The Sickness Unto Death

Still Me

Mia runs a race.
Before it starts, she says,
First or nothing!

She runs fast.
Two kids run faster.
Mia comes in third.

Her face gets hot.
She kicks the grass.
She says, I don’t want to be me.

Is she mad at the race?
Not really.
The race is over.
She is mad at Mia.

And here is the hard part.
She can’t stop being Mia.
Nobody can.

Say it with me.
I am still me.

It is all right to be sad.
Losing hurts.
Mia can cry a little.
A grown-up can hold her hand.

But first or nothing
leaves no room for Mia.
There is a girl who came third.
She is right here.
She is not nothing.

I am still me.

The girl who came third
is the girl who ran.
Her legs still work.
Her friends still wave.

I am still me.

So Mia wipes her face.
She walks over to her friends.
She is the girl who came third.
She plays tag anyway.

Say it with me.
I am still me.

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: This is the ambitious man from Kierkegaard’s The Sickness Unto Death (1849, published under the pseudonym Anti-Climacus) whose watchword was Caesar or nothing. When he fails, he despairs, and the book’s point is that he isn’t really in despair over the crown. He can’t stand the self that missed it, and he can’t get rid of that self. The book adds that winning would not have cured him either. The primer doesn’t say losing doesn’t matter, and it doesn’t promise a win next time. The move is toward being the child who came third, not away from her. In the book, willing to be the self you are is only part of the cure; the rest of it is resting in God, which the primer leaves to you.

One Maybe

Sam wants to ride his bike.
He falls.
He tries again.
He falls again.

He sits on the grass.
He says, I will never ride. Never, ever.

It feels like every door is shut.
It feels hard to breathe.

When someone feels dizzy,
we bring them water.
When someone feels stuck,
we bring them a maybe.

What’s one maybe?

Maybe Dad can hold the seat.
Maybe this hill is too steep.
Maybe the flat path is better.

What’s one maybe?

Sam is still sad.
His knee still stings.
That is real.

A maybe is not a promise.
Maybe does not mean yes.
It only means the door is not shut.

And one is enough.
Too many maybes
and you just spin and spin.
You never pick one.

What’s one maybe?

Sam picks the flat path.
Dad holds the seat.
Sam wobbles.
He takes a big breath.

Say it with me.
What’s one maybe?

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: The water is the book’s own image. When someone faints, people shout for water; when someone is about to despair, the cry is for possibility, because without it a person can’t draw breath. The book says human imagination sometimes supplies the possibility, but in the last resort it comes only from the belief that for God all things are possible. It also treats the opposite, a life of endless possibilities that never lands on one, as another form of despair, which is why the primer asks for one maybe and not many. Watch for the child hearing maybe as a promise. The primer ends on a try, not on riding the bike.

Come Upstairs

Theo has a house.
Down in the basement
there is a TV and a snack.

Upstairs is Theo’s room.
It has his paints.
It has his books.
It has a window with a tree.
It is all his.

Come upstairs, Theo!

Theo stays down.
One more show.
One more snack.
When Mom calls him up,
he gets cross.

Come upstairs, Theo!

You are a bit like that house.
There is an easy part of you.
It wants the next snack.
It wants the next show.

And there is more of you.
There is the you who wonders.
There is the you who makes things.
There is the you who picks.

That part is yours too.
You don’t have to build it.
It is already there, waiting.

Come upstairs!

The basement is not bad.
Everybody goes down there.
Resting is good.

The sad thing is
staying down so long
you forget there is an upstairs.
And nobody even notices.

Come upstairs!

If someone calls you up,
you may feel cross.
That is all right.
Go up one step anyway.
Open your paints.
Look out your window.

Say it with me.
Come upstairs!

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: The house is the book’s own picture. A self is built like a house with a cellar, a ground floor and an upper floor, and most people, it says, prefer to live in the cellar of their own house, the level of the senses, and get furious when someone suggests they move into the upper floor that stands empty and belongs to them. The upper floor is what the book calls spirit, which in the end means a self standing before God. The book calls the cellar life ludicrous; the primer keeps the invitation and drops the scorn. Don’t let the child hear that shows and snacks are bad, or that they must always be busy being big. The book’s point is quieter: this is the mildest despair, the kind that doesn’t know it is despair, and the loss can pass without anyone noticing.