Golden Time

At Giulia and Paloma's school, there is a time each day devoted to "golden time" - a time when the children can do whatever they like - play games, sit and read, draw, etc. Much to Giulia's chagrin, Steve and I have claimed this word for ourselves as a time when one of us is without the children and is doing something solely for ourselves.

Today Steve took the girls with him to the beach with our friend David and his children. I've been getting our own B&B at home ready for an arrival, ironing and doing all those things that are so incredibly monotonous and mundane, but that take on a whole new meaning of peace when doing them without having to give into the demands of three young children.

On my favorite podcast, I recently heard this remarkable poem that is perfect for today even if I'm not laying in a field somewhere. It's called "The Summer Day" by Mary Oliver.

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?