How to Live a Puddle-Wonderful Life

I was at Nantasket Beach one surprisingly sultry, spring afternoon. Thick and damp, the air slowed the earth’s spin and hampered the gait of the usually enthusiastic beach walkers. Even the seagulls, perched on the lampposts, looked listless. The steamy air and distant black clouds promised a storm.

“Good,” I thought. “I love storms.”

I was remembering the storms of my childhood. The searing heat of the sun would soak into my then jet-black hair. The shrill buzz of cicadas would saw through the stifling air. And at the first breath of an approaching storm, I’d get excited. “A storm,” I’d say to my siblings, “I can’t wait ‘til it pours.”

The darkening sky and inside-out leaves on the trees were our harbingers. And then, the rain would finally come. “It’s bucketing out!” I’d shout and we’d race to find the deepest dips in the roadside gullies where we’d sit, young kings and queens on our royal thrones. Rushing water would whirlpool and splash against our backs and rain would cascade on our heads. Drenched, we’d head home, our bodies and minds renewed, cleansed from the day’s heat, whose existence was reduced to mere steam lifting off the blacktop of paved roads.

I re-collected those days as I lingered at Nantasket Beach that spring afternoon and watched the approaching storm. I remembered the joy of our gully thrones. And I thought of how, as a child, I believed a storm was just a storm. Just a moment that came and went with the wind.

My childhood world was, as E.E. Cummings once wrote, “puddle-wonderful.”

Now, as an adult, I know we cannot stop approaching clouds, days when life’s heat and pressure get to us. We cannot avoid challenges, losses, and disappointments. Because we are human, these things will be a part of our lives and will contribute to our humanity. So, clouds and storms will come. But, thankfully, they will also go, like steam evaporating after a summer storm.

What I wish for you kids is a lifetime of a child’s puddle-wonderful world, a world where storms come and, thankfully, go with the wind.

You must fight your whole life to keep the child in you vibrant and insistent. The hope and faith of a child is unrivaled. The elastic and forgiving heart of a child, astonishing. The joy of a child at life’s simple pleasures, unparalleled.

And how do you do keep this inner child alive?

It’s easy. I promise you. It’s easy.

Just live. Moment by moment.

When autumn leaves skip down the street, pick one up. Trace the veins with your fingertips. Bring it home and with paper and crayons, create a leaf mosaic of red and orange and yellow.

Do this when you’re 15, when you’re 25, when you’re 50, when you’re 80.

When spring’s first no-jacket day arrives, get on your bike. Pedal and feel the wind on your face, smell the earth’s soft awakening.

Do this when you’re 15, when you’re 25, when you’re 50, when you’re 80.

When winter’s first big snow falls, go outside. Lay down in the deep snow, look to the sky and gently sweep your arms and legs in giant arcs. Let the snow feather your face, melt on your eyelashes, slip down your back.

Do this. At every age, every opportunity.

Do not let fresh snow or rain or sunshine be through-the-window experiences.
To stay young, you must live young. You must dive into the world.

When the summer skies rain, go outside. Let the rain wash your face, soak your skin. And, when the skies clear, find a good puddle. Take aim and then, jump.

Do not jump over it.

Jump in it.

With both feet.

Be.

Puddle-wonderful.