Showing posts with label Assumptions. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Assumptions. Show all posts
Monday, April 2, 2012
Yogurt face
Right now you are chewing on the straps to your highchair. Your bib has been turned around into a cape, and you have yogurt in the creases of your thighs. That's our fault. We take your pants off to let you eat because it cuts down on the laundry. You've just shoved a green bean into your mouth and you are intently watching your papa work on a painting of a dhaka crow that we plan to hang on your wall. Watching the chaos of this meal is absolutely love to me.
Tonight I am remembering that you are not a project. You are a rapidly learning creature. You are becoming who you are, and while I hope to offer what I can, you will be who you are. I read a great bit of advice today about how to support an introvert. As an extrovert, it was priceless. I sometimes take my belief into experiential knowledge too far, and start to think that others think in the same basic way I do. Which they don't. I have no idea how you think. I also remembered that I do better in conversation than in monologue. Now you are making your zombie noises. You are moments away from a bath. But I just realised I haven't glue-gunned closed your new bath toys' orifices yet. That was a fairly difficult sentence in terms of grammar. But anyway, I love you.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
The Cheshire Cat of Khartoum
I once knew a man who grinned like a Cheshire Cat. He always wore button up collared shirts, and I remember them often deep blue in colour.
You knew when he came into the office; he announced his presence with long drawn out sighs and a rattle of activity at the tea station. I would spy him from my desk, through my office door to the open area staff would congregate in, and inevitably, he would fix his tea, and drag himself into my office in a show of exhausted and overwhelmed exaggeration. Leaning sideways in the chair, tea cup resting on one of my files, an elbow propped on my inbox, his index finger would poke against his cheek as he rested his chin on his palm. Then he would tell me stories of his trials and tribulations, with just the right dramatic flair. Incredible the hardships he undertook everyday. And when I finally would lift an eyebrow in query, he'd smile. A wide smile that stretched his lips, dimpled his cheeks and flashed his teeth against a mischievous face. Then quickly, in an offhand offering, he'd toss me the key things I needed to know, what he'd been able to do, and what would have to wait yet another day. In a few short sentences I would have what I needed to plan the logistics around All Of This. I would advise what we needed most urgently and request it be top priority. He would nod, and just as smoothly, he'd slip back into his smiling slump, drink his milky sweet tea, and hypothesize, that tomorrow, god willing, maybe.
This man lives far away, and I speak of his tendencies in past tense because I doubt I will ever see him again. But when I think about his small patch of the world, and when I read geo-political news stories about oil and war, and when I hear what ignorant people say of Muslims, like they are some monolithic entity, I think of him and his stories. And I remember and love how he let us enjoy our time together. I'm telling you about him because he keeps my would grey and nuanced. He is one of the people in my mind who stop me from moving to absolutes or absurd assertions. And I wish for you to know these people too.
You knew when he came into the office; he announced his presence with long drawn out sighs and a rattle of activity at the tea station. I would spy him from my desk, through my office door to the open area staff would congregate in, and inevitably, he would fix his tea, and drag himself into my office in a show of exhausted and overwhelmed exaggeration. Leaning sideways in the chair, tea cup resting on one of my files, an elbow propped on my inbox, his index finger would poke against his cheek as he rested his chin on his palm. Then he would tell me stories of his trials and tribulations, with just the right dramatic flair. Incredible the hardships he undertook everyday. And when I finally would lift an eyebrow in query, he'd smile. A wide smile that stretched his lips, dimpled his cheeks and flashed his teeth against a mischievous face. Then quickly, in an offhand offering, he'd toss me the key things I needed to know, what he'd been able to do, and what would have to wait yet another day. In a few short sentences I would have what I needed to plan the logistics around All Of This. I would advise what we needed most urgently and request it be top priority. He would nod, and just as smoothly, he'd slip back into his smiling slump, drink his milky sweet tea, and hypothesize, that tomorrow, god willing, maybe.
This man lives far away, and I speak of his tendencies in past tense because I doubt I will ever see him again. But when I think about his small patch of the world, and when I read geo-political news stories about oil and war, and when I hear what ignorant people say of Muslims, like they are some monolithic entity, I think of him and his stories. And I remember and love how he let us enjoy our time together. I'm telling you about him because he keeps my would grey and nuanced. He is one of the people in my mind who stop me from moving to absolutes or absurd assertions. And I wish for you to know these people too.
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