The Most Precious Thing in the World

How savoury it would feel to be celebrated, protected, and carried off to bed. To be sung to. To live in a world where days are long, and years, inconceivable. Birthday parties, infinite sweetness.

How marvellous to find out about holidays. Easter. Halloween. Christmas. Where the bustling world transforms into something magical. The bunnies, the witches, the lights.

How strange and freeing it must feel to not know of the pressures of conformity and the expectations of culture and to just feel shameless in our bodies, our sensory guides. To feel perfect before the world convinces us we aren’t.

How easy it must be to float in this world without the heavy burdens of politics and disaster. How innocent, how wild.

The time in our lives when we are spared the overwhelm of the whole wide world. We don’t lie awake trying to fathom the unfathomable.  We have our own little nuclear microcosm of discovery and comfort and safety. Just trust and love and freedom. Just simplicity and delight. Or at least, we should be so lucky.

If only we didn’t grow up to know how big and complex and relentless the problems are. We couldn’t even imagine the concept of political conflict. If it were just possibility and opportunity alive, everywhere. Colour and texture and interest. Everything big. Everything wonderful.

This is where my mind goes. My thoughts have been getting heavy with the weight of human tragedy and radical division. I’ve been reeling in demoralization, fear for the health of the whole world. Helpless and burnt out.