Watching Happiness

It was a beautiful evening. Sun shining, warmth on your shoulders, the first temps in the high 70’s we’ve seen this Spring. You could sense the delight and happiness of others as you saw people driving with their windows down, families out for walks, children playing in backyards.

We sat in the car, in the parking lot of the school. We arrived a few minutes before swim team practice began. And yet we just sat there. He didn’t want to come today; didn’t want to go in. This is becoming a thing lately. The very thing he loves – swimming – is also becoming a trigger for his anxiety. What used to bring him boundless joy, now sometimes brings him stress, pressure and self consciousness.

“I’m not good enough. I’m not fast enough. I’m the slow one. I don’t belong here.” This is what he says sometimes.

It is hard. And he doesn’t believe he’s good enough to make it through. Practice is four evenings a week. It draws on your time, energy and will. The commitment is a heavy one. Some days he has fun. Some days he pushes and perseveres and shows himself he’s worthy of being there. And other days, it’s just a struggle. He’s in the pool for some of it. Out for some of it. Getting pep talks by coaches, reminding him he can do it. And some days, it’s a real struggle to just get in the pool at all. Yesterday was one of those days.

We never even made it in the school, let alone the pool.

As we sat in the car, we looked over the soccer field. There were several teams practicing and scrimmaging. The kids, ages 5 – 10, galloped around the field chasing soccer balls, practicing throw ins, running drills. Smiles on their faces, waves of laughter bouncing across the sky.

We sat in silence. I stared out at the field. Brightness exuding from these children running around and enjoying themselves. Weightless and carefree. One child caught my eye. Arms outstretched to either side, head tipped back, looking up to the blue sky and twirling…around and around in a circle. Until he was so dizzy he fell over laughing.

Lightness. That is what we are missing.

I’m envious of these children and their ability to just be. To seemingly experience great happiness and lightness. And I’m envious of the parents. I wonder if they realize and appreciate the lightness their children hold in their hearts? I didn’t. I didn’t appreciate it like I should’ve, when Noah still had it.

As I watched the children twirl and run and bounce, sadness overcame me. I wish this for Noah so deeply. For the weight to be removed, the heaviness to be washed away.

My thoughts were interrupted as his hand reached across the car for mine. I turned to look at him and he had tears running down his face. And he cried.

“All I want is freedom and happiness. I just want to be happy and normal. I just want to be like all the rest of the kids. Happy and not worrying about anything,” he said.

I paused. Looking at him. Watching his tears roll.

“I don’t know what normal is Noah. And I wish I could help you feel that happiness you wish for.”

I reached over and kissed the top of his head. Like I’ve done since the day he was born. And I prayed for him to feel more happiness and less sadness. Like I have a million times before.

Neither of us really knew what to do next. What to say. How to be.

So we sat there for an hour. Staring at the kids on the field. Sitting in silence. Holding hands.

And watching Happiness.