Fan-gazing

Today she was lying on the changing table and suddenly pointed up at the ceiling and started to babble—it was thrilling, the first time she obviously tried to communicate with articulated sounds, instead of yelling or babbling indiscriminately. I often feel like relating with her is like communicating with someone from a foreign country. I try to teach her sign language; she stares back at me like I’ve really lost it now. Even the thought of her quietly signing for more peas instead of screaming at the top of her lungs seems rather ludicrous. I try to tell her in this culture it’s rude to pick at other people’s teeth, or fart loudly in bookstores. She tries to feed me pieces of plastic she finds tasty and stuff her pacifier in my mouth. You just gotta try this thing, she’s thinking (I did once, and it is oddly addictive).

She was pointing at the fan on the ceiling. So we lay down on the nursery floor for awhile, her lying on my belly and both of us gazing up at the fan. She lay very still with big eyes. I made up silly stories about the fan faeries. That’s the good thing about being addicted to books all the time; I have a hoard of stories in my head. She will probably grow up thinking that wood sprites and silkies and talking lions are real.

I felt content, and she seemed so too. She has a convicting simplicity in that way: she doesn’t need much, just someone who loves her and a place she feels safe. She doesn’t care what she’s wearing, how fancy her toy is, what I look like or how much I know. She just likes that I’m there, listening to her and being present with her.

She teaches me a lot about contentment. It still amazes me how little contentment is related to circumstances; even when life is going seemingly perfectly on all outward levels, I’m not necessarily any happier. But this is contentment: being in the mindful present; being in God’s presence, lingering and still, and loving someone else. Making up stories as the air fans our faces. Maybe this is what heaven will feel like, when our contentment is complete; like we could never want anything more.