In the gray light of early morning, the knob on my closed office door makes tiny clicking noises like the tumblers on a safe. But I’m lost at the computer, focusing hard on today’s writing goal, prodded alert by a looming deadline.
The door scrapes open and breaks my concentration. I glance up and see a round, clear face fresh from sleep, framed by pale blond pillow-hair and lighted by the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. Her smile shows perfect, seed-pearl teeth.
“Hi, Grammie!”
She whispers this, having been told downstairs that Grammie’s working and shouldn’t be disturbed. She’s sure this doesn’t apply to her, of course, but she’s being quiet anyway. Her pink I-Dream-of-Jeannie pajamas are twisted at the tummy. One plump arm hooks the neck of a naked baby doll.
I don’t speak, torn between the blue world of words and this three-year-old genie I don’t see nearly often enough. Because she lives states away, her visits are rare—but last weeks at a time.
Reassured by my smile, Jessica reaches up to catch the doorknob again and push the door shut behind her. She grins conspiratorially. We’re hiding from the rest of the family.
She runs the four steps to my chair, her eyes drawn to the lighted screen that looks like a TV. Still I say nothing, hoping somehow to sustain the magic world where I dwelled a moment ago. Jessica crawls into my spring-loaded chair and stands up behind me, pitching the baby doll overboard. My fingers go back to the keys. She peers over my shoulder at the few halting words that appear on the screen and whispers a question in my ear. I nod my head in answer.
Bored with the lack of action on the screen, she lifts my hair and pokes each mole on the back of my neck. Then, using both hands, she scoops my tousled hair completely over my head. When I turn to look at her, hair hangs over my eyes in a ragged curtain. She holds her breath a moment, eyes wide, then dissolves in giggles.
So do I, and that’s the end of my writing session for today. Total production: two paragraphs, one unusable.
Funny how the things we love most require some tithe or sacrifice. Chocolate is full of fat and calories. Technology makes life easier but complicates it at the same time. Even the clean joy of physical work is tainted by fatigue and pain. I can’t wait for my granddaughter and her family to visit, but when they do, I have to get up in the middle of the night to get my writing done.
And writing itself is a mixed blessing. We, who are addicted, berate ourselves and feel guilty when we don’t write, at the same time put it off and hunt for diversions. Why? Because the thing that makes us happiest is also tedious, frustrating and hard. Writing makes us crazy; not writing, even crazier.
One of the few things I know that’s more elusive than writing well is wisdom. And even wisdom, with all its benefits, exacts a price. We pay for it with long years of experience, and when we’ve finally earned a share and life begins to make more sense, we’re jolted by a sudden understanding of its brevity.
But that very insight into the fleeting nature of time also bequeaths us an appreciation of every ticking moment. Each morning is a promise, each sunset not to be missed. New green on trees, clear running water, innocent faces fresh from sleep pierce the heart with intense poignancy. Wisdom teaches us to embrace our mixed blessing without mixed feelings, to savor both the pleasure and the pain.
Most of all, wisdom lets us grab life by the lapels and demand the most from it. I don’t know about you, but I want it all. Perhaps I’ll run out of time to experience everything, but I’m determined to try.
That’s why right now I’ll have to shut down this computer and sign off for the time being. Because there’s a tiny, tumbler-like clicking at my office door, as the knob turns.
Marcia Preston