She watched me walking slowly to the car. It was a long stretch from the double doors of the elementary school to the end of the covered walkway where all the moms waited to collect their kids and rush off to soccer practice, piano lessons, and homework time.
My big sister, impatient with her already burgeoning Type-A life view proclaimed, “GAH! What is he DOING?”
I ambled slowly, with my arm stuck out to the side trying not drag an oversized work of art I had created that day, face trained above me on the impossibly beautiful day that embraced me outside those school doors.
I opened that big green Granada door and wiggled my way in to the front seat – we had an established schedule and it was my turn to sit up front with Mom today.
“Today was a diamond,” I sighed.
Somewhere within, I’m certain, my sister reluctantly agreed.
“Some days are diamonds, some days are stones.” – John Denver
I have no memory of that moment but it was told so often and so consistently that it became a part of the mystique of me.
It became a part of my lore – gifted to me by my Mom.
She told this story because it validated something within herself that would allow for her own lolligagging approach to life. I was her Poky Little Puppy and she celebrated and nurtured that in me.
Her telling and retelling of this story was her way of reminding me to be that little boy. To be savor the sun on my face. To find the extraordinary in the ordinary and to be grateful for it.
All these years later, I can still feel my Mom watching me and allowing me the space to slow down and savor this experience of life.