Pure Bliss and Other Thoughts on a Train...

Pure Bliss.


This is what I use to describe my son, Ike. He is always (well, usually) in a state of it. He sits alone in his own little world. Ike-World must be a magical place - I'd really like to go visit one day - I say this because it is a place that makes him sing. Sing... sing... sing...

It's a sweet, simple song, not usually taking any specific form and is more akin to casual humming than real singing. From time to time, the song does take shape, and has various specific forms in the repertoire. From Queen's "We Will Rock You," to the Star Wars and Darth Vader themes, to a menagerie of explosions and semi-automatic gun noises... but I like the formless humming songs the best. I like to think that at those times, his mind is guiding itself through new creative territories instead of through pre-packaged, pre-conceived, commercial ideas.

And the singing is what cheifly leads me to describe him as "Pure Bliss". His face is relaxed and at peace, his body in control of itself, his mind flying freely. I know he won't always be "Pure Bliss," but for now he is, and at seven-years-old, I'm happy to soak in it beside him for as long as he will allow.



Marvelment.

Not sure if this is a word or not, but I want it to mean that feeling of a child looking at something amazin, with wonder and awe... my daughter Zooey is a marvel, and I look on her with marvelment. You never get over your first love - it's when you innocently fall the deepest in love - I believe, it's the same with my first child.

Zooey astounded me the first time I met her. Stubborn to the core, she refused to turn head-down in-utero and decided she would stay. We scheduled a C-section to let her know who was boss. In a first defiant act, she appeared, butt-first, and pooped on the Doc, unhappy about being removed from her safe, cozy place. She fussed and fussed until I asked her what was wrong and then she stopped, completely, and gazed at me.

I was undone by her beauty, her instant knowledge of who I was to her, and her age - her old soul - old and wisened well beyond being only 5 minutes old. Today at 10-years, she continues to impress and amaze.

And she continues to be old and wise beyond her years. She is, without doubt, a special person. Logical and analytical, she loves Broadway musicals and creative writing. But reading is the verb used most often to describe what she is doing. She reads as she breathes - effortlessly and silently. Her salvation, books, stand no chance against her voracious appetite for what's inside them. I just hope there are enough books in the world to sustain her through life!

She is a marvel. Compassionate to a fault (sobbing and growing angry with the characters in her books), she is intent on saving abused animals, saving humanity, and indeed, saving the world. I'm convinced she's the one for the job.



and finally... Love.

Warm, blanketing love.

The man I love is still the 18-year-old I first met. Crazy, considering we've both aged 20 (or so) years since that day, but he's still him, but MORE.

Just... MORE.

He's smarter than I ever conceived, sweeter than I ever dreamed, and more and more imprinted on my soul than I ever imagined anyone could be. (and more round, more gray, more mature, more old... but who isn't).

My love and joy at witnessing this boy I met those many years ago become this man I admire, this fun Dad, this force to be reckoned with... it's... it's just vast and never-ending.

And yet I see, as he tugs at his hair, grown long to look more European on this train trip, that he - like me - is still full of small doubts, nerves, and somewhat unsure of how we EVER got to this place - this train bound from Paris to London with our two incredible children... he's still 18, and so am I, and we hold hands silently across the aisle as the train continues its journey.