Little sounds register somewhere behind the din of grown up conversation. Laughter, grunts, the occasional scuffle. Childlike sounds. Busy sounds. Rounding the corner of the house, there they are - shorts, t-shirts, skirts, curls, faces smudged and feet even smudgier - digging in the dirt. In this age of techno toys, isn’t it wonderful to watch children play with their own imaginations instead of someone else’s? No batteries required, just shovels and spoons. No animated world, but real earth and dirt, rocks and sticks.
The party of adults, who would probably only get that dirty for some "real" purpose, can’t help but smile. Do those tiny miners have a common agenda or each a secret wish as they labor side by side? Are they digging an earthen fortress or looking for buried treasure? Are they still in the backyard or transported to another world where fantasy is fact and time is endless? We who only sit and watch will never know. But how earnestly they dig! Working so hard at their play. Toiling for wonder and hidden possibility. Such a simple picture that takes us back to simpler days when we too were the miners and every march to the dirt pile held promise.
The party of adults, who would probably only get that dirty for some "real" purpose, can’t help but smile. Do those tiny miners have a common agenda or each a secret wish as they labor side by side? Are they digging an earthen fortress or looking for buried treasure? Are they still in the backyard or transported to another world where fantasy is fact and time is endless? We who only sit and watch will never know. But how earnestly they dig! Working so hard at their play. Toiling for wonder and hidden possibility. Such a simple picture that takes us back to simpler days when we too were the miners and every march to the dirt pile held promise.
(Reflections from a visit to Timothy's backyard on the 4th of July)
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