She likes to walk on the bumpy ground.
I like to walk on the flat ground.
She likes to go round the long way. Take the detour. Do the sightsee.
I like to go the quickest way. The most direct. The easiest route possible.
I have places to be. But what I really mean by that is that I have places to get to; things to do; jobs to get done; people to see; lists to complete; a schedule to adhere to like glue.
To have “places to be” is the opposite really. To just be and ponder and dwell. Wander and sit and feel. She is thirty years younger that me, but somehow she gets this better than me. It is as natural to her as the sun shining to just be in her moment. To stop and look and feel, no matter how much I cajole or pull her little hand to walk faster.
I have lost the magic.
She lives it.
I have forgotten the beauty of the moment. The pause. The listening to the whisper inside you that pulls you across the narrow doorway; draws you onto the untrodden path; holds you in the aroma of the moment.
I am efficient.
She is mesmersied.
I am proficient.
She is appreciative.
Like a butterfly she flits and flies from this flower to that. From scent to sound. So interested and fascinated by person and thing. She knows nothing of the clock, and is better for it.
I have lessons to learn from my little butterfly.
And as she dances from this to that, I vow to preserve the inner butterfly in her. To nurture the spirit that chooses to wander rather than take the obvious, easier path. To leave a little earlier so that the words “we’re late” don’t echo in her ears. To let her hand loose and take the slower, longer ground too.
And along the way, to figure out where I put the butterfly wings I also once had.