A“wonder”ful life

Rejoice in the simple things

By: Ellen Nelson

Published On: June 25, 2010

One of my favorite childhood memories has to be spending July in Sea Island, Georgia. Oddly enough, it wasn’t the time spent on the beach, going crabbing with my family or that first real kiss at a cul-de-sac at the end of the island. It was the rain.

As it happened, without fail, I would be sporting my swimsuit, ready to hit the pool or beach. Inevitably, the rain came. I would look out the window, frustrated and bored, waiting, waiting, waiting. And then it stopped.

The air would be thick with the weight of moisture hanging, making it seem like you were walking through a cloud. I would jump on my bike, still ever ready in my swimsuit, and delight in zipping through the huge puddles of rain left by the brief storm, waves of water crashing on my legs and on whomever was riding behind me.

Today, these puddles mean something entirely different.

Between Nashville’s horrific flood and the devastated shorelines and dying marsh wildlife, courtesy of BP, I fear innocence and childlike wonder are lost. Instead of rejoicing when it rains, I cringe. I can’t watch Dawn dishwashing liquid commercials without tearing up. You know the one, where Dawn is used to clean the oil off the poor critters.

Here’s where we need children.Children and their marvelous curiousity and wonder. Just think about how quickly young ones recover from loss, like, say, over the loss of a pet. I remember when two of our family dogs, Ghoulsby and Virus, made their way to doggy heaven. I was fine the next day. Whereas nowadays, I call Belle Meade Animal Hospital on a weekly basis to ask how to ensure my dogs live forever.

There is something restorative about a child’s innocent wonder. It’s not ignorance. It’s blissful, curious, accepting, believing, trusting and hopeful. Not jaded, skeptical, disappointed and disillusioned.

There comes a point where we must come full circle. It reminds me of the Shel Silverstein book The Giving Tree. The tree has wise adult knowledge but at the same time, possesses a childlike world view and a simplistic acceptance that should rule life.

I saw one of the beautiful Akers sisters, Andre—I believe, recently at Harris Teeter, belly laughing at something her young daughter had told her as she pushed the little one about in a cart. While a few silver slivers grace Mom’s raven head, it’s the smattering of freckles on both girls that could convince you they’re sisters. It’s Andre’s ability to laugh like a child that must keep her young.

The more you think about youth and the hope it gives us, the more you realize it’s the lessons learned in our early years that save us in our later ones.

Consider the the books we read as children—Le Petite Prince, The Velveteen Rabbit. Recalling those lessons meant to shape little minds into caring souls can get us through anything. “You’re real when someone loves you,” the velveteen rabbit learns. Looking back, those early readings taught me more than any advanced college lit class.

We need wonder and laughter. That’s why I rejoice in my failings. Like the time I stuck a stick of butter in my bra to bring it to room temperature (I was baking) and forgot about it. Needless to say, I was buttery and delicious. Or at least moisturized. I chunked the butter.

We have to have wonder and laughter in the wake of sadness (or stupidity). Take the final scene of the movie Steel Magnolias where Sally Field experiences all the stages of grief following the death of her daughter. In the midst of her heart-wrenching, unbearable angst, Olympia Dukakis’ character Clairee offers up her cantankerous camrade Ouiser to relieve Sally’s pain. “Go ahead, hit her!” she shrieks, trying to ease the lingering grief, as a shell-shocked Shirley Maclaine/Ouiser looks on in disbelief. Everyone is brought to giggle fits. Everyone. It’s such a necessary break from the heavy load. Pan to a scene of children playing, butterflies flying. Life goes on. Hope and love find a way. Through laughter.