Tag: children

Spiral of Love and Light

December 3rd, 2025

The third floor of the Waldorf school building is a small auditorium. There is a stage on the east end of the hall, and the floor is a wide expanse of hardwood. The space at times doubles as a gymnasium of sorts, but it is primarily used for student plays and music recitals. On the north and south sides of the hall are tall windows. There room is usually filled with light during the daytime.

That was not the case yesterday. The inside of the auditorium was dim. That was partly due to the overcast skies, but it was also because the faculty had hung colored silks over the windows. Each covering had a different hue: red, green, blue. Some light seeped through the cloth, but the room was darkened, and that was on purpose.

Most of the floor was covered with evergreen boughs. Some were pine, but most were spruce. The boughs were laid out to form a large spiral. In the center of the spiral sat a small table bearing half of a hollowed-out geode. Inside of the rock was a candle. On the floor, along the edges of the spiral, were felted stars, seashells, gnomes and fairies. On the outer borders of the evergreen spiral was a circle of folding chairs.

The kindergarteners were standing and sitting in the hallway with their caregivers. They were waiting for the beginning of the ritual of the winter spiral. There were the usual noise and confusion as the children and parents talked and mingled. Then the faculty members began leading the participants into the auditorium. A lone musician played a melody on a flute as everyone entered the room. Without being told to do so, every person fell silent, and each found a seat.

The teacher, Miss Sara, took an apple in her hand from a table contain dozens of them. The apple had a candle inserted into it. She entered the spiral walking slowly. At the center she carefully lit a match and ignited the wick of the candle in the geode. Then she took her candle and lit it from the flame in the rock. She silently walked part way out of the spiral, and then she placed her candle on the floor near the boughs. She came out of the spiral. We all sat there, and a single light struggled to illuminate the room. The musician plucked a song on his Persian oud. No one spoke.

Miss Sara picked up another apple that held a candle in it, and she handed it to the first child. The boy and his parents stood up. Miss Sara smiled and invited them to enter the spiral. They did. The boy seemed a bit self-conscious, and he marched to the center of the spiral. With the help of his parents, he lit his candle, walked several steps, and then placed the apple on the floor. They all walked out of the spiral. Now there were two lights in the room.

Sara gave candled apples to each child, and each child made the journey to the center. Some were confident. Some were nervous. Some enjoyed the attention. Some were shy. Each one lit his or her candle and left it on the path out of the spiral. The room gradually grew brighter. The musician switched to his Turkish lavta and strummed tunes in minor keys. The children were restless, but quiet.

At one point, Asher saw a girl carrying her apple. He smiled and whispered to me,

“Grandpa, that’s her.”

Her. A little girl in a dress with long blonde hair woven into intricate braids. The apple of Asher’s eyes.

I smiled back at him.

Asher walked up to the flame with Karin and me. He was slow and serious until he set his apple/candle on the floor. Then he hurried out of the spiral. He wanted his anonymity back.

One little girl was there without her parents. They both no doubt had to be at work. Miss Sara walked the spiral with the girl. Nobody made the journey alone.

By the end of the ritual, every child had taken the walk to the center of the spiral and had brought light back into a dark world. The room was still in shadow, but small candle flames made it more joyous, more hopeful.

The world was just a tiny bit brighter.

Old Men Talking about a Boy

October 13th, 2025

The old man sat across from me in his apartment. His wife had gone for a long walk when I arrived. Maybe she needed some air, or maybe she just didn’t want to be part of our conversation. I can understand her wanting to be elsewhere. It wasn’t a terribly pleasant discussion, but perhaps it was a necessary one for us to have.

The elder and I were talking mostly about my grandson, Asher. The old guy, who is my father’s age, couldn’t understand Asher’s strange behavior in their home when we came to visit a couple weeks ago. The old man is a Ukrainian Jew. I know him from the synagogue, and we have been close friends for several years. He has had a hard life by any objective standard. He and his grandfather fled to Kazakhstan just after the Nazis invaded the Soviet Union. Both of his parents were officers in the Soviet Army during the war. The old man knows all about hunger and poverty. He knows about fear, having grown up during Stalin’s regime. He’s experienced raw antisemitism. He immigrated to the United States with his wife after the Soviet Union collapsed and attempted to start a new life here at the age of sixty-five. The man has been through hell.

Asher had behaved badly while we were visiting the old guy and his wife. The man and his wife love Asher dearly. They really do. The man had found a small model school bus to give to Asher as a gift. At first Asher wanted it, but then he got annoyed and frustrated. He refused the present. I told Asher that we would take it home with us. The little boy got angry and argued with me. He became more and more upset, to the point where I couldn’t control him. The man’s wife had prepared a lunch for us, and Asher saw nothing that he liked. Eventually, he ate a single slice of bread and then we left. I did not take the toy with us. I think at the end Asher gave the old guy a hug, but overall, the visit was painful for the elderly couple.

The old man talked about that visit with me. I would have preferred to forget the entire episode, but he didn’t want to do that. He asked me,

“Don’t you think you should teach Asher to be grateful and thank people for gifts?”

I apologized for the fact that Asher had been rude to the man. He went on,

“No, I don’t mean just to me. That is nothing. I mean in general; shouldn’t he learn to be polite?”

I told him, “Asher is a wonderful boy. He is a good kid.”

“Yes, yes, of course he is. But he must learn how thank a person.”

I thought to myself, “Yes, he should learn that.” Then I said, “We try to teach him that, but he has been through some terrible things already. He has been through a lot of changes, especially with the new school. He struggles to control his feelings.”

The old man asked me, “What feelings?”

I replied, “He’s scared.”

“But scared of what?”

“He’s lost people in his life already. It’s hard for him to be with strangers.”

The old man said, “But I am like his uncle. I am no stranger.”

The truth is that almost everyone is a stranger to Asher. He has me, my wife, and his mama. That’s it.

The old man softened his voice. He told me,

“My wife and I, we often talk about you and your family. We know it is hard for you.”

I nodded.

He said, “I think of you as a beacon to your family. I think I am using the right English word. You have to show the way.”

Do I show anybody the way? If I am a beacon, I often have a dim and flickering light. I try to figure things out, but I am in the dark.

The old man continued, “You have to keep things together for your family. You have to do this for Asher, for your wife, for his mama.”

I don’t want to be the one to keep it all together. I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if I am strong enough. But if I don’t, then who will?

There was no more to say about Asher. We both stood up. He shook my hand and put his other hand on my shoulder. He said,

“We think of your family every day. You are always in our hearts. You understand?”

“Yes.”

“Tell the boy that his uncle will have another toy car for him the next time he comes.”

“Okay. I will.”

I haven’t told Asher yet. He needs time. So, do I.

Afghans in the Park

September 14th, 2025

I just took Asher to a new playground. By that I mean I took Asher to a playground that was unfamiliar to him. Asher is a connoisseur of play places. He loves to explore. This place is in Grant Park, close to Lake Michigan. Asher was excited as soon as he saw all the equipment. I wasn’t so excited, because I noticed right away that there was no parking. The area was reserved for a major gathering, and it was already crowded.

We parked some ways down the road. Asher was pumped about checking out the playground. I was curious about who was having the party. I noticed men who looked like they might be from the Middle East. Near the picnic tables they had a huge Afghan flag on display. Some were in traditional Afghan clothing, baggy trousers and a long tunic (shalwar kameez?). Others were in casual American garb. They were hanging out in the part of the picnic area furthest away from the playground. The women, who were also in traditional dress, sat on rugs in the grass close to the playground. Could it be just coincidence that the moms were near to the kids, while the menfolk were as far away as possible? I think not.

The kids were all dressed up for the festivities. The girls were in beautiful dresses in vibrant colors, with intricate embroidery, and plenty of sequins. Some of them had tiny coins hanging from the hems of shawls or long skirts. The girls, even young ones, had on makeup. Most of them had their long dark hair braided. Some of the boys dressed in tunics and loose trousers like the men. Some dressed like Asher did. All the children initially looked clean and neat. That lasted for maybe five minutes.

Asher experimented with different things at the playground. I kept close to him. I tend to hover when there is a crowd. The Afghan adults remained aloof. The men were out of earshot, and the moms were deeply engaged in feminine conversation. Apparently, that worked for them. Their kids raised a little hell, but nobody suffered grievous injury.

Shortly after Asher and I arrived at the playground, an old Mexican pushing an ice cream cart made an appearance. Almost instantaneously, the word went out that there was ice cream. Asher swept past me, screaming,

“Grandpa, there’s ice cream!”

Indeed there, and it was expensive. The younger children had assumed that the old guy was going to just give them ice cream bars. He made it clear that they needed money that they did not have. Asher was jumping up and down, because he knew I had cash on hand. The old man pointed to the side of his cart and told Asher to pick out what he wanted. Asher selected a “Sonic the Hedgehog” ice cream bar. I asked the guy, “How much?”

He said, “Five dollars.”

It was far too late to haggle, so I pulled a twenty out of my wallet. While I was doing so, a little Afghan boy was lying on the ground sobbing uncontrollably because Asher was getting ice cream and he was not. Maybe I was feeling guilty, or maybe I just wanted the kid to shut up, but I told the old guy,

“Give me two of them. One for Asher and one for the boy on the ground.”

Both boys were thrilled. Suddenly, from nowhere, the boy’s mother appeared. She asked,

“Who bought him the ice cream?!”

“I did.”

She told me, “I want to pay you for it.”

“No. Don’t. I just wanted to help the kid out.”

She led her boy and his ice cream away from the playground.

It should be noted at this point that these ice cream bars are uniquely inappropriate for small children. They contain some evil food dye that stains clothes in such a way that the spot can never be removed. If the kid gets this ice cream on their shirt, use the garment as a rag or just throw it away. Asher looks like his lips have been tattooed blue. The ice cream seems to melt instantly upon being taken from the freezer. Asher held his ice cream bar upright, causing it to drip down the wooden stick on to his right hand. His hand is also now blue in color.

While we were dealing with the ice cream crisis, the other kids are finding new ways to create mayhem. One boy figured out how to shake up a can of Coke, puncture the side of the can, and then spray the contents all over the girls on the playground. They screamed loudly and ran.

Some of the older boys started an impromptu cricket match. That gradually degenerated into chaos. Some girls decided to kick empty soda cans around the playground. One boy was playing in the sandbox with Asher. Two of his compadres came up to him and said,

“Somebody pooped here! It’s stinky!”

They laughed at the lad and ran off. Then a herd of boys raced here and there; for reasons that are obscure to me. An older girl, looking inconsolable, sat alone on a bench, clutching her smart phone like it was her baby.

One boy approached me and asked, “Are you old?”

I told him, “Yes, I’m old.”

“How old? Are you over one hundred?””

I bent down and asked, “Do you really want to know how old I am?”

He nodded.

I whispered, “I’m sixty-seven.”

The boy repeated, “Sixty-seven”, and shook his head in dismay.

Asher and I were at the playground for nearly two hours. Before we left, I spoke with a couple of the guys from the Afghan group. I told them that I knew a few Afghan refugees. I mentioned one guy who fled from Kabul and wound up in Portugal. I had worked with an organization to get him and his family there.

They asked if we wanted any food. I declined the offer. I just wanted to get Asher home.

I shook their hands and told them, “I’m glad you’re here!”

I really am.

Morning Has Come

September 12th, 2025

Asher and I arrived at the school a bit early. I parked down the street and got out of the car to go around and help Asher out of his child seat. As I walked, a Black lady called to me. She was sitting on a chair near the curb. She looked at me and asked,

“Sir, do you got any change?”

I paused for a moment, and then I dug out my wallet. I had a five in there. I pulled it out and handed to the woman. She thanked me. I asked her what her name was. She replied,

“Tiffany.”

I told her, “I hope you have a good day, Tiffany.”

As I went to Asher and unbuckled the harness on his child seat. He asked me,

“Grandpa, what did you just do?”

“I gave the lady some money.”

“Why?”

“Because she doesn’t have any money.”

“Do you have any more money?”

“”No, not any paper money, but I can get some more.”

Asher told me, “That’s good, Grandpa. I want you to have money.”

The lady smiled at Asher as we walked past her. People often smile at Asher.

We walked down the block to the Waldorf school. The teachers and the aides were busy setting up cones in the parking lot. The cones are numbered to indicate the class. Before classes officially start at 8:00 AM, all the students line up by their respective cones in the lot. There is a certain amount of foolishness and horseplay, but the teachers keep the kids mostly in order.

At 7:50, an adult rings a bell (or shouts) for everyone to settle down. Then everyone is supposed to recite a verse in unison. That’s how every day is supposed to begin at the Waldorf school. It doesn’t quite happen that way. I have yet to meet anybody at the school, even among faculty members, who knows the verse by heart. That is not really a problem. Each person knows enough of the verse that it all comes together when multiple persons recite it.

It goes like this:

“Morning has come. Night is away. We rise with the sun, and we welcome the day.”

That portion is sung, twice. Then the last part is spoken verse.

“I strive to learn, to learn to give, to give my heart to all I see. I see that I, with heart aflame, am a flame of love that can light the world.”

That’s a damn good verse.

Sunshine

September 3rd, 2025

Every Thursday I take my grandson, Asher, to see his therapist. Once we get off the elevator, Asher runs down the hallway and bursts into the waiting room. The office manager grins at Asher from behind the counter and says,

“There’s that energy! There’s that sunshine!”

Other people react to Asher in a similar way. Asher had his first taste of kindergarten today. There are seventeen children in his class. The teacher uses symbols to designate which locker and chair each student has. Most of the kids can’t read yet, so they key on their personal symbol. One child has bunny for a symbol, another has a rainbow, one has diamond. Asher has sunshine. His image is that of a blazing sun with rays flowing out from it.

The teacher picked symbols that somehow capture the essence of each child, or at least what she perceives that to be. She sees an inner light in Asher. When he’s excited, he’s incandescent. He can bring joy to people without any effort at all. It’s just who he is.

This is not to say that Asher is all sweetness and light. He’s not. An angry Asher is a sight to behold. I have a Buddhist friend who described the boy as “a force to be reckoned with”. Indeed. Asher has a strong will and an equally strong intellect. He is often intensely passionate. I can’t recall him ever being lukewarm about anything. The boy isn’t even five years old yet, and he already lives on the edge.

How do you control a kid like that? Well, you don’t. You work with him and try to guide that erratic geyser of energy. A child like Asher has a rare gift, but he is also a person who requires love, patience, and understanding. He is simultaneously lovable and terrifying at times.

That’s our grandson.

Give Me Your Arm

July 29th, 2025

Our young grandson, Asher, is a restless sleeper. He’s only four-and-a-half years old, but he has already seen more than his fair share of trauma. He sleeps in my bed. I don’t necessarily want him with me, but he can’t go to sleep unless I hold him. When he is tired, Asher crawls into the bed and nestles in the crux of my left arm. It takes him only moments to doze off once he is comfortable there. He doesn’t want me to cuddle with him. He just wants to be held in my arm.

Lately, Asher has been waking up in the middle of the night. He likes to sleep crosswise in the bed, which means I have little or no room. Last night, around 3:00 AM, he woke up and looked at me. He said,

“Grandpa, give me your arm.”

I did.

He touched my arm and found his sweet spot on my bicep. Asher fluffed it up like a pillow. Then he rested his head on my arm. He grasped my arm with both hands and held on tight. Slowly, gradually, he relaxed. After a few minutes, he calmed down and his breathing grew quiet. Then he was asleep, still holding onto my arm.

I waited half an hour, and then I carefully wrested my arm from under his round head. Asher slept on. I got up to take a piss.

This morning, I took Asher to the playground early. We stayed there until it got too hot for him to play anymore. Then he wanted to go to the library.

We drove to the library. Asher drank a smoothie in the back seat. When we got close, Asher told me,

“I can see the library! We are almost there!”

I replied, “I know.”

“Grandpa, we are there. We can park the car.”

“Yeah.”

After I parked, Asher got out of his child seat and climbed out of the car.

He said, “Give me your arm.”

I said, “I have to lock the car.”

I did. Then we walked toward the entrance of the library.

Asher grasped my right hand. I squeezed his little hand in mine.

He told me, “I’m only holding on to your pinkie.”

I told him, “That’s good enough.”

Inheritance

July 16th, 2025

“Yet it is not our part to master all the tides of the world, but to do what is in us for the succor of those years wherein we are set, uprooting the evil in the fields that we know, so that those who live after may have clean earth to till. What weather they shall have is not ours to rule.” – Gandalf from The Lord of the Rings

It’s 4:12 AM. I just looked outside. A half-moon sits high above us and casts a pale light on the backyard. The morning star hangs in the eastern sky like a bright jewel. The birds are starting wake up. Otherwise, it all quiet both inside the house and out.

Our little grandson, Asher, is asleep. He likes to lie crosswise in the bed. It is amazing to me how much room a four-year-old can take up. Asher is a restless sleeper. He rolls and moans and sometimes reaches out to me at night. One reason I got up so early was that the boy left me no room in the bed.

The other reason for starting my day while it still dark is that I keep thinking about what kind of world Asher, and our other three grandchildren, will inherit. The future does not look promising. Climate change, mass extinctions, xenophobia, endless wars, and the rise of authoritarianism in our country and around the world make me pessimistic. Asher may grow up and curse me and my generation. He would be right to do so. Asher has already faced intense trauma in his young life. He will grow up and have to contend with enormous challenges, but then perhaps every new generation has to do that.

What can I do for this boy? I’m not sure. Before Asher came into our lives, I was busy as an activist. I taught a citizenship class. I advocated for migrants. I visited veterans in the psych ward of the local VA hospital. I was arrested once at an anti-war demonstration. My wife and I delivered household items during the pandemic to people who could not get to a food pantry. I tried to “uproot the evil in the fields that we know”. I did that in clumsy, ignorant way, but I tried.

(I had to stop writing for a bit. Asher stirred and cried in bed, and I needed to lie next to him until he calmed down again. I will start again with this essay).

Now, I do none of that sort of thing. Asher has become my life. Raising him consumes my time and energy. I feed him. I dress him. I take him to a park or playground nearly every day. We go to libraries together. Sometimes, I read books to him. I dry his tears. My world has grown smaller and far more focused.

In the fall Asher will start kindergarten. He will go to a local Waldorf school. Why there? Because at this school he will be treated with respect. He will learn reverence for nature. He will be exposed to music and art. He will learn to use his hands as well as his head. He will make friends. He will be loved.

Each day I try to do what I can to give Asher and our other grandkids a fighting chance in their brave new world. I don’t understand this world, at least not well enough. I can only do so much. I can’t save Asher from suffering. I can’t protect him from his future.

“What weather they shall have is not ours to rule.”