Children are like sponges soaking up drops all around them, especially the drops you'd rather they not touch. But they are also excellent teachers.
My brother, blind from birth, taught me how to see the world, not just with my eyes, but with all my senses. He taught me other things, too, like how to be pig-headed and never confuse pickles with jalapeno peppers.
Mostly he taught me the power of storytelling. When I'd read to him or tell him stories, I would see that power work its magic, calming and soothing and filling his belly like a hot bowl of chili on a cold winter night.
Reading and telling stories taught me a lot about my brother and myself and life.
My first year out of college, I worked as a substitute teacher. Often, I'd get called at the last minute to a classroom of kids wild as penguins on speed, with no lesson plans to be found.
So I would read to them or tell them stories and watch the power of storytelling transform lunatic penguins into sponges ready to learn. More or less.
That same magic worked when I taught Sunday School. The only difference was the stories came from the Bible and were generally a lot more colorful.
When my children were small, stories were our salvation. Each week, we'd go to the library to get a pile of books. My oldest loved adventure books. His sister loved books about pandas. And their baby brother loved any book he could chew.
On days too rainy or foggy to go outside (there are many such days on the coast of Northern California), we'd build a fire and I would read to them for hours.
If my hands were full, as they often were, changing a diaper or stirring a pot, one of the older two would read aloud, or we'd take turns making up stories.
You can learn a lot listening to children's made-up stories, or watching their eyes grow wide with wonder listening to yours.
I wish you could've seen us.
I didn't do everything right as a mother. Far from it. My house was often a mess, we ate a lot of hot dogs and sometimes I'd forget to make the kids brush their teeth. Or their hair. But we read together and traded stories and let the power of storytelling work its magic upon us. Looking back, I feel good about that.
Lately, it seems, I'm reliving the past with my grandchildren.
Randy is 4. He tells me stories about superheroes who always save the day. Especially my day.
Henry is 3. He knows more about animals than even I could forget. We make elephants with Play-Doh and he tells me about the grasslands where they live, the watering hole where they drink and the store where they buy toys for their grandkids.
Wiley is 2. He grabs a book, climbs up in my lap and says, "Read, Nana." Which I gladly do, mumbling words with my nose pressed into his curls.
Eleanor is 2 months old. She is smiling already, clearly gifted. I tell her stories about her daddy when he was a boy. Maybe that's why she smiles. In return for my stories, she makes sounds like a chicken to tell me secrets that she learned before she was born, bouncing on God's knee.
I don't do everything right as a nana. Far from it. I live miles away from my grandchildren, try to visit them often, and yet it never seems often enough.
But we read together and tell stories every chance we get, and let the power of storytelling work its magic upon us.
Stories feed the souls of young and old alike. We need them, much the way we need air to breathe, water to drink or music to make us dance. They tell us who we are, what we believe in and why we need one another.
So pick up a book or dream up a story, won't you? Be sure it's a good one. Then share it with someone, young or old. And may you both feel the magic.
Award-winning columnist Sharon Randall writes about the ordinary and extraordinary:
randallbay@earthlink.net
Family on 04/01/2015