A Presence of Mind—Day 65
This weekend, it started in the driveway—after we got back from the library.
We had just gotten out of their mother’s car and were walking toward the house when we passed mine, parked nearby.
That’s when my grandson, six years old, stopped.
“Mammaw… what is that?”
He had noticed something on the window of my car.
At first, it looked like nothing. Just a tiny speck of dust stuck to the glass.
But he had seen it move.
So we stepped closer. His little sister came up beside him, and the three of us leaned in to look.
And there it was—something so small you could almost miss it. A little clump of dust and fuzz… with tiny legs.
I told them, “I’m not sure. It looks like some kind of bug that collects debris, but I don’t know what it’s called.”
And then we did something that’s quietly becoming part of our routine.
“Let’s ask the computer.”
We took a picture and asked.
Within seconds, we had an answer.
A plaster bagworm—something that builds its life quietly, piece by piece, carrying its home with it as it grows.
To an adult, it’s just a bug.
To a child, it’s a doorway.
Some of what we discovered this weekend opened the door to even more questions.
If you’d like to see the photos we took—and a simple breakdown of what we learned about the tiny insect on the window, mushrooms, and how to tell what’s safe to touch and what isn’t—you can explore that here:
It’s a small collection of observations, explanations, and questions that grew out of one moment of curiosity.
That moment didn’t stand alone.
It connected to the library, where the children followed a simple scavenger hunt—small markers placed around the room to help them explore a space that might otherwise feel unfamiliar. No pressure. No rushing. Just discovery.
It connected to a book with no words—only pictures—where instructions weren’t told, but understood.
And it connected to something even smaller, but far more powerful.
A sentence.
We sat together and read, slowly.
Not rushing. Not correcting too quickly. Just pacing the moment.
At first, it was individual words. Some familiar, some new.
Then something shifted.
The words began to connect.
Within minutes, those scattered pieces became full sentences.
Not because they were forced into place—but because they were given time to find each other.
That’s what I’m starting to notice.
Nothing meaningful seems to happen when it’s rushed.
Not learning.
Not trust.
Not understanding.
There was another kind of learning this weekend too.
The kind that doesn’t come from books.
A child shared something they had been told—that lice could drain the blood from their body if their hair wasn’t cut.
It sounded serious. Frightening, even.
But when we slowed down and looked at it together, it didn’t hold up.
So we replaced fear with understanding.
We talked about what lice actually are.
How common they are.
How they spread.
And most importantly—that they are manageable, not dangerous.
It was a small correction.
But small corrections matter.
Because children don’t just absorb information.
They build their understanding of the world from it.
And when that understanding is built on fear or confusion, it doesn’t just sit there.
It shapes how they move through everything.
Later, on a walk, we saw mushrooms growing in the grass.
The day before, they had found some on a walk with their mother and brought them home, curious and excited to show what they had picked.
We stopped then and took a closer look. Not to scare them—but to understand.
We talked about how some things in nature are harmless, and some aren’t, and how you can’t always tell just by looking. That sometimes what seems small or interesting can still make you sick if you’re not careful.
So this time, there was no grabbing, no reaching.
Just a pause.
A question.
And the understanding that not everything you’re curious about is something you immediately touch.
It wasn’t just that they remembered—it was that they understood why.
That’s the part I didn’t fully understand before.
You can’t be with children every moment.
You can’t prepare them for every situation.
But you can give them something that travels with them.
Curiosity.
Confidence.
The ability to pause and ask, “Does this make sense?”
And maybe that’s what continuity really is.
Not just repeating the same routines.
But allowing each moment to connect to the next.
A bug on a window becomes a conversation.
A conversation becomes understanding.
Understanding becomes behavior.
And behavior becomes something they carry with them—long after the moment has passed.
We didn’t teach faster this weekend.
We just stopped rushing long enough for things to connect.
And once they did—
they started carrying themselves forward.
__JL