Many of the brightest threads in my tapestry of memories are woven from the slender strands of human connection—simple yet precious moments of shared humanity: the sympathetic simplicity of a direct gaze and seeing my heart reflected in someone else's eyes, the friendliness of a genuine smile that reaches across to tug my lip into smiling in return, the synergy of an inside joke that becomes increasingly hilarious just because we're both laughing, the reassuring joy of recognizing in a stranger a kindred spirit.
~Me
~Me
On or near my line or rope is where I do my best people-watching: I stand with confidence where I’m balancing, which leaves me free to appreciate the people who join me, if only for a while. These often become treasured “human” experiences, fleeting yet precious feelings of connectedness that are the bright spots in my memories. I’ll be sharing more of these favorite memories through the next few months under the title “Precious moments, people moments.”
For today I’d like to share one of the most recent experiences:
On an unseasonably warm spring weekend afternoon a few weeks ago, at a family picnic in a local park, I set up my slackline for my young cousins. As I helped one of my cousins across the line, a large van pulled into the parking lot near us. An impressive number of people piled out of the vehicle, followed by vast amounts of picnic equipment. The youngest in the group broke away—making a beeline for the slackline just a few feet from where they had parked.
The slender Asian boy, about 4 or 5 years old, wearing sandals, shorts and a t-shirt, watched me help my cousin—a girl about his own age—across the line I’d set up about waist high. His eyes were shining as he gazed intently and silently. I asked if he wanted to try. Two quick nods were the answer.
When my cousin made it to the anchor tree and slapped her hand to bark, victoriously indicating a completed lap, I boosted her down and approached the boy.
“What’s your name?”
“Mamo,” was the reply. He might be a quiet little boy, but he wasn’t shy—he had the subtlest of smiles lurking in his dark brown eyes and around his mouth as he looked straight back at me.
I helped him up onto the slackline and then got a firm grip on his arms. As he walked, the line shook (like it does for all beginners). That shaking can be unnerving—but with kids it’s easy to fix that: “Isn’t it funny how it shakes and wobbles like that? It’s really shaky, huh?” A giggle rewarded my efforts.
“Shaky. It’s sh-sh-shaky. Shaky-shaky, shaky-shaky.” He continued his giggling chant, “shaky-shaky,” in time with the convulsions of his feet as he progressed down the line.
Unexpectedly, his feet slipped off with a twang, and I lunged to get a better grip on him and hoist him back up. When his feet slipped off again, I glanced down and realized that his little boy sandals were strapped on the wrong feet. The curves of the shoes were pointing precariously outward—making it difficult for him to keep the line under his feet.
It was utterly adorable: his grubby little toes curling over the ends of his sandals trying to keep the soles under his feet as he walked undaunted and pigeon-toed down the line, giggling softly and chanting, “shaky-shaky, shaky-shaky.”
His family retrieved him a bit apologetically once they’d unloaded the van. I handed him over to his sister to be boosted down, and he scampered happily away.
I only knew Mamo for a minute or two, but he touched my heart as so many strangers do.
For today I’d like to share one of the most recent experiences:
On an unseasonably warm spring weekend afternoon a few weeks ago, at a family picnic in a local park, I set up my slackline for my young cousins. As I helped one of my cousins across the line, a large van pulled into the parking lot near us. An impressive number of people piled out of the vehicle, followed by vast amounts of picnic equipment. The youngest in the group broke away—making a beeline for the slackline just a few feet from where they had parked.
The slender Asian boy, about 4 or 5 years old, wearing sandals, shorts and a t-shirt, watched me help my cousin—a girl about his own age—across the line I’d set up about waist high. His eyes were shining as he gazed intently and silently. I asked if he wanted to try. Two quick nods were the answer.
When my cousin made it to the anchor tree and slapped her hand to bark, victoriously indicating a completed lap, I boosted her down and approached the boy.
“What’s your name?”
“Mamo,” was the reply. He might be a quiet little boy, but he wasn’t shy—he had the subtlest of smiles lurking in his dark brown eyes and around his mouth as he looked straight back at me.
I helped him up onto the slackline and then got a firm grip on his arms. As he walked, the line shook (like it does for all beginners). That shaking can be unnerving—but with kids it’s easy to fix that: “Isn’t it funny how it shakes and wobbles like that? It’s really shaky, huh?” A giggle rewarded my efforts.
“Shaky. It’s sh-sh-shaky. Shaky-shaky, shaky-shaky.” He continued his giggling chant, “shaky-shaky,” in time with the convulsions of his feet as he progressed down the line.
Unexpectedly, his feet slipped off with a twang, and I lunged to get a better grip on him and hoist him back up. When his feet slipped off again, I glanced down and realized that his little boy sandals were strapped on the wrong feet. The curves of the shoes were pointing precariously outward—making it difficult for him to keep the line under his feet.
It was utterly adorable: his grubby little toes curling over the ends of his sandals trying to keep the soles under his feet as he walked undaunted and pigeon-toed down the line, giggling softly and chanting, “shaky-shaky, shaky-shaky.”
His family retrieved him a bit apologetically once they’d unloaded the van. I handed him over to his sister to be boosted down, and he scampered happily away.
I only knew Mamo for a minute or two, but he touched my heart as so many strangers do.
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