Craving answers can take up mental energy. I want to know how events across the world will resolve. I need reassurance that my child will get the right job. I ache to understand the health issues of people I love. These urges are fueled by a combination of curiosity, fear, and if I am honest, entitlement. Somehow I believe I deserve an explanation. 

 

When I take off my adult moccasins, and put on a preschooler's, figuratively mind you, I realize that there is less hunger for prediction. Oh, a three year old may or may not have a quippy answer for the "What do you want to be when you grow up?" conversation starter, but really this box of paints is more captivating. The one right in front of her. Current events hold no appeal, not because children are uncaring, but because that empathy is reserved for the friend who is crying over spilled juice. 

 

One of the qualities I cherished about spending time with little kids for all those years, was the absence of worry. Not that they were impervious to fear, but it was local. Manageable. The unpredictable economy, and global warming did not weigh them down like sandbags. Did I think that they should? 

 

I am a toddler myself, at least in the mathematical sense of my life spanning into eternity. Sixty five years is hardly a preamble. What is it that lures me into needing concrete answers about those things that are out of reach? Perhaps it works better to focus my eyes on the person next to me who is sad.