I was reading somewhere recently--and I regret that my short term memory is such, these days, that I no longer remember where--a piece by a young mother who confessed that she found her baby boring. As I recall, there was general agreement by other young mothers that young children are, yes, indeed, boring to their adult parents. The generally accepted conclusion was that this was a sad, but undeniable and inescapable truth.
|(With Grandma, at Whole Foods)|
... and amusing himself by bashing a couple of his toys on the white plastic tabletop...
... and throwing them off the edge for Grandpa to pick up and replace in front of him.
The process was repeated endlessly, with no apparent loss of interest on Luka's part: like the energizer bunny, he kept going and going.
Boring? My "adult" brain would say so. What Luka found so fascinating was not the occupation my own brain would have chosen to amuse itself. In fact, I could actually watch it beginning to respond as those young mothers did. But I am fortunate these days to also have a "senior" brain, much closer to the child's. Tempered not only by age and the loss, I'm sure, of many zillions of busy cells, but also by years of meditation practice, this brain can step back from its important critical work into what I experience as "mind," which makes fewer judgments and observes with more stable attention.
From this place, I find I have no need to be amused or, particularly, informed by the action of each passing moment. In this place, if I have the wisdom, I can simply participate in each present moment as it passes--much as I suspect Luka's does. There's immense, deep pleasure in doing nothing more than sitting there, with him, and sharing the joy of a moment unsullied by the ego's desires and needs.