A few months ago Leo, our then five-year-old, walked into our kitchen and stood alongside Michelle and me. We were quietly assessing all the water damage our house had taken from recent rainstorm water that had broken through a section of our roof.
In the background there was the low-level droning of two air drying vents. In the air, a slight but growing mildew scent. In our bodies, a tired heaviness.
Perhaps as a distraction, Michelle was showing Leo Google Maps on her phone. It was zoomed way out and so he goes, “What is the brown?”
“Land. Desert, actually.” It was a barren portion of earth, somewhere.
Leo starts moving his neck around, peering around at each side the screen. Then, very matter-of-factly he asks, “Where are all the playgrounds?”
Michelle responds, “Well, you have to Zoom in really far to find the playgrounds.” And sure enough, a few zooms later and Google Earth can get you all the way to a playground. We could even swipe ever-so-slightly and find the two that we know and love right here in our neighborhood.
Amid the strongholds that have given way…
and the very real rains…
and the lingering mildew from yesterdays gone wrong…
and even the bleak uncertainties that can sometimes fill our entire purview when we try to take it all in at once…
What if we zoomed in? What if we dared that child-like expectancy: “Where are all the playgrounds?”
Where is the space…
For joy?
For play?
For movement?
For life?
For new challenge?
For color?
For serendipitous connection?
What if joy, like spring, is rumbling just beneath (and perhaps already above) the surface of the winter grass upon which we tread? Goodness, what if the rains themselves have been nourishing the new growth all along?