals he had formed, most often snakes.

A couple of years ago I got inspired to make a sourdough starter from scratch after watching Michael Pollan’s series Cooked. In one of the segments he describes the origins of bread making in ancient Egypt, how yeast is in the air and anyone can make a sourdough starter.

I decided to give it a try. I made a mix of flour and water in a bowl, let it sit for a few days and soon it started to bubble. I was so excited! Then it started to smell a little sour and it didn’t turn colors so that meant it worked!

I have to admit the first time I made bread with it, I was a bit nervous wondering if it was going to make us sick. But I have since heard from others who have made their own starters, that if it goes bad, you’ll know it.

Over two years later the starter is still going strong.

I don’t know how many loaves of bread I’ve made with it but I’ve learned to make two loaves at a time. Because when it comes out of the oven, everyone wants a slice (or two) of warm bread.

You can’t rush bread making. It slows you down and makes you wait.

There’s a lot for a little one to learn in the process.

The measuring. The science. The delayed gratification.

Finn especially enjoys the punching down phase after the dough has risen.

This week we made bread and Finn decided he wanted to do it by himself. There were a few brief moments that required my assistance but for the most part he did it.

I was caught up in the moment watching him turn out the slightly sticky dough onto the floured counter and figuring out how to get into the rhythm of kneading. In a short time he was turning and folding, turning and folding.

It felt like a sort of life passage. “Here he is,” I thought, “becoming comfortable with one of the most ancient forms of cooking. A skill he can use for life.”

Then my thought was interrupted by an even more ancient form of human behavior: playacting.

“Oh hello!” Finn said talking to the dough “Who are you? Who me? Oh, well actually I’m just… AAAHHHH!” he yelled as he raised the dough above his head then smashed it on the counter.

Whoever it was met their demise as he pounded them to smithereens. Then he started the routine over again.

I wonder if the kids in ancient Egypt made bread this way.

Father, Teacher, Farmer, Jokester

My Dad passed suddenly and peacefully four days after Christmas at the age of 91. Though his health had been declining over the last few years, I agree with the numerous people who have said “One is never prepared for the passing of a parent.”

My early childhood memories came rushing back first, many of them bold and clear as if they happened yesterday. It could be because he was the most patient teacher with me when I was around Finn’s age. He showed the same patience with his many grandchildren. I try to be that patient with Finn now.

He was a man who loved humor. He consistently called our friends by anything other than their given names, leaving them a little confused until they eventually “got him”. And he often shared jokes he had written at meal times. We always laughed, not because they were always funny, but he had a way with the delivery.

Animals loved my Dad and, at home, he almost always had a dog at his side for which he would provide a speaking voice. Many mornings I woke to the ongoing “dialogue” between my Dad and our pet.

And my Dad loved the weather. He had a rain gauge, barometer, and a few other things which he checked regularly, recording daily totals on his calendar. When conversations with him turned to talking about the weather, that’s when he had plenty to say. In one of my early memories of our farm, I remember my Dad standing at the edge of a field as rain began to pour. Relieved that a long dry period was ending he said, “Ahh. Finally getting some rain. I’m the happiest man alive!”

My oldest brother Wyatt wrote my Dad’s obituary and with his permission I’m sharing it here:

Mr. James Wyatt DeWitt, 91 of Dadeville, passed away Saturday, December 29, 2018 at Russell Medical Center in Alexander City, AL.

James DeWitt was born May 23, 1927 in Greensboro, AL. He joined the Navy out of high school and after discharge returned to attend Auburn University earning a Masters Degree in Vocational Agriculture. Over the next 39 years he taught high school Vocational Agriculture and Construction inspiring students, some who have continued to visit him. He was a member of the United Methodist Church, teaching Sunday School Class and participating in activities including mission trips, some internationally. Through the years he also owned and operated a farm and nursery. His love for construction, farming and growing plants continued into retirement. He contracted the building of a house on Lake Martin that included a wood shop, conservatory for plants and vegetable garden.

His greatest love was for his surviving wife of 64 years Roselyn DeWitt and six children Wyatt DeWitt, Carol Txipama, Tim DeWitt, David DeWitt, Andy DeWitt and Lyn Allen, 12 grandchildren and 6 great grandchildren.

He is also survived by siblings Oscar DeWitt, Tom DeWitt, Robbie Jones and Bill DeWitt.

He is predeceased by his brother Sam DeWitt.

Memorial Service will be held, Friday, January 11, 2019, 2:00 PM at Auburn United Methodist Church Founders Chapel. Visitation will follow the service.

In lieu of flowers the family requests memorial donations be made to the AUMC Mission Fund P.O. Box 31356 Auburn, AL 36831.

Field Trip

Finn and I are roadies right now. Erin is performing with the Omaha Symphony in their annual Christmas show and we’ve come along for the ride.

It’s kind of surreal sharing this experience with Finn. The last time Erin and I spent more than a few weeks in a hotel we were touring together. Long before Finn was a thought.

As we were packing for the trip it felt somewhat routine figuring out what to take so we could maintain a semblance of home on the road.

Finn filled his small suitcase with a careful selection of toys, Legos and art supplies.

Homeschooling has made things a little less complicated to some degree.

And there are plenty of “field trip” opportunities.

I just have to keep reminding myself that we are not on vacation.

Or are we?

Before we left, Erin and I scoped out the museums.

Our halfway point to Omaha was Cincinnati, where Erin is from. The timing worked out so we were there for Thanksgiving with her family and Finn could have some quality time with his cousins.

Erin had always been fond of the Cincinnati Art museum and had mentioned one of her favorite paintings was Van Gogh’s Undergrowth with Two Figures, on display there.

There never seems to be enough time to fully appreciate everything in a museum.

This is especially true when you’re with a seven year-old who wants to zip from one room to the next.

Eventually we found the painting and Finn ran right up to it.

Really close to it.

“Look Daddoo!” he said. “To make it look like that he had to paint it real fast like this!”

Then he pretended to paint furiously, with his hand about an inch from the canvas.

“Stop!” I said in a mini panic. “You can’t get that close to the painting!”

“Why?” He asked, surprised.

“You might touch it accidentally and damage it,” I said.

“No I won’t, the paint’s very thick. Look,” he pointed again with his finger perilously close to the canvas.

“Step back!” I whispered intensely, moving him back with my hand and expecting to hear an alarm go off any second.

It’s not that he hasn’t been to museums. But it has been a while. And we’ve most recently been to children’s museums where you can touch everything.

Still, there was a small part of me that expected him to react with a little more reverence and awe.

I always kind of get butterflies when I see a famous painting. Thinking of the energy it took to create it and the number of people who had to believe in it enough for it to be hanging here on this wall 120 years later.

For a moment I was able to get him to step back and just look at it from a comfortable distance.

“The trees are purple. Why are they purple?” he said.

Years from now, after a dozen or more museum visits, I’m sure he will feel the awe. But this time it was pure curiosity and enthusiasm.

And for now I’ll take that as marks of a successful field trip.

Making Magic

I have watched kids of friends and relatives go through the Harry Potter phase and wondered if Finn would do the same.  I needn’t wonder anymore.

Finn has close friends who have seen the movies and had the books read to them, so he has embraced the Harry Potter world wholeheartedly in their play together and now on his own.

His Obi Wan Kinobi robe that he received as a gift last year has been re-purposed as Harry’s robe.

I suppose Harry and Obi Wan are not dissimilar archetypes.

So we went to the library and checked out the first book in the Harry Potter series.  And it has quickly become a bedtime staple.

“Expecto!” has become a prefix for almost anything he wants to manifest.

A small dowel he found in the tool shed has become his wand most of the time. Sometimes he uses a knitting needle. Sometimes a random stick.

We have decided to homeschool this year, which Finn is very excited about.  He says our school should be called “Homewarts” and I should be professor Dumbledaddoo.  I suppose then Erin would be Mommy McGonagall.

Homeschooling can be a little intimidating.

Random conversations with parents who have done it and some friends who were homeschooled have helped to put my mind at ease.  I’m not reinventing the wheel, and from what I’ve read so far, there are enormous resources available.

After we made the decision, it kind of felt like we were always heading in this direction.

It’s almost impossible not to do a certain amount of homeschooling.

I mean, there are a million questions a day no matter how you slice it.  You can either answer them intelligently, find the answers if you don’t have them, or just say, “I don’t know leave me alone.”

But if you choose the last option, the same questions circle back around endlessly.

Erin and I have chosen to answer as many questions as we can intelligently so I am imagining our Homeschool to be a more structured version of that with a little more leading and slight nudging, interspersed with comforting daily routines.

But what do I know?

Well, I do know Homeschool will begin September 1st , the same as Hogwarts.

There is a temptation to go all out and create our own little Hogwarts atmosphere but Finn is such a little actor he might get lost in the play acting.  But there could be ways to use his fascination in creative ways.

When I mentioned we might have to make a proper wand in our woodworking class, he lit up.

“Will it make real magic?” he asked.

“YOU make the magic”  I said.

“I do?” he said, not convinced.

Well maybe we will do it together.

Art Hike

It was the night before Erin was going to be teaching a number of voice lessons back to back at home and Finn and I needed to make ourselves scarce for most of the day.

“Where are you going tomorrow?” Erin asked, probably knowing I hadn’t thought of anything yet.

Finn looked at me.

“We are going…on a…hike. On an art hike,” I said trying to come up with something original for him.

“What’s an art hike?” Finn asked.

“We’re going to hike and paint.” I said.

“Where?” Finn asked.

“We’ll figure that out tomorrow” I said, having no idea.

I didn’t really think it would be an art hike. I really thought that we would hike somewhere and Finn would get distracted looking for rocks or collecting sticks and I would carry the art bags and maybe get half an hour of sketching in while we ate lunch.

The next morning we packed lunches and snacks into our already full bags along side what we had packed the night before: watercolor paints and plenty of paper.

We hiked a familiar trail. Eventually we came to a nice place to rest beside a stream.

“This is it!” Finn said.

“You want to paint here?” I asked

“Yep!” he said claiming the perfect little spot under a tree.

After sitting for a while just observing the brook and a tiny water-fall for several minutes, he spread out all his art materials and got to work painting right away.

I was a little in disbelief. I had come up with the idea as something to get us out of the house. I didn’t really expect it to hold his attention very long.

But he was ‘in-it-to-win-it’ as Erin and I like to say when he’s in the zone.

We were all alone. Then an hour or so later in an elderly couple wandered by and sat for a while chatting and dipping their feet in the stream.

I noticed them observing Finn as they chatted. The sound of the water masked their conversation.

After sometime they got up to leave and the woman said:

“My father was a painter and I have many fond memories of painting watercolors along side him. This is a joy to see. Thank you!”

I got a little lump in my throat at her reaction, fumbling with my words saying something like:

“Oh I’m so glad.”

Then I saw Finn gathering up his things. But he wasn’t done. He moved to another rock and started another series of paintings.

A little while later we had our lunch. He talked about his paintings and what a good idea this was, painting outside.

He ended up with nine little masterpieces. Some realist, some expressionistic, one rainbow and one map showing where we were in relation to Mommy. My favorite was a little sketch of me sitting under a tree sketching him.

“We should do this every week, right?” he said.

“Absolutely” I answered.

Carousel Ride

There was a noticeable silence in the backseat of the car while I was running a recent errand with Finn.

At a stop light I glanced in the rearview mirror to see if he was napping.

Instead he was staring out the window lost in thought.

After another long period of silence he sighed.

“I can’t believe I’m a kid,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I just can’t believe I’m alive!” he said.

“Well, where were you before?” I asked.

“Deeeeep in space” he said.

“Really?” I replied “Where in space?”

“Uhh…Bortron 7, I think,” he said, breaking out of his spell.

(Bortron 7 is a planet on the PBS kids show, Ready Jet Go)

For a moment it seemed I caught a glimpse of that special connection children have with the other side. That connection that becomes difficult to tap into as we age.

It is a miracle we’re alive. A thought worth contemplating on a regular, if not daily basis.

But especially so after a lamentably unrelenting winter.

Last weekend we popped into New York City to visit with a long time friend of Erin’s. She has two girls, one who is Finn’s age and another a little younger.

Fun activities within close walking distance of their hotel were in order.

The New York Public Library was close by, where the kids spent a little time reading and the rest of the time pretending to scan books with a computer mouse.

But a great surprise was the original Winnie the Pooh, which is on display there. I’ve always wanted to see it.

The kids, though just having met for the first time, played and laughed together mirroring the familiarity of Erin and Lisa, their Mom.

On the way to the library we passed Bryant Park, which was in the process of dismantling their winter ice rink. Thankfully, the Carrousel was running!

The kids all wanted to go on it. Finn had never been on one. (I know. Delinquent parents!)

Which horse will he choose? I thought to myself. Black, white or tan?

Running or standing?

None of the above, it turns out. He chose the rabbit, which I didn’t notice till he mentioned it.

He eagerly handed off his ticket and climbed in all by himself.

The air was cold enough to warrant our winter coats. It was St. Patrick’s day, and despite a crowded sidewalk and the occasional wafting beer breath of tottering tourists, there was magic in the moment.

There was a childhood first taking place after all.

And as the music started up and he rode out of sight then back again I couldn’t help but see the symbolism of the seasons turning.

In a few days the equinox would be here.

Though we may not see real change for a couple of more weeks, Spring will get here.

Coming ‘round the bend like a happy kid riding a March hare.

We made it.

“I just can’t believe I’m alive!”

Crag Day

"Happy Crag Day!" Finn said, descending from the bedroom upon awakening.

The day before, he’d expressed wanting to hike to the rock formation in a nearby preserve.

The forecast had promised perfect weather.

There were doubts about making it all the way to the top. It was a long hike for Finn and he likes to take his time.

So when he began to document the wildlife on a piece of construction paper he had folded several times to create a section for each entry, I was pretty certain we might be turning back before reaching the peak.

“When you see or hear something, you have to write it down,” he instructed each of us, like a mini forest ranger.

“Oh, look at the bird’s nest,” Erin said, noticing an unusually large one.

“Yep! Have to write it down!” he said bossily.

He eagerly dug for the pencil and paper in his pocket.

He stood there appearing to scribble for several long moments then said, “How do you spell bird’s nest?”

“Yep, it’s gonna be a long hike,” I thought to myself.

But very soon after that there was surge of energy and we were covering more ground than usual. It was a little slushy from melted snow but it didn’t really slow us down.

There were actual stretches of silence. Nothing but nature.

At his age, moments of silence are few and far between. From sun-up to sun-down there is a seemingly endless narration accompanying his play sessions.

But there we were tromping our way through some tricky passages with very little commentary.

One motivating factor may have been the lunch Erin packed.

“I can’t wait to get to the top” Finn said breaking the silence at one point.

“To see the view?” I said.

“No. To eat!” he said.

But pretty soon it didn’t really seem to matter if we made it to the top.

There was more wildlife to document, unusual trees to climb and a little trouble choosing the perfect hiking stick.

The day seemed complete just by us being there. Maybe it was because it was the first warm break in a brutal winter. Or we might have been feeling the wake of the recent events in Parkland, Florida. Maybe it was all of the above.

Whatever it was, it was the right combination of sunshine, togetherness and semi silence.

We navigated our way up out of the forest and onto the rocky top and there was a sense of satisfaction but not so much of surprise. It was kind of like: “Of course we made it to the top. It’s that kind of day.”

We didn’t need to reach the peak. So somehow it seemed easier to get there.

Our way back down was easy and uneventful. More nature documentation. Eagles. Or were they Vultures? There was an especially crooked tree.

But nothing stood out as the highlight. The highlight was the day itself.

Because…well…it was Crag Day.

Making Christmas

During dinner, following an unusually long moment of silence, Finn sighed heavily and, as if suddenly having a huge realization, said:

“Daddoo, I REALLY need to get a new sewing kit. With LOTS of cloth and needles and everything.”

“Really, why is that?”  I asked.

“Because I want to be an elf. And I don’t have a costume. And to make a costume, I’m REALLY going to need a lot of stuff,” he said.

“You mean a Christmas elf?” I inquired.

“Yeah,” he said shortly as if, “What else?”

Over the last several weeks Finn’s questions about Santa Claus and everything relating to Christmas have increased in number and complexity. He has only visited Santa once, when he was two, but he still talks about it.

“So that Santa, the one that I sat on his lap, that was the real Santa right?” he asked one day randomly when we were all in the car.

“What do you think?” we responded.

“I think he was,” he continued, “But if HE was the real Santa who are all the other Santas?”

“Good question,” Erin said.

We gave him the usual spiel about them all being Santa’s helpers.

“Why do they want to be Santa’s helpers?” he asked. “And why does he need SO many helpers? Isn’t he like magic and can do anything? And how can he go all around the world in one night?!”

He had posed the ‘around-the-world-in-one-night’ question a week or so earlier after having a conversation with friends. Someone (it was never clear who) had “looked it up on the internet” and said it was “impossible.”

Before the age of too much information, it seemed much easier to maintain the mythology of Santa Clause. There was some sharing of opinions among friends but very few of us kids dared to say that anything related to Santa was “impossible”.

Santa was real for me until I was eight. My Mom had a stock line about Santa when we posed questions that demonstrated a waning belief in his existence.

“When you stop believing in him, he stops coming to visit,” she said.

None of us wanted that. Though it actually turned out not to be true, it did keep the mysticism alive for a while longer.

Even in our teens and early twenties, at Christmas time, my siblings and I could often be heard shouting in earshot of our Mom, “I believe Santa! I believe!”.

“Yeah, I know you do!” she’d reply with a chuckle.

Back at the dinner table, my conversation with Finn continued…

“By the way, Daddoo, are Christmas elves real?” he said, searching my eyes intensely.

“What do you think?” I said.

“Ummm” (there was a pause) “Could be!” he said. “And anyway, even if they’re not real, I can still PRETEND to be one.”

“That’s right,” I said.

“So I still need the stuff to make the costume,” he said.

“I understand,” I said, “We’ll get to work on that.”

Christmas magic is alive and well in Ulster County.

Dance Party

 If there is one characteristic that stands out in Finn’s behavior lately, it’s that he wants to get his groove on.

 Fall appears to have ushered in a time to dance.

And of course, that means we have to follow suit. (Who can refuse a five-year-old saying, “Come on let’s dance!”) 

It certainly pulls you out of the doldrums.

What started it? Lady Gaga came up on shuffle on Erin’s phone one day. Finn wanted to see what she looked like and Erin showed him the Super Bowl halftime show. And the dance craze began.

There are other artists he routinely likes dancing to. Most notably Ray Charles and Mumford & Sons.

I dance on occasion to get my energy going. But it really does more than that.

It summons joy and authenticity. I love watching older people dance at weddings. Their moves are so uniquely expressive. I remember watching the chaperones at school dances when they would venture out onto the floor. You’d catch a glimpse of their teenage selves.

Finn’s moves are so uniquely him. Primal and playful. Lots of pointing, moving backwards in circles and tumbling on the floor (on purpose) all with a look on his face of absolute confidence.

Dancing is not only good cardio but has been proven to improve mental health and focus.

It’s no wonder some motivational speakers begin their seminars by asking everyone to dance.

Ellen DeGeneres has figured out it starts things on the right foot.

I was surprised to read recently that a study at The Albert Einstein College of Medicine found that dancing spontaneously on a regular basis could decrease dementia by 76 percent.

So why don’t we do it more? Maybe it kind of feels like wasting time. It feels silly as an older adult. Maybe it’s a little embarrassing?

Maybe we’ve been laughed at by someone at some point while dancing. I’ve experienced it. It’s kind of inevitable. You’re revealing a vulnerable part of yourself. Movements unique to you. It’s bound to crack someone up, especially if you’re awakening your teenage self.

So it takes a little courage to dance. That’s a good thing, to dance in the face of whatever real or imagined judgement may exist. To own your authenticity.

And perhaps the best thing is that it’s almost impossible to think about anything else while you’re dancing.

It plants you firmly in the now. Dance is like a meditation. Once you get over that initial shyness it immediately connects you to your heart and spirit. And to those dancing around you.

Erin and I are working on a song (Our Children) right now for a concert. It’s from the Broadway musical Ragtime. There is a line, “How they dance. Unembarrassed and alone. Hearing music of their own. Our Children.”

When we’re dancing as a family it’s kind of the ultimate connection.

We’re dancing, watching Finn dance, but he is totally focused. He’s creating each move. Occasionally making himself laugh. We’re there.

But he’s dancing like nobody’s watching.

Detours

It was a family outing that was not going well.

Everyone was grumgry, the term we use for deteriorating emotional states in absence of sustenance.

We had packed a picnic but 30 minutes into our journey we noticed the gas light was blinking. We probably would not make it unless we back-tracked to a gas station.

Erin hates back-tracking for any reason. I personally don’t mind it. I once back-tracked three hundred miles to retrieve my wallet, which I had left at a service station. I was traveling across the desert in the southwest at the time and I got to experience the same spectacular sunset two nights in a row. But I was also traveling alone.

Now I was in a car with two other loved ones. And grumgry was transmuting to hangry.

I had just completed the U-turn and Finn was beginning to whine about our extended trip.

A large Heron flew above the road just ahead of us.

“Oh look! See the Heron?!” I said, hoping to end the complaining with some nature fascination.

“Where?” he said, “I can’t see it!”

The angle was such that he couldn’t see it from the back seat of the car.

“Right there!” I pointed, desperately wanting him to see it but trying to keep my eyes on the road.

“I don’t see it!” he said.

Suddenly the Heron veered out of sight.

“Oh, sorry,” I said, “It just flew behind the trees.”

“Naaaooooo!” he sobbed. “Now I’ll never see the Heron! Ahhhh!”

I was kind of kicking myself because I had made a similar mistake with a hummingbird sighting a few weeks before. But it’s kind of a reflex.

He eventually calmed down, we got gas, had our picnic, went on a short hike but were still not in the best of moods. Maybe ice-cream would cheer us up.

We went to a place that shall remain nameless and the servings were so small I actually thought mine was a tasting. After that I was the grumpy one. Nothing kills the spirit more than being underserved with ice-cream.

We needed to end the day on a high note.

Not wanting to head home just yet, we were driving around sort of aimlessly and soon realized we weren’t far from the Saugerties Lighthouse. We decided on one last hike.

As we were winding through the trails and boardwalks, I looked across the shallow marsh and in the distance saw a lone slim silhouette standing in the water. It was a white Heron.

This time I was little more cautious.

“Finn, do you see anything interesting out there?” I said.

It was a little far off but he saw it almost immediately. Thank goodness. Though I was ready to say something like, “Aren’t those amazing lily pads?”

Our day trip had been a jumble of detours and false starts until that last piece fell into place. Suddenly a puzzling excursion had been reworked into a graceful mosaic.

Off Duty

The other day I was trying to get Finn’s attention.  He was sitting in a chair staring off into space. I can’t remember why it was important for me to interrupt him but nevertheless I did.

“Finn,” I said for the third or fourth time.

“I’m off duty,” he replied.

“Really?” I said. “What exactly does that mean?”

“I’m just not doing anything,” he said matter-of-factly.

I kind of wondered what being “on duty” meant for him but I didn’t inquire further.

I’m sure he was repeating what one of us might have said when we were in the middle of something and attempted to “pass the baton” so to speak.  

“Talk to Mommy. I’m off duty.”

Would I say that?

Regardless, I don’t think it’s really possible to be off duty as a parent once you become one. You never stop thinking about your child for more than a moment or two.

Even on date nights we inevitably spend half the time talking about Finn.

Summer is the season for taking time off. The rising temps and heavy humid air naturally slows you down. So it’s no wonder we want to get away for awhile.

There is an art to vacationing and it often takes as much effort as not. The expense, the supplies, the planning, the packing, unpacking, packing again. How much time one actually spends relaxing depends on so many things.

I’ve personally become more fond of spontaneous days off and evenings in the backyard when Finn and his friends are playing independently. Or little family day trips.

Recently, I’ve read about the significance of children having time off from scheduled events in the summer. The importance for them to experience boredom, so they can learn, with proper guidance, how to deal with it.

Who knew that lying in the grass staring at the clouds is actually valuable and important? Well, we all probably knew it intuitively. But for some reason, having a study to confirm it offers some sense of satisfaction.

I’ve never had a problem with being bored. If there is one thing I know how to do, it’s to contemplate. Creativity springs from contemplation. Taking the first step in a project beyond contemplation usually presents more challenges for me.

An even bigger challenge is turning off the creative brain. Giving it a rest. Not thinking about what “the next thing” should be. That, for me is the hardest part of vacationing. Putting everything on hold.

That’s where Finn is a huge help. He’s so in the moment that when we’re watching him, it’s almost impossible not to be present as well. It’s something I had noticed well before Finn came along. Children have the innate ability to be here now.

Of course there are other ways to quiet the mind. Crashing waves. A walk in the woods.

But there’s nothing that quiets the mind as well as observing a little one who’s “off duty”.