Green grass, pink dress, and a swing

Compensation

Photo by Johnny Cohen on Unsplash

This morning, I lay in bed for a long time, thinking about the shootings in this country. It used to be that when a shooting happened, it was an anomaly, and people read about it in the paper and focused on it in conversation for some time. Now it seems shootings are happening so frequently it’s like a catastrophic game of Whac-a-Mole. Here a shooting, there a shooting, everywhere a shooting, shooting.

I believe that we need to do a lot more to address mental health in this country, and so do a lot of other people believe that same thing. In the end, though, it’s just words, and what we need is action. I think about how I might help, and all I can come up with is that if I see someone in pain, I might say to them, are you OK? Anything I can do to help? That seems pretty lame and insubstantial.

But when I got out of bed this morning and came downstairs and checked my messages, I had a video from my best friend which showed her little granddaughter on a swing. Her son had made the swing, and her grandchild was testing it out in her pink dress and her red sandals, and all around her was the green of the trees and the sunshine. The joy was everywhere on that little girl’s face, and she called out to her mother, Look at me! And then—and here’s the best part—she said, Look at me AGAIN!

I watched that video a few times, well of course I did, and the joy I felt was comparable to what that child seemed to be feeling. And I was reminded that if catastrophic events will not leave us alone, neither will our capacity for joy and resilience. A child in a swing will not solve the problems of the world, but it can redirect our thinking so that we take in the good and the beautiful and the lasting and the saving moments each of us has the opportunity to witness in our lives every day. The compensation. And now, if you will excuse me, I am going out to sit in the sunshine and regard the blossoms that have suddenly emerged on my weeping cherry tree, and I will offer my usual soft greeting to the baby mourning doves, who are huddled together in the nest up in the corner of my front porch, even though their mother calls to them to fly. They’re not ready yet, but they will be soon. I will miss them when they’re gone, but I will be glad for them that they have found freedom.

For you reading this, I wish for you the small compensations that make life not only bearable but beautiful. And I wish for all of us that we can take in the joy and use it as fuel for the work we need to do.