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The blanket was blue and white, quilted and soft against the grass. Above the sky bloomed with clouds, and water cradled both sides of a smallish park in Washington, D.C.
Behind me, a picnic of multicultural bikers filled the air with laughter and music.
In front, a gang of babies stretched across the lawn, each one a miniature universe of their own.
One by one, they drew me in.
First came the nimble nine-month-old, captivated by the tassels at the corners of the blanket next to mine. She reached for them, tugged, then reached for me—my hand, my knee—as if I was her anchor to this vast new world. Each attempt to stand was a triumph, her balance and confidence growing by the minute.
Suddenly, a walking, talking wonder stole the stage. With cropped hair and a sports-themed top and pink and green pastel hearted shorts, they bopped and swerved in an impromptu dance with a multi-tiered birthday balloon. It was only seconds before they were gone, off to the next wonder.
And finally, the Zen one. Another nine-month-old, not yet crawling, lay on his belly, arms stretched like a swimmer paused mid-stroke. When he wanted something, he rolled stomach to back—again and again—until he reached it. Occasionally, he’d lift one leg, as if testing the idea of standing. But then he’d drop back down without a hint of frustration, content with his tummy time. His mother noted his lack of ”progress,” and someone said, “Don’t worry. No one enters a plane rolling through the cabin door.”
Each baby, in their own way, modeled something: tenacity, joy, contentment. They served up wisdom we once knew instinctively: that every stage is temporary, every effort leads somewhere, and delight is always worth the price of admission.
Meanwhile, just three miles away, cameras flashed and proclamations swirled.
But here, on this patch of grass, our attention focused on the future that was quietly and forcefully taking its first steps.
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