The Saturday Stoke #33
Listen to The Saturday Stoke
“I don’t want to forget what I love when I get older.”
That’s what my daughter, Brielle—who is ten years old—said to me the other day. She observed how grown-ups, as she called them, stop doing the things they love to do.
“Why do they do that, Daddy?” she asked. And it’s a good question.
Why do adults stop singing and playing? Why do adults stop using their imaginations? Why do they stop listening to music?
I remember years ago a friend of mine, who was a mentor of sorts, told me that he couldn’t remember when it happened, but he had stopped listening to music—the kind he grew up listening to.
“Tim,” he said, “I don’t listen to music now. Ever.”
I was stunned. And I vowed right then and there that was never going to happen to me.
I told Brielle that it was because adults start to listen to the cranky voices of the world that whisper lies to them about what it means to grow up and what is expected of you as a quote-unquote older person.
But this theme of adults fading away and becoming very unlike children—yea, unlike humans at all—continued at dinner.
All three girls debated the behaviour of their friends and some new kids they were playing with that day. They struggled to find common ground in their “game”—which is their word for playing pretend in the woods with forts and clans and rules and a whole sub-world. You know, really fun stuff we all wish we were still doing.
When they asked my advice, I told them to take care to learn how to empathize with people and to observe how they resolved their issues because many of the problems they’re encountering now, don’t change or go away when they get older.
“When you get older,” I said, “you will argue, debate and even fight with your friends and your not-quite-friends over the same basic things: acceptance, popularity, being excluded, hurting someone’s feelings, and on and on.
“But the difference,” I said, “is that grown-ups stop talking to each other. When one gets offended, they will more likely hold a grudge or just stop talking to you than seek to work things out right there on the spot. And if things get really debased, they’ll post something about you on social media.
The girls did not understand this. They did not understand why adults, having a quote- unquote-grown up, would not have figured out how to be good friends to one another and not fight and be kind and accepting.
“Why do adults not care about each other,” they asked.
I didn’t have a good answer. But I gave it a shot.
“Adults,” I replied, “just like kids, want to be accepted. They want to feel “cool,” and they want others to care for their feelings. But something sad happens when you age. You lose that kid-power that allows you to not hear that voice of fear that keeps you from confrontation.
“When you’re a kid, there’s a beauty and simplicity to fighting and getting over it. But when you’re an adult, new invisible rules apply to relationships. And these rules are founded upon selfishness, fear, and pride.
“So,” I said to them, “if you can figure this stuff out now, and be aware of how you work things out and how deeply you care for others as well how badly you want others to care for you, then you’ll be ahead of the game when you get older.”
They nodded their heads in silence, finished their peas and rice, and dashed off for the woods with new hope for their most precious friendships.
“But Tim,” you say, “are you suggesting we all remain as little children, wearing our hearts on our sleeves, and fighting through our problems so that we can get back to playing in the woods?”
“Ah yes,” I reply. “That’s precisely what I’m saying.”
Stay stoked my friends.
