One day, I was sitting at the playground near where I live. In good weather, when school is out, I spend a lot of time at that playground. Most of the children who play there know me by now, and so do their parents, who know that it’s okay to do some work inside while I stay with the children, and also know that it’s not a good idea to go too far, for too long, or leave me with too many children; I can’t do much to help children who are in physical danger, and I don’t have a lot of energy.
Usually, I spend most of my time on the playground relating with children, but this time, I just watched. It’s not that I was unusually tired; it’s just that things were going so well that I couldn’t think of a better thing to do than just watch. Two of the children were busy making a mankala game on the ground so that one could teach the other how to play it, and three were playing by a bush. The playground had the kind of atmosphere effective teachers strive for and often achieve. So I sat there and let it be.
Then Elizabeth came out. She was younger than the other children, and I worried that there could soon be trouble in paradise; she didn’t seem to want to play alone, and though all the children there would have tried to avoid hurting her feelings, neither group looked eager to include her. Neither mankala nor the conversation and activity by the bush was right for Elizabeth.
She stood still for a moment, sizing up the situation. I think she knows that her oldest sister, Hannah, one of the mankala-players, is good at finding ways to include her. But I sized up the situation, too, and though mankala is fairly easy for children to learn, I thought Elizabeth’s presence would probably make it harder. So I asked Elizabeth to show me what she could do on the swing. Right away, her face lit up, and she started to play on the swing, leaving all the other children to go on about their business. What could have been a difficult time for Elizabeth and/or other children ended up being fun for everybody.
The next day I was wrestling with a decision that had been plaguing me for weeks: should I go to the New England Folk Festival, where I’ve had fun every year, but where I’ve worn myself out a little more each year, or should I be wise and stay home? If I went, I’d have so much fun, and see so many friends I don’t get to see much. But I’d exhaust myself – something people with MS should avoid doing. On the other hand, if I stayed home, I might spend the weekend feeling really sad.
Then I thought about Elizabeth. What she’d done had kept her spirits high. She hadn’t done what she had decided to do at first; she hadn’t joined the mankala game. She could have obsessed on that and felt terrible. But with my guidance, she’d decided to do something that had more potential to make her feel good. And with that in mind, I’m not going to the New England Folk Festival, and I’m not going to feel miserable about not going. Instead, I’ll focus on the good times to be had here at home. Thank you, Elizabeth.