How the Light Gets In

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I draw a turtle on a whiteboard and tell the story of Twyla Turtle. “What should Twyla do today?” I ask my 2 ½-year-old granddaughter during our FaceTime call. 

She has been home for a week after nearly 2 months of sheltering in place with her parents, baby brother, my husband, and me. Now my house is clean and calm. And empty without two little people that round out the ones I love most. 

“Twyla wants to go to the zoo,” she says. I glance at her face up close in my phone and feel a surge of love. Then at her request, I draw a zookeeper, her baby brother, an elephant, a lion, and a tiger. My tiger is unrecognizable until I add stripes, and even then, not so much. 

“I’m not good at drawing tigers,” I explain. The words tumble out without thought. Then I have a second thought. I try to compensate. “I need to practice drawing a tiger. I’ll get better with practice.” She doesn’t respond, but later I understand how much she took in. 

We finish the adventures of Twyla. My grandgirl gets her drawing board so we can both doodle. We talk about what we draw. We do puzzles. We have a tea party, sipping, laughing, and using Fancy Nancy’s word, “darling.” 

She pulls out her paint pad. I watch her run the water over the presoaked paint, with more attention than usual. 

I catch my breath when she says, “I’m not good at painting.” It’s weird because she’s normally so proud of her creations. 

I remember my commentary on the tiger and feel a pang. 

“Hey Little Lady, earlier I said I’m not good at drawing tigers. I may not like how the tiger looks now, but I can practice drawing a tiger. I will get better at it. Try, try again, right?”

She’s quiet while she paints. Then she says again, “I’m not good at painting.” 

Ugh. We talk about her painting. I notice that she focuses on her work. I give specific compliments. She goes on to talk about the letter H she’s coloring. 

But I heard the message, right in my heart. Words, actions, all of it is soaked up like water in a sponge. 

I already know this, of course. I’ve raised 5 children. But the truth of it comes right back to me.

Later I shared the experience with Little Lady’s mom. I said I try to be aware of how our Little People internalize my words. But even then, I slip. She reminds me that times like these can be teaching moments. 

What does Little Lady learn from the teaching moment? Does she see that sometimes grown-ups say things they later regret? That people make mistakes. That it’s okay for her to make a mistake. That we can talk about it. That things are almost always better when we talk about them. 

Yesterday, four months after my dad’s death, the hospice social worker sent me a reflection on grief. I read a phrase, “Remain patient with yourself. Nurture yourself as you would a good friend.” It’s a good analogy. Sometimes it’s easier to be kind to others than it is to be kind to yourself. 

I remember my drawing experience. Words matter. Not only words spoken out loud, but also words that replay in my head. Through the years I’ve learned it matters how I talk to myself. They call it self-compassion. 

I let go of trying to look perfect. Instead, I am authentic. Although, my daughter and I still love the scene in Mary Poppins when she uses her tape measure to see how the Banks children measure up. Michael is extremely stubborn, Jane rather inclined to giggle. Mary, of course, measures “practically perfect in every way.”

I let go of replaying my mistakes over and over in my head. Instead, I know that is part of the human experience. I remind myself it is a chance to learn.

I let go of ignoring negative feelings. Instead, I try to understand and label them. Allow them to wash over me. Allow them to pass.

I think of these words. And know.

There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.

Leonard Cohen