a commute,
straight to thinking and speaking in two languages,
straight to thinking and speaking in two languages and waiting on a third,
straight to listening to the inflection of beginning readers,
straight to listening to the nearly controlled chaos of a house full of kids.
When I was in the third grade choir, which happened to be my only year of choir (coincidence? probably not...), we sang an old nursery rhyme,
Inchworm, inchworm,
measuring the marigolds,
you and your arithmetic,
you'll probably go far.
Inchworm, inchworm,
measuring the marigolds,
seems to me you'd stop and see
how beautiful they are.
The inchworm isn't the only one with the problem, crawling ever slowly forward without noticing the beauty along the way,
as the soft glow turns to the bright rays of day,
the smile and greeting of the toll worker,
the bustle of the morning commute on the bridge,
the willingness and creativity of our teachers,
the melody and lilt of my second tongue,
the handshake fist bump of our boys,
the brows of our readers, furrowed in concentration,
the sweet smile hugs of our girls,
the hot pink bloom of the buganvilla in the afternoon sun,
the never changing, never ending, promises of our God,
the leave it all in the dirt efforts of our soccer players,
the evening goodbyes until we do it all again tomorrow.
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