Without Hesitation, Beaming

He was playing with our classroom baoding balls, a pair of those Chinese meditation balls that we keep nestled in a fancy box. They're special things by virtue of that box, of being shiny, and of being a scarce resource.

A young three-year-old, he was delighting in opening the box, fondling the balls, shaking them to make them chime, then returning them to their velvety nesting place.

She is also a young three-year-old. Spying the boy playing with the balls, she made a grab for them saying, "I want that." It wasn't an aggressive act as much as an assertive one, a direct, impulsive, logical way to cross the bridge between her desire and its attainment.

He reacted instantly in defense of his treasure, slamming the lid of the box with one hand while fending off her outreached one with the other.

In a flash, their hands were in one another's faces, him a silent defender, her shouting, "I want it!"

I moved my body between them in such a way to end the fisticuffs, placing a hand on the box, while allowing each of them to keep their own hands on it. Just the day before, the children had begun making their own classroom rules, one of which was "no hitting." I said, "I saw you hitting each other. We all agreed, no hitting."

"I want it."

"We also all agreed, 'no taking things from other people.'" I nodded toward the list of rules we've taped to the classroom wall, drawing both of their attentions toward it. I then added, "He had the balls in his hands. I saw you try to take them."

She removed her hand from the box, saying, "But I want them."

"If you want them, you can ask him for them, but we all agreed you can't just take them."

"I want them."

"If you want them, you can him ask for them."

"I want them."

"If you want them, you can ask him for them."

Meanwhile, he was clutching the box tightly, shooting a rather severe face in her direction.

After three repetitions, she got it, finally speaking directly to her colleague, "Can I please have one?"

Without hesitation, he opened the box and handed her one of the balls. Without hesitation, beaming.

Another girl who had been observing the interaction asked, "Can I please have one too?"

Again, without hesitation, he opened the box and handed her the second ball. Without hesitation, beaming. Then he turned and without a word, only a smile, showed everyone his empty box.

I walked away then, wanting to just get out of their way, almost overwhelmed by the epiphanous dawn I felt growing within me. What had I just been a part of? When commanded, he fought with ferociousness; when asked, he gave in joy. It was as if I'd been standing with the soul of mankind or something.

I've been reflecting hard on this moment for the past week or so. You don't need to read here long to know that when commanded or demanded or coerced I tend, as this boy did, as most of us do, to react in opposition, to put my hand in the face of my perceived tormentor. But what has happened to the other side? Living in the city, for instance, I'm asked every day, often dozens of times a day, for one of my metaphorical meditation balls, yet I too rarely hand it over, and even when I do it's not usually with the fully open-heart I saw at school last week. I'm sure I once had it because I can find vestiges of the emotion within me. Where did it go?

I want to blame "society," of course, that convenient scapegoat for all the world's ills, telling myself it would be much easier if everyone could just become enlightened at the same time. There's a fear there that stops me, I guess, one that makes me recoil at that idea of scarcity, of that empty box: that if I give it away I'll wind up with nothing. Yet here was this boy, joyful in his empty box, beaming, a true possessor of everything, while I suffer in my lack of faith in my fellow man, myself, and the universe.

Is this simply part of the curse of growing older and wiser? In having developed the capacity to worry about more than the immediate future, am I robbed of the profound joy of an empty box? I reckon so, to a certain extent, although I'm also aware that this is not the end of my road, at least I hope it's not. There is even greater wisdom ahead, I'm sure, and I'm thinking I'd be served for the time being to keep looking for it in that empty box.

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