I took my grandson swimming today. To a tiny inflatable pool off the side of the deck at the ‘kids’ house. We sat in the 85 degree air, in tepid water, liberally coated w/ SPF 50, and splashed. And splashed. And splashed again, with great enthusiasm.
Then we filled a Solo cup with a pink floaty sponge, and held our tongues out to be shot with a water gun. Not to mention throwing a filthy yellow tennis ball that Silas-the-wonder-dog kept dropping in the water for fetch.
It was its own form of Nirvana — the everyday miracle of a happy life.
My grandson played at swimming — paddling as he lay across my outstretched legs, putting his head in the water to drink (don’t tell my son — I would NEVER have let my sons do that, but this is my grandson!). I gently poured water over him, and he laughed happily.
What is about swimming with little fishes? How is it that my world simplifies, and reduces in size like cropping a picture back to only the essential image?
Much of it is, of course, the way a 13-month-old little fish reminds me of how magic a summer-day-add-water is. You don’t even need much water: enough to pour from a cup, enough to cool off when the sun goes behind a cloud.
Just an ordinary day, with a little extra magic: sunlight and water. And a one-year-old who hasn’t yet forgotten how special those are.