Meditations

That Is Enough

Sometimes a thing goes wrong.

You take a bite.
It tastes bad.
So you put it down.
And that is enough.

There is a stone in your shoe.
It hurts when you walk.
So you sit down and shake it out.
And that is enough.

Say it with me.
And that is enough.

But there is another thing you can do.
You can stand there and shout.
You can ask why shoes have stones.
You can say the whole day is ruined now.

That part is extra.
Nobody handed it to you.
You picked it up by yourself.
So you can put it down again.

Here is the hard part.
You are still allowed to mind.
A bad taste is a bad taste.
A stone really does hurt.
You can be mad about it.

You just do not have to carry the extra part.

Something small will go wrong tomorrow.
Try doing only the first thing.
Take the stone out of your shoe.
Put down the food you do not like.
Then go back to your game.

And that is enough.

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: this is one idea from the Meditations, the private notebook the Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius kept for himself. He wrote that when a cucumber is bitter you throw it away, and when there are briars in the road you turn aside, and then you stop there, without adding “And why were such things made in the world?” That extra question was the part he was trying to put down. The stone in the shoe stands in for his briars; the mechanism is his. One thing worth saying out loud if a child asks: he is not telling anyone to stop feeling things. Readers have mistaken his calm for coldness for centuries, and that is a misreading. He minded a great deal. He tried not to let the minding make his decisions for him.

The Ants Are Up

Morning comes.
Your bed is warm.
Your blanket is soft.
You want to stay right here.

That is a real feeling.
Warm beds are nice.

Now look out the window.
The birds are up.
The bees are buzzing around the flowers.
The ants are carrying crumbs home.
Each one is doing its own small job.

Say it with me.
The ants are up.

The ant does not have to like it.
It just does its part.

You have a part too.
You can put on your socks.
You can feed the cat.
You can help carry the plates.

Does the ant ever rest?
Yes. Everybody rests.
Night is for sleeping.
Resting is part of the job too.

But the night ends.
The sun comes up.
And there is work for you to do.

Tomorrow the bed will be warm again.
You will want to stay.
That is fine to feel.
Put one foot on the floor.
Then put down the other one.

The ants are up.
So are you.

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: this comes from the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius, where the emperor argues with himself about getting out of bed. He tells himself “I am rising to the work of a human being,” and points at the little plants, the birds, the ants, the spiders and the bees, all doing their part. Then he raises the child’s own objection, that rest is needed too, and agrees: it is, but it has limits. This primer is about ordinary morning reluctance. It is not a reason to push a tired or unwell child out of bed.

Come Back Gently

You meant to share.
But you grabbed the red crayon.
You meant to wait your turn.
But you pushed to the front.

Oops.
That happens to everybody.
It happens to grown-ups too.

Now you have two ways to come back.

One way is the scared way.
You think you are bad.
You hide under the table.
You wait for someone to shout.

The other way is the gentle way.
It is like a bandage on your knee.
You put it on because it helps.
Nobody is mad at the knee.

Say it with me.
Come back gently.

Coming back still means doing something.
You give the red crayon back.
You say sorry.
Next time, you try to wait.

You will not get it right every time.
Nobody does, not even grown-ups.
Getting it right most days is good.

So when you slip, you do not hide.
You do not give up either.
You come back and try again.

Tomorrow you might slip.
Stop and fix what you can.
Then try again.

Come back gently.

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: this is from the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius, who kept failing at his own rules and wrote down how to handle it. When you fall short, he says, do not be disgusted or discouraged; go back, and be content if most of what you do is right. And “do not return to philosophy as if she were a master,” but the way someone with sore eyes reaches for a soothing sponge, or someone else for a plaster. The bandage here is his plaster. The caution for a child is the other side: coming back gently still means coming back, which is why the primer has the crayon returned.

I Won’t Be Like That

You built a tall tower.
Block on block on block.
Then someone knocked it down.
They did it on purpose.

Your face gets hot.
Your hands squeeze tight.
You want to knock their tower down too.

That is a big feeling.
It makes sense to feel it.

But think about what happens next.
If you knock their tower down,
now two people knocked towers down.
And one of them is you.

Say it with me.
I won’t be like that.

You can still say stop.
You can say that tower was yours.
You can tell a grown-up.
You can go play somewhere else for a while.
All of those are fine.

The one thing you skip is knocking theirs down.

That way they only broke your tower.
They did not change you.

I won’t be like that.

Now pick up your blocks.
Build your tower again.
Maybe build it even taller.

I won’t be like that.

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: this is from the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius: “The best way of avenging thyself is not to become like the wrong doer.” It is not an instruction to put up with being hurt. Elsewhere he says to show people their mistake if you can, and in a passage about being scratched and knocked about during exercise at the gymnasium he says to stay on your guard, just not as an enemy. So the child keeps every way of protecting themselves: saying stop, telling you, walking away. The one thing that goes is hitting back in kind.