Yesterday I wrote about visiting Carl Sandburg's home, Connemara, after many years' abscence. I felt a pang of regret as I climbed the hill to the house, wishing I'd been able to come more often, that I'd been able to share it with Eli earlier. But once the rain stopped and we took to the fields and barn, I had a change of heart.
When my son was smaller, I would have taken him by the hand and shown this beloved place to him piece by piece. But now? At almost age five, Eli is strong and coordinated as well as thoughtful. I didn't have to steer him away from pitchforks, remind him to close gates, or admonish him to be gentle with the animals. Instead, I could just enjoy his enjoyment. He could take it in as he wished -- in tiny pieces but also by gulps.
Free from Mama's pace, he crept up on things to see them better, but he also ran through the grass with his arms thrown out. He stood at fences silently watching mist rise from the darkened trees, but he also went charging through passages filled with hay, sending the dust motes swirling the air in his wake. Without the slightest pause for introductions, he joined other kids in their climbing, wall-walking, and ditch-following. His time was his own, an unfettered rainy Saturday afternoon in the mountains. Standing aside was the best gift I could give him.
Sometimes Eli came to take me by the hand, lead me over to something he particularly liked -- leaves, spider webs, a bathtub filled with drinking water for the goats that had pretty ripples in it. I saw this dear, familiar place in a new way through my son's eyes.
So glad I could introduce Eli to Connemara at just the right time.
Click HERE for the third and last post about Connemara.
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