[Keeping up the stream of non-prosey posts in the last, heady, Â pre-K, dog days of summer.]
Guess who’s gunnin’ to be one among that rare, goth set of Kindergartners with bags under her eyes, thanks to staying up late reading?
Okay, well, proto-crypto-pseudo-quasi-reading. Air-quotes reading. The age-appropriate stuff, she breezes through. The within spitting distance of age-appropriate, the coupla years off stuff, she muscles through with support. Other stuff, like this compilation of fairy tales for late-elementary school readers, she engages in something more like a hybrid of Evelyn Wood/free-association.
Before I asked to take her picture — I pretty much never interrupt the nighttime routine with that kind of malarkey, and though the children are exquisite while asleep, photography feels more nakedly soul-stealing at a moment like that — I said, “This is the first time you’re reading in bed with a flashlight, isn’t it Buttercup?”
And she said, “I’m not really reading. I’m just pretend reading.”Â [Ed note: pronounced “bertend”] “But it’s okay. It’s all part of learning to read.”
My job, vis-a-vis this juggernaut of forward movement, this life’s longing for itself? It’s harder (I imagine) than creating cognitive harmony out of a visual cacophony for the first time: take the Buddhist dictum to heart. Â Touch it (this miracle, this unceasing unfolding miracle) and let it go.