Balloons are a favorite toy around the Kirk house. Davis' first word was actually balloon (shortened to simply "boon!") and Zoe likewise loves her some balloons.
So over the weekend Zoe and I were in the playroom and she wanted to bop around some balloons that were floating around. The problem: there were four balloons. And she couldn't bring herself to part with any of them in order to simply play with one. The right enjoyment of balloons was thwarted by the stubbornness of a two-year old who was incapable of playing with just one. Not only could she not play with the balloons as she watched them helplessly float to the floor, her concern for them made it impossible to play with anyone else--like me, for example.
This seems to me to be an epidemic in our stuff-driven culture. We have so much--I have so much--that it is impossible for me to enjoy any of it. I cannot bear to put anything down, so I try to keep everything going, all the plates spinning, all my gadgets functioning. I barely know what my new-ish Ipod can do, but I've just gotten this new laptop and I'm trying to figure that out so I can't take the time.
This isn't just true about technology--relationships, work, all of it. Am I living thinly, just skating across the surface, trying to hold onto all the balloons that come my way? Or am I willing to let some things drop, to focus on one or two things and live fully present to the joy and wonder and full possibility of those things?
Maybe if I did that, I'd have space to consider that my Good Father likes to share in the opportunity to play with me as well.
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