Thus Spoke Zarathustra

Now Draw Yours

Your big sister draws a cat.

Round head. Two pointy ears. Long curly tail.

You want to draw a cat too.

So you copy her cat. Round head. Pointy ears.

It is hard. The tail comes out wobbly.

You try again. And again. And again.

Copying is how you learn. It is good work.

Say it with me:

Now draw yours.

One day you look at her cat, and you think:

I don’t want to draw her cat anymore.

That is allowed. You can say it.

You say: no more of her cat.

Now look at your paper.

It is empty. There is no cat on it.

Saying no was a real thing to do.

But saying no did not draw anything.

Now draw yours.

So what cat do you love?

Maybe a fat cat. Maybe a cat with a hat.

Maybe a purple cat asleep in a boot.

Draw it because you like it.

Not just to be different from hers.

Draw it because it makes you happy.

Now draw yours.

First you copied. Then you said no.

Now you pick up the crayon.

What will your cat look like?

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: This is the camel, the lion and the child, the three changes of spirit that open Part 1 of Nietzsche’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra. The camel carries what it was given, and he doesn’t sneer at that stage: you can’t make anything of your own until you’ve carried the old things long enough to know their weight. The lion says no, and he is blunt that the lion can’t make a single new thing; it only wins the freedom to try. Only the child creates, and he describes the child as play and a yes, not as defiance. So the no in this story is a no to copying one drawing, not a no to you or to being careful. If your child comes away thinking a no can be said to anything, that is the lion talking, and the book’s answer is the empty page.

Oops, Ha!

You carry your cup to the table.

Your foot slips. Splash!

Milk on the floor. Milk on your socks.

You can make a big, cross face.

A heavy face. Arms folded. Stomp, stomp.

That face makes everything feel heavier.

Or you can look at your wet socks.

And you can laugh.

Say it with me:

Oops, ha! Let’s try again.

Laughing does not mean it’s fine to spill.

The floor still needs a cloth.

But a laugh makes the cloth feel lighter.

A laugh makes you brave enough to pour again.

Oops, ha! Let’s try again.

This laugh is for you.

It is not for laughing at your friend.

When your friend spills, you help with the cloth.

And if you get hurt, it’s fine to cry.

Cry first. Laugh later, when you’re ready.

Oops, ha! Let’s try again.

Next time your block tower wobbles and falls,

look at the mess.

Find the funny part.

Then pick up the first block.

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: Zarathustra says the devil he fights is the spirit of gravity, the grave face that makes everything heavy, and that it is killed by laughter, not by anger. Near the end he tells a room of people who have failed at big things to learn to laugh at themselves, and in the same breath reminds them how much is still possible. The laugh here is at your own stumble, as a way back to trying. It isn’t for mocking other people, and it isn’t a way to skip real hurt, which is why the beats let a child cry first.

Who Made This Rule?

At your house, you keep your shoes on inside.

At Grandma’s house, shoes come off at the door.

At your friend’s house, you eat dinner on the floor.

At your house, you eat at the table.

Every house has rules.

Say it with me:

Who made this rule? And why?

The rules did not fall from the sky.

People made them.

Grandma made the shoe rule.

She wanted her white rug to stay clean.

Your mom and dad made your rules too.

They wanted something good for your family.

Who made this rule? And why?

A rule at Grandma’s is Grandma’s rule.

So at Grandma’s, off go your shoes.

A rule someone made is still a rule.

You don’t get to skip it.

But you are allowed to wonder.

Who made this rule? And why?

Tonight, pick one rule at your house.

Ask a grown-up who made it.

Ask them what it is for.

Then listen to the answer.

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: Zarathustra travels among many peoples and finds that each hangs its own list of what is good above itself, that what one calls highest another calls shameful, and that every list was made by people, for reasons, to keep themselves going. The book pushes this much further than house rules: it says no list of values ever came from anywhere but a human hand, which is a claim about God and morality that a believing family may want to answer in its own words. The beats keep only the part that holds at a child’s size. Rules differ from house to house, someone made each one for a reason, and knowing that is a reason to ask about a rule, not a license to break it.