Essays

Plant a Little Seed

Sometimes a big worry sits in your tummy.
Maybe about tomorrow.
Maybe about something far away.
The worry feels big. You feel small.

It is okay to feel it.
Worries are allowed.
You do not have to push it away.

But you do not have to stare at it all day either.

Here is a thing you can do.
You can go outside.
You can put your hands in the dirt.
And you can plant a little seed.

Say it with me: I can plant a little seed.

Now your hands are busy.
You pat the dirt.
You give it a drink of water.
You are doing something real, right now.

The worry is still there.
But it gets a little quieter.

You cannot make tomorrow come faster.
You cannot make the scary thing go away.
But you can take care of today.
You can water your seed and watch.

And while you are busy being here,
digging, helping, drawing, playing,
your day fills up with something good.

So when a big worry sits in your tummy,
you know what to do.
Be here.
Use your hands.
Plant a little seed.

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: This comes from one of Montaigne’s steadiest turns. Early in the Essays, in the chapter arguing that to study philosophy is to learn to die, he hopes death will find him “planting my cabbages, indifferent to him”: busy, present, hands in the soil. Later, watching farm people meet a plague year calmly, he decided that rehearsing the end mostly spoils the life you still have. For a small child we keep only the held, unfrightening part: a worry about later loosens its grip when you turn your hands to something real now. The seed does not make the worry vanish, and it is not a promise that the feared thing won’t happen. It is a way to be kind to a worried child while the feeling passes. Honor the feeling first, then give the hands something good to do.

Just Different

At your friend’s house, dinner is new.
The bowls are new. The smell is new.
Maybe they eat with sticks.
Maybe they take their shoes off at the door.

Your tummy says: that is weird.

Stop. Take a little breath.
Is it weird?
Or is it just new to you?

Say it with me: Not weird. Just different.

Your friend grew up with sticks.
You grew up with a fork.
Each of you thinks your way is normal.
That is because it is the way you know.

Now your friend comes to your house.
Your dinner is new to them.
Your fork is new to them.
Maybe they think your way is weird!

Not weird. Just different.

So what can you do?
You can look.
You can ask, what is this called?
You can try one small bite.
You can say, thank you for showing me.

Some things are never okay anywhere.
Hitting is not okay.
Being mean is not okay.
But sticks and forks?
Shoes on and shoes off?

Not weird. Just different.

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: This is the heart of Montaigne’s Of Cannibals, where he says that each of us calls barbarous whatever is not done where we live, because our only measure of normal is the custom we grew up in. That idea has held up. The same essay is seamed at the adult rungs: his picture of the Brazilians came secondhand and too kindly, and later writers turned it into the “noble savage” myth. The primer keeps only the held part and fences its misreading on purpose. Different customs are not wrong, but cruelty is not a custom; Montaigne’s own point was that torturing a living man is more barbarous than eating a dead one.

Maybe I’m Wrong

You and your friend both see a bird.
You say it is blue.
Your friend says it is green.

You feel hot inside.
You want to shout, I am right!

It is okay to feel that.
Everybody feels that sometimes.

But first, try a little question.
Say it with me: What do I know?

Did I see it up close?
Was it far away?
Was the sun in my eyes?
Hmm. What do I know?

Maybe it was blue.
Maybe it was green.
Maybe it was a little of both.

So you look again, together.
You walk a bit closer.
You ask a grown-up.
You find a bird book.

Asking the question is not giving up.
You still look. You still find out.
You just stop shouting first.

And your friend feels listened to.
Nobody gets hurt over a bird.

When you feel sure and hot inside,
take a breath,
ask the little question,
and go look again together.

What do I know?

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: Montaigne’s motto was the question “What do I know?”, carried with the emblem of a balance hanging level. He lived through France’s wars of religion, where people killed each other over certainties, and his doubt was a brake on that. The adult rungs seam one thing: whether his doubt was meant to protect his faith or to wear it down is still argued. The primer keeps only the held part. Its misreading is that nothing is true and so you never have to decide, and the beats fence it: the question sends the child to look again and find out, not to shrug.