Small Miracles

Life is full of them; small miracles. They can be quite ordinary occurrences which happen countless times throughout the world in a matter of seconds, but when they happen in a singular manner, when a small network of individuals are involved then what would be otherwise mundane in a world which produces and reproduces its inhabitants incessantly, the pedestrian becomes divine. A miracle. Secular or religious, there is the spark of the divine in the essence of an emerging lifeform.

So, within families the birth of a child becomes a small miracle, or looking at it another way, an event of great personal significance. Never mind that this signal event is happening elsewhere to others, both within our small geographic sphere and well beyond. It becomes our miracle, the addition of a life to our immediate family, the imperative of securing life to protect one's own DNA in perpetuity accomplished.

And of course from these large, personal miracles evolve smaller miracles; common enough to outsiders, to those not personally involved, as the natural evolution of birth, of growth, of awareness, of personhood-in-the-making. From the first time the baby focuses on the face hanging above its crib, to the first time the baby gurgles and laughs, and reaches for the object dangling above.
From the first attempt to seat itself, to its impulse to crawl, then raise itself on its sturdy legs, and to walk.

Proudly loving parents and grandparents harbour secret ambitions for these babies turned infants turned children turned quasi-adults. Their job it is to encourage curiosity, to teach language and basic physical coordination, and communication and to invest the child with confidence born from emotional support and a loving environment.

So it was with us, when we raised our children, and so it has been, and ongoing, with our first and likely only grandchild. A child who so resembles her mother in every conceivable way that it was as though what we had once lived through has been determined to repeat itself, flawlessly. The difference being that when her mother was growing up, she had two siblings, so the attention was diluted three ways, whereas our attention this time around was focussed solely on one child.

Much was repeated, and despite repetition, it seemed new and different and each step in the evolution of becoming and learning seemed a new miracle, and so it most surely was. Throughout the growing years we had ample opportunity to assert values and discipline upon the growing child since we had become the day-care providers for this our grandchild.

And books, and reading, from the time of dim comprehension onward were an integral portion of communication. The responses at first were wan but comforting, then as comprehension grew this mode of communication became a shared pleasure which grew with time to become a fulfillingly worthwhile exercise in pleasure-giving.

Until the age of six, the constant reading of books to the eagerly-listening and sometimes-reading-sharing child was an integral portion of our daily shared activities. When her own reading abilities began to take the ascendency, she offered to do the reading, often laboriously, and when that happened we agreed to share the reading, page by page.

Soon I was denied the pleasure of reading to her, other than on rare occasions, but she felt more than capable of reading the books so long familiar to us both, growing in complexity of language and conveyance of message as she grew. Then came a time of rebellion when it was inconvenient for me to read to her and her to read to me, as there were so many other activities more compelling.

At the age of ten she became her own person in a very significant way, more than able to determine what should be done at any given time. And in any event, at that time we became geographically separated and our role as care-givers was over. We continued to purchase and gift books to our grandchild and she would read them or not, as she pleased.

Her interest had waned, and books no longer became a necessity of entertainment and learning in her life. Each time we spoke I would bring up the matter of reading; had she read anything lately, what was it about, had she enjoyed it. The responses were lacklustre and disappointing. I was insistent, she was patient in her response to my urging.

Now, finally! I had told her again and again that she need never be bored when she had books. Books and their stories would transport her to other worlds, countries she could learn about, the lives of people unlike those she was familiar with. She could lose herself in fantastic tales of animals living lives loosely associated with those we ourselves lead. She could become so consumed with curiosity about stories she would be reluctant to put the book down.

She listened, and was noncomittal. But gradually, bit by bit, she became intrigued through books with a bit of reality, a bit of fantasy, and there were some books, like "Charlotte's Web" and "The Secret Garden" that she would read, and read again. Finally, the interest and the impetus was there, and she began telling me about books she was reading, and becoming so immersed in, that she had to be prodded to eat her meals.

Her future as a reader is now assured. Another small miracle in the progress of the miracle of life.