Let It Go

The music is from Frozen, a Disney cartoon I’ve never seen. It’s kind of a schmaltzy and dramatic song, involving howling wind, swirling storms, and not holding back. Felix seems to be ingesting it at first, leaning in and listening for a cue, then abruptly he turns and twirls and stretches out his arms, strutting around the floor like John Travolta, 1977. He is feeling it. Where did he get those moves? He points, a gesture he repeats again and again, alternating his arms while sashaying around the floor.

He’s barefoot, wearing mustard-color sweatpants and a t-shirt, and in truth a bit ridiculous, but he is no longer just an ordinary boy in his living room. Emotion has transformed him. When the refrain comes on, he sings along: Let it go! Let it go!

He grabs his mother’s hand to pull her from the sofa, saying, “Dance!”

Then he turns to his father, saying, “You dance too!” 

Let it go, let it go

I am one with the wind and sky

Let it go, let it go

You’ll never see me cry

Here I stand and here I stay

Let the storm rage on…

He is three years old, a vessel of feeling, most of it unsorted. I am deeply touched by his receptiveness to the music, by his comprehension of the emotion behind it, and I am filled with tenderness and protectiveness for a heart so accessible and vulnerable and thoroughly in love with life. There is so much joy in him, so much openness and courage.

I wish I could shield him from the inevitable hurts and disappointments ahead.

And I wish every child could have the privilege of dancing in a living room, safe and loved.  

But you know what? I also wish that I could simply enjoy the video…which I have played dozens of times since it was sent to me…without so quickly veering into yearning and sadness and useless worry about the children who deserve equivalent opportunities to experience happiness but are traumatized and hungry instead. I wish I could simply appreciate it as evidence that humans are hard-wired for bliss and wonder and song, that they will lean toward the light, that dreams begin pushing out from within early on, and this might be a hopeful statement about humanity. (If only we adults don’t destroy the planet…right? I’m feeling exhausted these days, and I know I’m not alone. Could we please have some good news?)

But I am profoundly grateful that Felix exists.

And I’m glad that I’m a grandmother, even if distance and circumstance have rendered it abstract. I had always imagined being a more integral part of my grandson’s life. It hasn’t worked out that way for us.

However, we recently came up with a proposal to ameliorate this dilemma. It was agreed that we would have a regular onscreen visit at a specific time every Monday. It would be as much a part of his routine as Sunday morning soccer or swim lessons. Why not?

The appointed moment for our inaugural chat arrived and there he was, sitting on his mother’s lap. He opened with “Hello, Poo-Heads” and I told myself this was a term of endearment. But he was fidgety and distracted, and in about two minutes, he turned to Mommy and said, “Can we say bye-bye to them now?” Ah, the great annoyance that is them.

I get it. We are two flat faces on a screen, and the real world beckons. People pass by on the street. A neighbor knocks at the door. Daddy brings in a snack from the kitchen, then writes “I am Felix” on paper and gallantly tries to encourage Felix to tell us what it says, but he refuses.

“Can we say bye-bye to them now?” he asks instead.

Miranda tries to explain that this is our visit with Nonna and Papa, and she prompts him with questions, but he wants to watch a video. Or maybe he prefers to do almost anything but sit still and interact with us. He climbs all over her, then slides off the couch and runs around the room, and finally, in the ultimate statement, he takes off his clothes and pees on the floor.

“Thanks for visiting with us, Felix,” says Monte, trying to salvage a last shred of dignity.

Yes, he’s only three years old, but a three-year-old can fill your heart or break it, either one. I saw that I must be a more stalwart and mature grown-up than I actually feel like being.

I described all this to my friend Barbara, and she told me that this was just classic three-year-old behavior, and I shouldn’t be hurt by it. “Articles have been written about this,” she said. “They’re sometimes called threenagers! They are known to be impulsive and self-centered. Don’t take it personally. This stage will pass.”  

So despite its being frustrating, I suppose the visit was a good reality check, another learning experience. I just need to recalibrate. Look at it with humor. Don’t give it more significance than it has.

In fact, I’ve decided to focus on the video of him dancing, because that’s the truth of Felix. The life force in him, that beautiful spirit, the sense of possibility.

In the meantime, I’m especially thankful this week and always for my tribe of dear friends, and for an ongoing correspondence with my poet-mentor Dan.

“Three-year-olds are creatures of the moment,” he confirms, having known a few in his time, “and they’re brutally honest.”

But maybe in this sense they are true poets, paying attention and fully immersed in the present.

Felix the poet, Felix the poem.

It occurs to me that Dan’s letters over the years collectively constitute a valuable handbook for living, with a strong Buddhist thread. Now he encourages me to meditate, to abandon a book that it is depressing me, to stop worrying constantly, and inhabit the moment. This isn’t new, but it feels newly relevant.

Maybe I need to be more like a three-year-old.

Dan quotes the Buddha. “The earth is my witness…” He refers to images of the Buddha holding his right hand downward to touch the earth. The earth, he tells me, is a witness to my right to be here. Now.

Felix of course knows this without knowing it.

There are rainbows in the room at this moment, and there’s cool music playing (Ethiopiques, Vol. 4: Ethio Jazz 1969-1974), the kind that goes nowhere but puts you in a going-anywhere mood. It’s a new morning, and nothing on me hurts. I’ll try not to be unkind, but I’m not going to fake it. I’ll try not to be callous or oblivious, but I’m not going to be consumed by anxiety and fear.

Felix, my guru.

Now if only I could dance.