Mary Panttaja

I just spent two days with a 5 year old. She will be six next week. We took her to the snow which she had never experienced. We put her on skis—which, of course, she had not seen. We took her onto the icy corduroyed surface of the track and coached her along.

She then skied 1.5 kilometers out the track, up and down a practice hill, and back without a hesitation or doubt, with joy and interest the whole way. She would charge up a hill with a robust determination and confidence that took your breath away.

By noon she was so enamored of gliding downhill that she was totally undaunted by the requirement to walk up it, every time. Over and over she did it. Further up, further down. Further up, further down. She never complained or ask to stop. Eventually she let us down gently by telling us that she did not need our help any longer, that she could go up and down alone. Only when she could not slide down the hill without falling three times did she accept our suggestion that maybe she might want to stop and rest a while.

On the drive home she sang to us in a beautiful, young lilting voice. In English and in Spanish. And then she determinedly began to count. For miles through the countryside she counted. Stopping to figure every once and while, stopping briefly to consider. 200. 400. We arrived at home where we decided she would pause—eight hundred and sixty.

Where does such grace in being alive come from?