If you ask Bee, who is 6,
to name her favorite city,
she will respond with a
quick, declarative and unswerving
``Rochester.’’ She
loves Cooperstown — don’t
get me wrong. It’s just that
Rochester has two things
she loves a little bit more:
The Strong Museum of Play
and the Radisson Hotel
where we always stay on
Rochester trips.
Bee loves the Radisson
because she loves all hotels
with comfortable beds and
indoor swimming pools.
And she believes that ringing
the front desk is a perfectly
reasonable solution
to most of life’s little annoyances.
She loves the Strong
Museum because, let me
make this perfectly clear, it
is the NATIONAL. MUSEUM.
OF PLAY.
It’s huge, and every
square inch of it is devoted
to the fact that play is integral
to a child’s development
and growth into an
adult human.
That’s not just something
they use on public
television to fill a bit of
space where an underwriter
backed out. It’s true.
Play is transformative,
figuratively and literally.
When a child pretends to be
a doctor or a princess or a
pirate, she is transforming
and expanding her understanding
of herself. She is
trying on different elements
of personality, like dress-up
clothes from a trunk. The
things that fit the best may
not go back in the trunk
when playtime is over.
My favorite part of the
Strong Museum is the butterfly
garden, because I
think it shows in rapid-time
the same kind of transformation
that is happening to
the youngsters who visit
the museum.
From the outside of a
chrysalis, it looks like the
caterpillar has created a
peaceful, snug little room
in which to rest before
emerging as a butterfly.
The truth is far more
dramatic — radical, even.
Like most of us, caterpillars
spend the caterpillar
portion of their lives growing.
As they grow, they
shed their old skins, and
become slightly larger,
slightly different versions
of their pre-growth selves.
Then one day, something
tells them that simply shedding
the old skin for a larger
version is not going to
do. Something tells them
that what they require is a
grand, brilliant and utterly
seismic shift.
You and I know what’s
coming, but maybe the caterpillar
doesn’t. Certainly
her caterpillar cohorts
don’t, and they don’t understand
her restlessness.
``Just shed that skin like
always,’’ they tell her.
``You’ll get bigger and bigger.
One day, we’ll be huge
— the largest caterpillars
to roam the land. We’ll devour
mighty oaks in one
chomp!’’
She’s not interested in
that, though. She has this
idea that things could be
really different. Really different.
So instead of shedding
her skin for a new one that’s
more or less the same, only
larger, she builds herself a
safe place to create something
almost inconceivable.
Inside, everything
breaks down. Literally.
Her legs and antennae
and her hungry little
munching mouth all break
down.
For all practical purposes,
the caterpillar is dead
— toast. Or, more accurately,
soup. WhatÆs left is a
formless ooze that contains
the essence of what it
means to be a caterpillar,
which happens to be identical
to the essence of what it
means to be a butterfly.
Its absolutely not that
remarkable. It happens every
day. It may be happening
just a few feet or yards
from where you are sitting
right now. But try telling
that caterpillar how ordinary
it is.
Try telling the butterfly
that what happened to her
was run-of-the-mill.
Fables are usually
packed with a point, and
this one is no different. The
lesson here is that remarkable,
unforeseeable change
is both deeply meaningful
and entirely achievable.
Like growing up.
Elizabeth Trever Buchinger
believes every child is
capable of sprouting wings.
You can connect with her at
www.moremindfulfamily.
wordpress.com.
