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About a decade ago I glanced into my middle daughter’s room and found her sitting on her knees, looking out the window with her favorite toys lined up on the windowsill. They were all there: Her blanket - which had a personality and a loose seam for a mouth, various plush animals, a number of Disney characters, a group of small horses, and an assortment of other figures. She had turned her little friends toward the glass as if they were all looking out into the front yard together. She was talking with them, perhaps drawing their attention to something in the yard, or maybe holding court on any number of intimate subjects.

I immediately froze and did not make a sound. This was my second child, so I was an experienced enough parent to know a precious and unrepeatable thing when I saw it. I leaned against the door frame, then let my body slide slowly down the frame until I was on my knees.

She talked to her toys, jabbering about one thing and then another. She moralized, corrected, parented, acted out parts. She was lost in the Kingdom of Shelby, a place made up of bits and pieces of her life tossed about in her mind and dreams. Her kingdom was not governed by rules or laws or physics. The glue holding Shelby’s kingdom together was her own frail and developing view of the world. It was an infantile worldview without borders or categories, at least none that you or I would recognize.

I say “was” because Shelby is now a teen-ager, so she has been banished from the Kingdom of Shelby except at night when all the old things return from the deep waters and shadowed forests of dreaming.

All children have their own play world, and they are able to lose themselves in it. The state of play exists before consciousness. It is an indescribable and intensely personal thing for a child to be deep in play. And if they find they are being watched, they will come back from that world and become shy or start performing. Either way, the magic is lost.

I was getting a peek into the Kingdom of Shelby, and you can bet I wasn’t going to miss the show. I listened, leaning against the doorframe, absolutely enraptured by the sounds of her play. I suppose I was as lost in the moment as she was.

I would have stayed for hours. You couldn’t have dragged me away. Eventually a prolonged silence caused me to open my eyes. She was looking at me with a smile.

“Hi Daddy.”

She was friendly, but clearly waiting for me to leave so that she could go back to her world. I had intruded, and it was time for me to go. Shelby was a kindly landowner who would let you pick an apple and give you a cold drink if you wandered onto her property, but she would definitely show you the way to the gate.

I knew that about her. And I knew there was no use trying to prolong the moment or – God forbid – trying to recreate it.

I was drawn to my little girls in those days in ways that are quickly fading as the three sisters grow into young women. Our biological connection showed itself in my love of the smell of their scalps, my physical and intense need to hold them, and my desire to feel their small bodies pressed against my own as we watched movies together on the couch. And I always had a strong attraction to the sounds they made. Their voices were a kind of OM for me, a sound from below all sounds, a noise from the foundation of my existence. Hearing my daughters play was a joyful thing, and the ache of its absence will never heal. It is a wound I will carry as long as I walk this earth.

The best things are like this, aren’t they? They are savage and untamed. Like a great sunset, they can be discovered by chance and enjoyed, but never owned. Like love they can be received but not bought. The best things in life ride a ticklish wave along the surface of your skin, leaving raised hairs in their wake. They move through the world leaving no visible sign. You cannot follow them, nor anticipate their direction and wait for them in a blind.

You will come across spontaneous, unique moments of joy like this now and again. They are Life’s gifts to us all. They come to the washed and the unwashed, to the common and the sophisticated, to the rich and the poor, to the just and the unjust.

Moments of savage joy are there for all of us to find. If you haven’t seen one lately, you only need to slow down a bit and keep your eyes open. I can give you no counsel beyond that. But if you come across a moment of wild, untamed joy, for God’s sake eat it; drink it; hear it; receive it. This is the stuff of life. It doesn’t get any better.

rlp

What will it be like when you are gone, I wonder? You’ve been with us for so long. It’s hard to remember what it was like before you came.

First there was a line between two points, a single dimension. It was like living before consciousness. There was no awareness of others. No need for it. It was just the two of us, and I was happy with things the way they were.

Then you came into our world and added a new dimension. You turned a line into a triangle with three sharp points. Everything changed, and I was afraid at first. But then you became my little buddy. Believe it. I took you everywhere in those days. I carried you high on my shoulders, behind my head. Your legs dangled in front of my chest, and I held your ankles in my hands. I wanted to show you everything - the whole world.

When the news came that we were becoming a square, I felt jealous and protective. I didn’t want a newcomer to ruin our triangle. A part of me knew that there would never again be one little girl who was my buddy. But she came, and we saw that she was also good. In time we settled into a four-cornered life.

Then a third girl came, and we took on the shape of a star. In time I came to love our star-shaped family. I even made my own private constellation. I renamed the belt of Orion and began to call it The Three Sisters in honor of my little girls.

Years passed. Each November The Three Sisters rose in the night sky. I watched them and smiled. Things changed. You grew older and wiser and more interesting to me. And I got older too. My shoulders can no longer hold you, and the view is not enough for you anymore.

You were the rooster, the one who announced a new day and a new era. The end of our line and the beginning of our shapes. Reiley Rooster Simon and Schuster. I swear we used to call you that. And oh how you did fly from animals to books, from Old McDonald to Jung, from little girl to young woman.

So what are you saying? Are you saying that we’re going back to being a square again? Are you telling me that you’re going away, and you’re not coming back?

Never? Only for visits? Are you serious?

I knew this day would come, but I never let myself think about it. Never until now at the very end.

Okay, you growing up and having your own life is a good thing. I know that. But before you go, I want you to look into the night sky. Look past our beloved Orion, far above his shoulders and even beyond the red eye of Taurus that sees all. There in the blackness you will see a little teacup constellation of six stars. Many ancient people called it The Seven Sisters.

There were seven stars in this constellation once, thousands of years ago. Seven sisters, but one of them disappeared. One day someone counted, and she wasn’t there anymore. No one knows where she went. Who knows how something like that happens. Maybe it was just her time. Time for that little star to go her own way. And yet, for centuries, they were still known as The Seven Sisters. The seventh sister went away, but I like the idea that they kept the name and maybe a place for her at the table, just in case she came home for a visit.

Somewhere along the way a modern person said, “Hey, there are only six stars.” And now people usually call them the Pleiades, which is the Greek name for The Seven Sisters. But I guess it doesn't draw attention to the fact that one of them has gone her own way.

I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. In honor of you, our departing sister, I officially reject the name Pleiades. I’m going back to the old name. As far as I’m concerned, that little teacup above Orion is called The Seven Sisters.

Can I rename the stars whenever I like? Don’t ask me; you know I can.

So now it is your time. I know that. I see you chomping at the bit, ready to take your life into your own hands. This change is right and good, but it hurts more than I ever imagined. Because no matter how often people say, “Oh, she’ll come home sometimes,” and “She’ll always be your daughter,” you and I know that things will never be the same. My little buddy is leaving, and she doesn’t fit on my shoulders anymore. That’s the truth, and I resent anyone who suggests that it shouldn’t hurt like hell.

So go now, while I am being foolish and philosophical. Now is the time. Go, my strong young woman. Go right up in the face of life. Seize everything. Do not back down or back away.

Sit high above the shoulders of Orion; I want you to see everything.

rlp

Children are so soft. Their skin is fragrant and pure, like baby leaves. Their minds are eager and ready, their hearts are trusting and open, and their eyes will lead you softly to the very bottom of their souls.

Children know God because God can be found in the soft places of the world. In mother’s hands and in father’s soft shirts. In laughter and at dinner and in the goose bumps that rise when lips slide across skin.

It is a terrible thing when soft, childish flesh meets the hard steel of religion. We cut through children like butter. In our collective unconscious there is a swishing sound. It is the sound of the swords of Herod’s men rising and falling on the children of Bethlehem.

O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie.

Take a deep breath now, and free your mind. Do you remember when your spiritual softness was taken from you?

Did it happen at church?

What sort of church was it? Was it a brick building in the suburbs? Was it a synagogue or a mosque or a cathedral? Was it the secret church of one man’s desire, or the feral church of neglected children? Was it the cold sanctuary of science that stole your myths and left you wounded and empty and suckling at the stars? Or did you construct your own lonely chapel, like Saint Frances, barefoot and one stone at a time?

I was wounded along the way. It happens to everyone. Life is hazing. It’s one big rite of passage from beginning to end. I grew tough as leather, deeply protected, calloused, and hard. But I worked my leather with the oil of my hands and with tears and time until I became soft again. And soft, worn leather is such a comfort to have and to hold.

Now I guard children’s hearts against all religions, sacred and secular. I will throw myself at you, church man. Stay away from that child’s mind. Let her be a pagan; let her be a skeptic, a scientist, or a saint. Let her be any or all of these, but for God’s sake, let her be.

Let her be because her soul was never yours for the taking. If you lay your hands on her, she will grow hard, and still she will not be yours. But if you love her and let her and listen to her and allow her, one day she may return from the far country, fully grown and newly wise.

And soft, still soft. And strong, so strong.

rlp

To the middle sister, my string of pearls,

That’s a big heart you’re dragging around these days, and you’ve only just discovered how hard life can be.

Play the hand you were dealt.

Be soft.
Be true.
Be strong.
Be you.

-Daddy

My oldest daughter doesn't believe in God anymore, so she says. She told me this recently at Starbucks.

Starbucks is the place we go to talk. The house is the place where we do the daddy/daughter thing. I enforce tough boundaries, which is my job, and she pushes hard against them, which is hers. Sometimes we get into passionate arguments about this, which can be a strain. But when I take her to Starbucks, it's like we become two different people. We sit down and she starts talking. She talks to me about everything at Starbucks.

So I like taking her to Starbucks, as you can imagine. It's our thing and we both know it. I'll say, “Let's go to Starbucks,” and she'll give me the thumbs up. It means “Let's talk.”

We were sitting there sipping our hot drinks recently and I said, “So tell me how you and God are doing these days.”

She got a sad look in her eyes before she spoke. She never hesitated, apparently never even considered hiding this from me. She put a mock-frown on her face, which is a way of indicating that you are serious about what you are going to say. Then she shook her head slowly back and forth in the way people do when they want you to know they regret having to say something, but they must.

“Don't believe in him. I want to. I really wish I did. I've tried to believe in him, but I just don't.”

I'd say about a hundred thoughts rushed into my head in that instant. But the thing that pushed its way to the surface was a warning thought. “Be very careful with her. Listen to her. Don't speak.”

How and what we humans think about God is usually enmeshed with what is going on in our lives at any particular time. God language is deeply rooted in our psyche and perhaps our collective unconscious, if you believe in that sort of thing. I'm not sure I do, but it certainly seems to explain a lot. That's why even those who do not believe in a deity might still yell, “Jesus Christ!” or “Oh my God!” in a moment of anger, passion, or fear. The language of God is deep and old and practically inescapable for most people.

When someone is giving you their theology, their God words, you should listen hard and be very gentle. The time to deliver your God words is when you are asked.

You see, I've taken this journey that she is beginning. This God stuff is my specialty, you might say. Like if a brick layer's son was talking about building his first wall. And if I'm not careful, I'll rush in with my answers and my story. If I'm not careful I will overwhelm her with my own journey.

And this is her journey. I will willingly and passionately share my own journey with her, when the time is right. God help me with the timing on this. She needs enough of me and not too much.

So she talked and talked and talked. She cried and so did I. As I listened, two things were very interesting to me.

First, it's her inability to feel God's presence that is making it hard for her to believe. She said, “I don't really care that I can't see God. I've already figured out that our senses mislead us. There are a lot of real things in the universe that we cannot see or touch or understand. I don't really need to see or touch God to think that God might exist. But I don't feel God inside. Things don't seem real to me unless I can feel them.”

I made a mental note to follow up on that, because I don't really understand it. It sounds like her mother. I, on the other hand, coming out of a lot of experiences with emotional religion, don't trust my feelings. I always needed to understand the idea of God. That's what I was always looking for in the old days.

Second, she loves church. She said that she really likes our church and certainly doesn't want to stop coming. She said she likes my sermons and that they really make her think.

I started crying again when she said that. Just a little. Watery eyes.

And so she will continue to be active in our church. She's keeping her eyes and her heart open. She would like very much to believe in God and hopes that God might make himself or herself feel real to her someday. Maybe very soon.

I was so happy to hear that she likes church. It seems to me that she stands in a place that is exactly the opposite of many people in our culture. I meet people all the time who believe in the existence of God, but who are so wounded by their experiences with church that they drop out of the practice of Christianity because they see nothing but hurtful and abusive behavior in it.

This is my daughter, my baby girl, who is growing up and thinking and experiencing and searching. This is my daughter who is passionate and engaged and searching. This is my daughter.

And my daughter doesn't believe in God.

She sat in my lap and let me read baby bible stories to her when she was very little. She sat on the blanket with the children of our church when she was a child. She gave her life to Christ in Vacation Bible School one year. She has grown up in the company of gentle people of faith.

My daughter doesn't believe in God right now. Why do I feel so happy?

Because she wasn't afraid to tell me.

Because the roots of faith that we have given her were born of a gentle and authentic Christianity. I trust that she will find her way in time, and further, that all of this will be her journey and her story. It will all be good.

Because I love her mind and her passion. You should see her. She talks about God more now that she doesn't believe in God than ever before. She goes around her high school asking people what they think about God. She told me that if a boy can't tell her what he thinks about God, she's not interested in him. She's looking for a boy who is a deep thinker.

And because she and I have Starbucks and we talk to each other. How she honors me with this. Can she possibly know what that means to me, that she wants to talk to her father?

I don't suppose she will until the day that she sits with a son or daughter of her own and asks, “So how are you and God doing these days?”

rlp

My daughter, who is sixteen, gave me permission to write about this.

I remember when I was 27 and our first daughter was learning to walk. I told an older friend how hard it was to watch her fall and hurt herself. He said, "Just wait until she comes home from school with a broken heart."

In that moment I tried to imagine my little girl as a teen-ager, sobbing in my arms because she thought she was ugly, or because she was lonely, or because someone had been cruel and wounded her heart. I remember that I could just barely imagine the sadness, and it took my breath away.

These days I live with that kind of pain all the time.

The amount of love and care my wife and I have invested in these three little hearts is unthinkable. We've raised them so gently, nurturing their self-esteem, walking carefully with them through every stage of life. And now that two of them are in secondary schools, we must turn them over to the savages. Middle school is Lord of the Flies. High school is a little better, but still brutal.

Last year Shelby was selected by the girls in her class for special torment and pain. My little Shelby whose every look and mannerism is known and loved by me. Why Shelby? She's socially gifted and able to relate well to her peers. But she was the new girl in school and she was chosen. It was like watching the hyenas cut one gazelle out from the herd and take her down.

Some days before school she would almost throw up from fear. I had to take her to school and let her fight the battle herself. You can't let your children die, so there are times to step in. But mostly they have to get through these things on their own. We met with teachers and counselors to help, but for the most part she had to deal with it herself.

Watching it was so painful. My little sweetie. How can anyone want to hurt her?

This year has been better. She's established herself with the kids in her school and has friends. Well, she thought she had friends. Yesterday one of the girls in her group told her that they had talked about it and decided that they weren't going to be Shelby's friends anymore. She was strong at school but fell apart at home. She has learned not to let them see you sweat.

I gave her a hug and tried to be strong too. Under my breath I cursed. "Dammit! We did this last year, and I don't want to do it again."

But this is the way it is. This is what it means to be a parent. You cannot save your children from pain. If you try, you will only bring a different kind of pain to them. They must grow, and they must walk, and they must go out into the world and take their licks.

And you must sit at home and imagine what is happening. You must root for them, cry with them, and feel what they feel. This is the way of parents. No one can tell you this ahead of time. You can't know it until you know it.

And of course I know that there are much worse things out there for children. Shelby will be fine. She has marvelous ego strength, and this season of her life is just one of many.

But knowing that there is worse pain doesn't make present pain hurt any less.

rlp

My middle daughter, Shelby, has always been a wonderfully quirky child. She was a colicy baby, but she would stop crying if someone turned on a vacuum cleaner. In those days we just left the vacuum cleaner running all the time. It was like white noise on heroin. Visitors would stare and sometimes point at the vacuum cleaner running in the corner. I lost the ability to hear it and would forget that it was on. The silence that fell over the room when I shut it off was deafening.

At age two she started eating lemons at restaurants. She would stretch out her arm toward your iced tea, opening and closing her hand until you gave her your lemon wedge. Then, as friends and family watched in amazement, she would devour it rind and all with scarcely a pucker.

At age four she lived in a dream world of her own making. She would gather all of her beloved toy animals and Disney characters into her room and close the door. If we tried to peek inside she would politely but firmly ask us to leave.

At age five she became obsessed with death and dying. It was like living with a miniature Woody Allen. She begged to be taken to cemeteries where we would walk around and read headstones together. She became concerned that she might end up as a mummy and be put on display in a museum. She wondered if a meteor might end life on earth the way it did long ago in the days of the dinosaurs.

At age six all of her fears caught up with her and her life began to unravel. She was afraid of bridges, both to walk under them and to drive over them. She was afraid of heights, death, illness, rides at amusement parks, disease, pestilence, plagues, car crashes, swings, and that her father would be arrested for watering the lawn on the wrong day during a drought. A play therapist helped settle her down just before Jeanene and I lost our minds.

When she was eight I asked her what she wanted for her birthday. She thought for a moment and then said she wanted her very own lemon tree. She said she didn't know any kids who had their own fruit trees, and anyway she had always loved lemons. It was an odd request but one easily granted. Her lemon tree lives in a pot on our back porch even now.

At ten we lived through a nightmare. We moved, and she had to go to a new school. A gang of girls in her class decided that Shelby was weird and chose her to be the object of their ridicule. She felt ill many mornings and wanted to stay home. Seeing her sad but brave face when I dropped her off at school broke my heart over and over. But she was strong, and she told me that she was going to be herself no matter what anyone said. By the end of the year, she won over some enemies and managed to make a place for herself in the treacherous and slippery world of 5th grade society.

And now she is twelve. In November she came to me and told me what she wanted for Christmas.

“I want a black leather jacket, only it doesn't have to be real leather or anything. Fake is fine. Nothing expensive. I want to hang stuff from the inside of the jacket and sell it in the halls of school, like they do on TV. I think that's cool. I want to go up to a kid and say, ?Hey Mike...can I call you Mike? Mike, do you LIKE candy?' And then I'll open my jacket and have all this candy hanging in there.”

Somehow this child keeps finding ways to surprise me. Actually, I was pleased that she was working out the dialogue in her mind ahead of time. I may have a budding writer here.

Her older sister found a fake leather jacket in a used store, sewed strips of Velcro inside it, and gave it to her for Christmas, receiving a thrilled hug in return. She gave Shelby advice on being discreet and avoiding teachers in the halls. I was worried that she might get expelled, but I decided that I didn't care. It's worth it, if only so she will have this story to tell for the rest of her life.

And so it came to pass that when the kids returned to school after Christmas break, Shelby was running her own black market candy store out of her jacket.

She was a smash hit at school, so I hear. Everyone was talking about the girl in the black jacket who sells candy in between classes. The first day she gave most of the candy away, bringing home ten cents. The second day she made a $1.50, but lost it while changing in the locker room. But it was never about the money. It was the idea of it that thrilled Shelby, like the idea of having your own lemon tree. And she managed to make a place for herself in the scary world of Middle School. Even some of the cool kids gave her that nod that says, “You're okay.” A person can build a Middle School reputation for themselves having pulled off something like this just once.

Shelby is entering the dark tunnel of adolescence. And she is asking all the questions that everyone asks when they get sucked into the darkness of this season of life.

“Who am I?”
“Where do I fit in?”
“Am I okay the way I am?”

Sadly, the answers being traded inside the tunnel are not always the best ones. A lot of good kids get chewed up in there. Some never find good answers and spend their whole lives searching.

I've been through the tunnel experience with the first sister, and I will go through it again with the third. There isn't much I can do but hug her and be waiting when she emerges in a few years, blinking in the bright sunshine.

And I WILL be waiting for you, Shelby. You have always been my string of pearls, and I will be there when you come out and resume your love affair with lemon trees and graveyards. And when you are ready to hear me, I have the answer to your questions. I know the answer because I have journeyed to the secret places of the world and found wisdom.

Here is the answer you seek:

You have always been okay, even from the beginning.

So VERY okay.

rlp

He said I was his string of pearls...

How is it possible that we have arrived at this final moment? For years we lived with hangaburs, peasghetti, arts and crabs, aminals, and other delightful, childish mispronunciations. Each of these had its day of glory and then passed away in its time. Now we are down to just one – "Ponybail Tand."

Lillian's hair is too short to ever need a ponytail band, but sometimes she wants one when she is playing one of her complex games with her stuffed animals and her little toy horses. She will burst out of her room, impatiently asking if anyone has a ponybail tand. There's something about this that reminds me of Moe Szyslak on the Simpsons, clutching the phone and desperately shouting to his bar patrons, “Is there an Al Caholic here?” while everyone laughs.

The older girls snicker behind their fingers and hand one over. She doesn't notice the giggling because her mind is still wrapped up in the drama unfolding back in her room. Love Monkey is having tea with the Big Horse, only the horse needs her tail wrapped up with a ponybail tand because it's a fancy affair and even the Valentine Doggy has been invited.

The two older sisters have been warned, on pain of immediate death, never to say it correctly in her presence. I'm afraid if she ever hears “Ponytail band,” the spell will be broken and the whole family will be forced to board the ship that is even now ready to set sail upon the turbulent waters of girlish adolescence. My oldest boarded this ship a few years ago, and I will allow that she seems to be doing fine. The middle one finally released her white-knuckle grip on the railing and went aboard, though I notice with pleasure that she still has her blankie tucked under her arm.

Little Lillian holds our last lifeline, and the name of that blessed tether is “Ponybail Tand.”

Gracious and loving Heavenly Father, please do not send me to Nineveh today. I'll gladly go tomorrow, or better yet, some unspecified day in the future, but not today. I will not get on the boat bound for Tarshish, but neither am I ready to leave these shores. I plan to do your bidding, eventually, but if you try to drag me onto this ship, I will make a terrible scene. I will shout and cry aloud. My fingernails will rip ugly furrows into the dock.

Today, just for today, let your servant hear again those blessed words that I love. Let me hear her say, “Ponybail Tand” just one more time. I have left ponytail bands lying in strange places in her room. I even put one around her toe one night when she was asleep in hopes that she would wake up the next morning and say, “Hey, who put this ponybail tand here?”

But she is silent. In the morning, she removed the ponytail band from her toe with a puzzled look but said nothing. I'm afraid she is suspicious. I'm afraid she has seen the older girls giggling after all and knows there is something wrong with the way she says it. The whistle is blowing and they are announcing the final boarding call. I am holding tight to my last lifeline, but I feel it growing slack in my hands.

     For everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.
     A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted.
     A time to weep, and a time to laugh, a time to mourn, and a time to dance.
     A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain.
     A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away.
                                                               Ecclesiastes

For everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven. These things I have known since I was a young man in the faith. But somehow I am never ready.

rlp

The Byrds didn't write that? 

What the heck are Nineveh and Tarshish? 

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
   Sailed off in a wooden shoe---
Sailed on a river of crystal light,
   Into a sea of dew.
"Where are you going, and what do you wish?"
   The old moon asked the three.
"We have come to fish for the herring fish
   That live in this beautiful sea;

There was a time, long ago, when I had my own little bed beneath a window that overlooked a desert in the westward mountain town of El Paso. In the evening, when the shadows grew long and the heat gave way to the chill of the desert night, the coyotes would sing their lonely songs, and I would wait for sleep.

And on those nights I would gaze with love and painful longing upon a picture book with the very odd title of "Wynken, Blynken, and Nod."

I could not read, so I feasted on the enticing illustrations while the memory of my mother's soft voice caused the words to be born again in my heart. There were three little cherubic, tow-headed boys wearing pastel one-piece pajamas. One of the boys had lost a button, which caused half of his flap to sag and revealed a glimpse of his bottom. Their names were Wynken, Blynken, and Nod. They had paper hats and fishing poles, and they set sail in a tiny wooden shoe, hoping to find all the wonderful and dreamy things that beckon to us from just beyond.

Their little boat rocked and nodded in a twilight sea of stars and clouds and twinkling nets. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and I began to long for something that I could not name or understand.

As I look back on it, it seems that my heart was made for Wynken, Blynken, and Nod. My soul said "yes" to them and to their journey. I wanted to be on that little boat, sailing those mysterious waters in search of something wonderful and sweet that lives over the horizon and out of our reach. I felt in my heart that there must be a reality beyond us where little boys may sail away in wooden boats and be safely returned if they fall asleep on the way.

Gazing at my book as the darkness fell outside my window, I would sate myself on those images and finally drift off to sleep, my soul full of longing and my heart adrift in a sea of joy with no shoreline and no name. It was like floating in an ocean of little boy worship.

Some years passed, and I grew too old for picture books and childish things. In time I forgot about the little boys in their wooden shoe boat. I never understood what I was looking for, but the mark of that sweet desire would always live in my heart.

I grew to be a man and had children of my own. When my first daughter was three I lay down in bed with her one night to help her go to sleep. One side of her twin bed was against the wall, and I lay on the other side facing out, making a little space for her in between that was almost like a little boat, if you think about it. She fidgeted and kicked and talked to me for a few minutes, and then something magical happened.

She forgot I was there and lost herself in pure play while I faded away like the bedroom furniture in "Where the Wild Things Are." She talked and played with "Sungy," her favorite stuffed bear. I listened, delighted and amazed. She rolled back and forth, bumping into me and sometimes leaning against my body while my eyes closed with delight. I have always loved the feeling of my children's bodies pressed against mine. I love to feel their squirming. A leg flopped over my hip for a moment, and a little hand played in my hair which had become a forest at the top of a mountain. Tiny fingers picked at my shirt and sneaked into one of my pockets looking for candy.

I was treated to the subconscious, slumgullion speech that is common to children who are lost in the absolute present moment of play.

"Do you want to buy an O, round and sweet? No, I don't, because you shouldn't say that. The dolphins are jumping and Sungy says that his mommy doesn't let him say that or buy Os because they're very scary."

Cartoon sound bites and bits of commercials. Little moments from her day. Fears and joys remembered. Scat singing. Noises that amuse. This is your little girl. Listen, for this is how her mind works. Keep silent and know her deepest desires. Strolling through the interior castle of her mind was a most delightful and relaxing pleasure.

Sailing away at bedtime became something I looked forward to. It always happened in the same way. I would listen to her talk and feel her body moving in the bed behind me. In time her voice would grow soft and her breathing would become regular. The squirming would slow and then cease. If I was lucky, the little heel thrown over my hip would grow heavy and not be taken away. She would drift off to sleep, and sometimes I would too, knowing real peace and contentment, if only for that hour.

I have sailed the sleepy-time seas with three daughters now, my own little Wynken, Blynken, and Nod. There were times when more than one of them wanted me to come and see them off to sleep. In those days I thought this journey would last forever. But now my youngest is seven, and she doesn't play with toys in bed anymore. Last night I lay beside her as she read a "Junie B. Jones" book. I asked her to read aloud so that I could hear her voice, but she said, "Dad, I mostly just read silently now."

Oh.

I see.

The last of the three sisters has come of age and put away these childish things. No more sailing away at night on a sea of silly words and playtime. She would rather get a kiss and a hug and be left alone to enjoy her book.

I understand.

It's okay. It really is. One day I may sail the seas of dreamland with a grandchild. One never knows. In the meantime, I take comfort in knowing that I have finally named the thing I longed for so long ago in my bed beneath the window.

It was the journey. It was the journey itself that stirred my heart. It was the boat and the boys and the stars and the sea. It was everything found and felt along the way.

It was always the journey.
It will always be the journey.
I know nothing but the journey.

Whatever calls to us from beyond the horizon of our hearts is hidden for now. There are hints about its nature and stories about its ways in the old books, but what lies beyond the sea remains a mystery. It is the journey that we long for and only the journey that we may know.

Why we love to sail toward something that can never be found is one of life's great mysteries. It's the way we are made, I believe, and I take comfort in that.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
   And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
   Is a wee one's trundle-bed.
So shut your eyes while mother sings
   Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
   As you rock in the misty sea,
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:
       Wynken,
          Blynken,
             And Nod.

rlp

Click here to read the poem "Wynken, Blynken, and Nod."
Click here to read about "Where the Wild Things Are."