My kids are in the blanket fort years. This is the stage of child development that follows the “floor is lava” crisis and overlaps with the “Did you feed your hermit crab?” phase.
Last week I walked into my living room and was greeted by a massive spider web structure made of afghans, chip clips and, regrettably, every pillow in the house. This fragile stronghold was stockpiled with contraband snack food, stuffed animals, a lightsaber or two and a dim flashlight about whose origin I am still unclear. Each supply was lovingly tucked into its own special nook.
If you are envisioning a charming, Pinterest-worthy tent made with canopying sheets and tulle netting, rest assured: it was not that. I think most of us would have looked at it and said, “That is unfortunate.”
However, the small human architects behind its construction saw it with very different eyes. They were so proud. So excited. Affection, it seems, is the glue that holds a good blanket fort together. Affection and sturdy, load-bearing throw pillows.
How we see determines what we see. I need to remember that.
I recently turned forty. I’m not going to lie; it has been weird. There is a growing sense of my own temporariness that seems to be lingering in the background of my mind at all times. It has always been there, but it feels like somebody turned up the volume a notch or two.
Forty means that I am not new anymore. Forty means grey whiskers. Forty means laugh lines when I smile. And when I don’t smile. Forty means a mind that struggles in the shower to recall whether or not I put shampoo in my hair. Forty means gratitude that I still have some hair left to shampoo.
Readmore article here: http://artisanclinical.com/blanket-forty-a-meditation-on-life-aging-and-the-way-we-see/
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