It’s Sunday and my furry sidekick and I are out exercising,
which consists of a leisurely walk around the neighborhood. And by “the
neighborhood” I mean the neighborhood next to mine where the houses are nicer,
the yards are bigger and the cars a bit fancier.
It’s not quite evening yet but the sun is sinking and the
day is quickly turning to dusk. I notice plenty of people out and about
enjoying the last bits of the weekend. Folks doing yard work, an older couple
sitting on their porch enjoying a highball, and kids, lots and lots of
kids. Laughing, running, tossing a ball, goofing around; playing their little
hearts out before it’s that time when mom or dad calls them in for bath taking,
teeth brushing, pajamas, prayers or whatever the Sunday night ritual holds in
preparation for Monday morning.
It feels like spring, the weather is warm, and while school
is still in session the end is near and everyone knows it. Parents and kids
alike are preparing for the perpetual playtime of summer.
As I watch the kids I am reminded of my faraway childhood
and the loveliness of “playing my hardest” all the time. I can tell by the gasping
for air that each child is using their every available resource. As a 40 something, who has to have a 15
minute motivational speech with herself to get off the couch and walk the dog
this is most certainly a foreign concept.
“Why are they moving at top speed if they’re not late?” I wonder to myself.
Or
“Why are they running their fastest if there’s no one around
with a stop watch or a clip board?”
It’s all very confusing for a brief moment and then it hits me, that’s the beauty of seven, the desire, no, the absolute undeniable requirement
to play just as hard as you possibly can without needing to save anything for
tomorrow. Pure joy.
