The bigger boys are at school. Xander and I are each doing our own thing, and I catch a glimpse of him down the long hallway. He is sitting quietly on the frame of the open double doors to the porch. A squirrel in the maple and a squirrel in the neighbor's yard are barking at each other and although Xander is sitting still with his back to me, I can tell that he is listening, and that his big interested eyes are moving from one squirrel to the other. I can tell that he is enjoying the feeling of the spring morning breeze in his hair and on his skin. He is silent, in a meditative way. I sit next to him, and we smile at each other, and then he laughs, the spell is broken, and he toddler-runs around the porch after a ball.
There is an awareness about him, a way of being very present, that has been a part of him since his birth - and probably before it, as well. It is the kind of thing that adults spend decades and fortunes trying to learn. It is beautiful to see in its native form.