Thirty years ago, I was rushing to get my son and daughter, who were then eight and ten, out of the house and into the car to go to school. All parents know the drill: children passing each other in a blur of activity, looking for sports jerseys and musical instruments that should have been put out the night before. Kids and adults become whirring satellites, each on a different orbit.
It was spring, which is lovely in my part of Australia—sunny and warm.
But I wasn’t enjoying the weather. My only concern was getting my kids and their things on their way, and my son, Stephen, was nowhere to be seen.
“Where are you, Stephen?” I called out from the kitchen, in the vague direction of the stairs. “Are you dressed?”
I climbed the stairs to look for him, and peered into the bedroom my husband and I shared.
That’s when I found him, sitting on our bed in his undies, staring at the tulipwood tree outside our large bedroom window. It was covered in yellow spring blossoms.
“What are you doing? Hurry up!” I pleaded.
“I’m just watching the bees,” he said, not moving his gaze.
I watched him, completely calm, lost in his own little world.
My husband, who was passing by in the hallway, stopped to look at our son, too. Stephen was in a really nice, peaceful place, and there was something uncomfortable about the moment, like my husband and I had intruded on something private.
Not just that, but the stillness and beauty of that moment made us feel kind of silly, like we had done something wrong. There we were, ready to lecture our son on the importance of being ready, and there he was teaching us something far more important.
Life isn’t about rushing out the door. In conducting the symphony of children and lost shoes and instruments and jerseys, I had forgotten that.
Watching him, I was transported back to my own forgotten memory of being ten years old. As a kid, my family went on holiday to North Stradbroke Island, just off the coast of Brisbane. Though the island was close by, it had wild horses and only one dirt road. On this particular holiday, my brother and I had prowled the sands of a subtropical shoreline looking for a fish for Mum to cook. We presented her with a washed-up puffer fish, which she politely disposed of while telling us never to touch one again.
My father died the following year. That was the last time we went to Stradbroke as a family.
Watching my son look at the bees brought me back to that precious time. I felt once more the sun on my neck and the softness of the sand, so bright I had to shade my eyes. At midday the beach was almost deserted, just the sky, the water, an occasional fisherman, and children chasing gulls.
Now my son is 41. I wonder if he even remembers the wisdom of his eight-year-old self. At 74, I know I do.
The natural world has been an important part of my getting older. It’s been helped by the availability of time, which allows me to slow down, to be in the moment without needing to check my watch.
My daughter has a five-year-old son who loves watching ants. He gardens with me and notices each new flower that blossoms on a bush or a tree. He loves the weather; he tells me when the sky is dark and it’s going to rain, and when there’s going to be lightning. Now that I’m older, I can move at his pace.
It’s a privilege to have reached the last third of my life. So many don’t. The natural world is a great source of solace when the inevitable aches and pains, the slowness, and the unforeseen aspects of old age rear their head. Knowing the cycle of my garden, the unexpected delight of the smell from my flowering lemon tree, the daisies that crop up each year like old friends after seemingly being lost to the ground forever, and the crows that send out their raucous challenges from the clothesline whenever I step outside, are a constant delight. Their companionship refreshes me and their appearance each year reassures that I’m part of a larger life cycle. And whenever I forget that, the image of my son, perched on my bed, is there to remind me.
When a child tells you they’re watching the bees, leave them to it. They’re using their time well. And perhaps sit down next to them and watch the bees with them, too.
Joan McCaul, 74, was born in Brisbane, Queensland, and has lived there ever since. She retired nine years ago after teaching and working in social work.
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