Roby and I hungout towards the end of the day for a while, and that was good because we didn’t have the nice breakfast together that we usually do. Those breakfast hours are an incredible treasure, and they lend quite strongly to the feeling I have that these are the good old days. Just a feeling, not a certainty.  Not even a suspicion really, nothing real, just a feeling. It wouldn’t suurprise me exactly, if that were true. 

I missed breakfast this morning because I was visiting a church with a group who does that sort of thing, then we had a little chat. I had thought about bringing Roby, but she was asleep when I had to leave, and I don’t think it’s good to wake her up like that, so I didn’t. I let her sleep. But John Antonio was there. 

In the process of working to open this day care it has occured to me that...maybe I don’t like kids, I just like Roby. I can tell you now, the feeling I had seeing John, who, granted, is a kid I know, tells me all I need to know. I really like kids. I would choose a two year old over any adult, any time, every time. Their feeling and wisdom and purpose...the whole thing.

There are some things I accept that others are not into. Even if I love them. Like science fiction, or MOOs, or ambient Japanese Music. Like, sure, it’s not for everyone. I get it. No yucking of yums here, no judgment. But, man...I really think people oughta like kids. And I really think that not liking kids is a really sad thing.  It’s best to like kids and I think if a person doesn’t something has gone badly wrong.

Is that judgmental? 
I mean, maybe. 

I don’t think something has gone badly wrong if they don’t like Barry Lyndon, even though that movie rules. I don’t think something is sadly broken if they don’t enjoy Neuromancer, hell, Abby doesn’t like that book. 

But children are so fundamental a beauty, so CLEARLY a glimpse into something with a capital letter at the front that I don’t know man... The only excuse I’ve heard for not wanting kids that made a lick of sense to me was a friend that didn’t want to mess them up the way their parents did. And that’s fair, it’s also a tragedy, and I think they would agree. The rest of the excuses really boil down to: I’d rather have x y or z, or maybe all three. 

Abby and I were wondering over dinner of maybe the way I’m coming to feel about all this is the way monks feel about all of us. Just, wow, you’re really trading like...some incredibly important and beautiful stuff for, I don’t know, stainless steel kitchen furniture, or better CDs or something. That’s wack.

Of course I don’t think any monk I know feels that way, and weirdly, I actually do know a few monks. Maybe I should email them this thought.

I don’t think I will.