It takes courage

Well, after having spoken with, I think, my entire readership in the past three days, I'm not sure that I promise a great deal of new material. But here's one thought, at least, that didn't come up in the weekend's many conversations: I've been struck, of late, by how much courage people exhibit on a virtually daily basis. I mean this broadly - as in, say, the courage to undergo a day of written exams that will determine one's future (congrats, Melissa!), or the courage to attend one's 50th college reunion, and to strike up conversations with people one hasn't seen in decades (and many thanks for the stuffed animal, Helen Ann!). But I also mean it in relation to my own experiences. Just this morning, L. and I were chatting with a family friend, and articulated our concerns about our upcoming 30-hour trip, with Cleo in tow, from Baltimore to Cape Town. Oh, said the friend, I can relate - and promptly told us about flying alone, with a 3-year-old and a 1-year-old, to the Sudan in 1972. The courage of others, in short, puts our own ultimately modest accomplishments into perspective. As usual, though, Cleo's my most familiar lens. And she, too, has demonstrated some courage in the past week. Last Monday, on a balmy day, I took her to a playground with a tall, spiral slide. Cleo had been there before, and we'd gone down the slide together several times - but on that Monday, she made it clear that she wanted to try it on her own. And so there she stood, above my eye level, on a small perforated platform at the head of the slide. And stood, and stood - and then squatted, turned, and lay down on her belly, feet pointed towards the bottom of the slide. A few seconds later, she was at the bottom, hair frazzled with static electricity, and resolved to try it again. I forget so much, and so quickly. But if this blog is in any way a mechanism against forgetting, then let me remember, years hence, Cleo's resolve as she stood, a tiny girl, at the top of the slide high above the rest of the playground.