I am breaking sticks, which makes a baby laugh.
I am about seven, the baby about six months.
The sticks are dry, and light in colour,
no bark, old, weathered and no bigger than my baby finger.
The sticks breaking makes a nice sound – pock.
When I see this makes the baby laugh
I get more sticks and break them.
The baby laughs.
I am aware of adults sitting here, one holding the baby.
I am cautious of them, that they might judge my actions.
But I do it anyway.
I am breaking the things that stick and make me stuck. It is very pleasing.
“When you’ve got the baby you gotta be with the baby – being here now; eye to eye firing mirror neurons of contact. A delightful situation.”
“My seven year old is entertaining my baby, who in turn is encouraging my seven year old, with no interference from my judgmental adults, because sometimes that is what is needed.”
“I am making kindling – kindle.”
Kindle. Kinder. Kinder.
Warms my heart.
Love this dream, Karen! And the poem, like a “pock,” makes such a satisfying sound…. My baby and 7-year-old both want to leave the grown-ups behind and savor this. Thank you!
Thanks, Kirsten. Your comment and the dream make me remember that sound creates atmosphere so immediately. Altered states.