Maia learns the monkey bars

So many things distract.

For the last 10, going on 11, months, my time has been largely consumed by a single case. There have been weeks on end in which I've done nothing but work on this one case. It has robbed my of time with my family in a year that is very important to Maia.

But I had no choice about this. I had to take the case, and I had to win it or my business would fail.



There are other things, too, that distract. Stupid and senseless preoccupations, most of them, that go nowhere and contribute nothing.

I've never been able to wrap myself around the mix of free will and determination in human decisions. Why do I do the things I do? Why one thing, not another?

We are not determined, and we are not free--I think that's pretty clear.

But I never get any further than drawing that simple box. What will come out of it? Who knows.



Two Sundays ago, I found an excited message from Maia for me on my phonemail at work after I had gotten back to the office from getting something to eat. She was telling me that she'd made it round the monkey bars at Kaimuki Park, "all by myself!" Before, she had needed help from me or Kristina.



This past Sunday, I saw her do it. Remarkable. She's learned how to use her weight to swing her little frame from bar to bar. Such strong little arms and shoulders.

I used my still camera to take a video of it. If I can figure out how to do it, I will post the video.

She will need so much strength to get through the issues that already await her. I wish I could help her, but I know that I can't. Just watch and applaud, and try to be there to catch her when she falls.



These pictures are all from the park--watching the adults "play Power Rangers"--what she calls, Kendo--on the way to the playground, and then stills of part of one of her trips around the monkey bars. I promise you, she made it all the way.

John, Tuesday, February 6, 2007 (posted Feb. 7th)

"Even my broken ear?"

Maia climbed into bed next to me this morning. It was cold, and she likes to climb into my bed and snuggle with me when it’s cold. Though not too much. She’s not a kissy-huggy kind of child. The orphanage, I think.

“My beautiful baby girl,” I said. “This is my beautiful baby girl.”



She’s been wearing her hair up in a pony tail, and I had seen her turn her head last night while she was brushing her teeth to look at the little nubs of her ear in the mirror, as though to see how it looks to other people.



“Even my broken ear?” she asked.

“Even your broken ear,” I said.

Then she said something that I couldn’t make out. It sounded like, “Did you catch my ear?”

I asked her to repeat it, and she did, and I still didn’t understand it.

“Yes,” I said, not sure what I was agreeing to.



“Your broken ear makes you very special,” I said. “Very, very special.”



I really do believe that. I’ve become convinced that it’s the problems we have that give us our opportunities for growth, not the things that are unproblematic.



“Like Nemo,” she said. “One big fin, one little fin.”

“Like Nemo,” I said.

And then I taught her how to spell the word, "ear."

These pictures are from the last 12 days--where we're living now, her preschool, and then a private elementary school on the day of her interview there.

That school is not for her. It prides itself on being experimental and non-structured, but the truth of the matter is it's about as socially and culturally conservative as a school can be. It serves the children of the well-to-do and well-connected. It's not for Maia, who really needs people who can reach her where she is, and she's not for it.

No matter. Her way will just be a different way.

This evening, Zack and Cody came on television--a children's sitcom. She said, "They talk nicely. Not like me." And she was right--that school was for the Zacks and Codys, not for the Maias. "But you're learning," I told her.

She's working so hard at this.

John, Friday, February 2, 2007