Travel

Sometimes, after Zachary goes to sleep at night, he travels through time. Space, really. He says "time" but, after hearing him describe it, (and me explain it to you) I think you'll agree that what he's really doing is going through a destination shift.

There's a portal under his bed. The entrance is round, like the top of one of those plastic tunnel slides at the playground. The initial descent into the tunnel is vertical, not horizontal. He vehemently made this declaration as I attempted to create a visual representation of the time tube this afternoon using a few of his thousands of legos.

So, despite the steep incline of the portal, Zachary assures me that the descent is slow and gentle. There's an upstream of air-a cushion-that keeps the explorer from plummeting.

When one arrives at the end of the throughway, they are greeted with a Grand Central Station of choices.

Destination options are waiting, lined up, floating in the air. They are labeled, in pencil, on sticky notes. (Yellow. Not lined.) One boards an air ship-literally, a cruise liner sized barge-to get to their connecting portal of choice.

Zachary says that he generally likes to choose the beach. He explains to me that there are thousands of other options if the sand is not where I'd like to be. His five year old mind has created worlds where one can go to only fly fighter jets. Or perhaps you'd like to float completely ensconced in a bubble. There's a portal for that. Marshmallow world. Trampoline land. You can get there simply by boarding an air ship.

Zachary's willingness to suspend reality to travel to alternate destinations is childlike.

There's an element of it though, that I've worked to take to heart.

I stand right now on the edge of a journey of my own. I'm traveling this weekend, alone, to make some important decisions. Don't worry, the family is ok. But, I need to hop on a plane to take my trip. It can't be done at home. And there's no portal under my bed.

But what I've taken from Zachary is the theme of choice. I get to decide how I want this exploration to proceed. And there's freedom in that.

In her Novel, Gift From the Sea, Anne Morrow Lindbergh writes, "I shall ask into my shell only those friends with whom I can be completely honest". Her shell is a metaphorical representation of her life. She is advising us to only let in to our most personal audience those individuals to whom we can reveal ourselves.

I look to my children for many of my life-lessons. I look to them because they lead with the purest hearts. The most honest intentions.

When I'm lost. Or floundering. I will often sit and listen to my children play. I try to extract from that unencumbered interaction an instruction or two. A string to tie around my finger.

Something to help me remember that how much we let others see of us is up to us.