On The Stairs
Insights on mindfulness and compassion inspired by a toddler and a tube of chapstick.
I looked up at my toddler, who stood at the top of the hard, honey stairs. His dimpled hands balled up at his sides. One clenched a yellow cap. The other held a matching tube. A breath later, I smelled mint.
“One, two, three, come with me,” I beckoned. “Let’s go.”
He swayed, then stomped his feet. He pushed the chapstick’s cap and tube together. Like two opposing magnets, they failed to meet.
“It’s time to come,” I told him.
He moved the yellow pieces some more. Plunged a finger into the scented wax and pressed it to his soft cheek. Smiled. Pushed the cap and cylinder toward each other again. Another miss. He swayed happily.
“We’ve got to go,” I said, stepping down.
He pointed up at the window on the landing. And then the scene flicked. I had one of those moments of clarity where you’re yourself and watching yourself at the same time.
I saw our impasse.
Me: Time traveling to the next task. Breakfast dishes. Dinner prep. The call I had to make. The invoice I had to send. Responsibilities that existed without shape or heft but whose swirling weight pulled me all the same.
