On Impulse

You can move toward the fun

Jakub Pabis on Unsplash

At the playground, I’m watching a mother and son arrive at the swing set, which happens to be empty at the moment. The little one, maybe around three or four, chooses a swing, gets a boost up, and mom begins to push. Just then, another child, maybe a bit older, begins to head over to the swings. I hear the little one say to his mother in a confidential tone: “Uh oh, here comes a kid.”

I’m thinking: Here’s this little one, safe in the company of his mother, coming out into the world of other children. He’s delighted to be there, delighted to ride the big people swings, delighted to be one of the swarm of children and adults out on the beautiful late summer day… Right up until the moment of engagement with an unknown individual.

“Uh oh, here comes a kid.”

Okay, truth be told, I felt that child’s bump of concern so clearly because it seemed to match my own background flash of concern about connecting with my unknown readers in these posts. Last week’s post was so much fun to write because I simply sat still with the impulse to connect with a reader, each reader, directly. The response to that post was delightful. Dancing with mini donkeys on the sun porch, levitating with soul mates, tea partying with friends and chocolate chip biscuits, singing together, slipping across time in a story, and arriving in the dear local experience of here and now. We had a great time. So what’s next?

The child on the swing tells his mother abruptly that he’s ready to get down. Hopping off the swing, he slips around the swingset to the climbing wall on the other side of the approaching child. His mom walks over to sit on the bench near me. Giving me a warm glance, she pulls out her phone.

The approaching child puts a hand on the swing at the far end, moving it back and forth while watching the little one over at the climbing wall who is looking back at her, curious, and maybe a little worried. She looks at the mom, then at the little one again, still moving the swing, undecided.

I look at my phone which has been in my hand all along, letting these two little people have their moment without an audience. I glance at the mom right as she glances at me; we smile. I say, “It’s just like watching people at a cocktail party.” She grins and says, “I don’t think I’ve ever been to a cocktail party, but I know what you mean.” She looks back at her phone.

Over at the twisty slide, I see my husband and granddaughter are still negotiating all the different ways to climb up and slide down, with or without a hand to hold. “Going down the twisty slide” has become a metaphor in our household for following an apparently risky impulse to its logical conclusion, such as composing a post for Substack, or sending my book to another agent.

So you go up and down the twisty slide a few times, and then what happens? People show up.

“Uh oh, here comes a kid.” You connect with your reader. You connect with several readers. There are moments of indecision, of hesitation. What’s next? Are we going to play together, or what? You’re waiting for the impulse that feels good, that feels sufficiently sturdy, to move you toward the fun.

Suddenly, the little girl walks right over to the climbing wall and begins to climb; it’s not very tall and she climbs easily. When she reaches the top platform, she turns around, leaning over, and says to the little one below who is watching her in awe, “Are you coming?” There’s a little squeak in her voice, and unmistakable fervor in the invitation. He puts his hand on the first handle, and looks down for the first foothold, beginning to climb.

Beside me, the mom watches, nodding slightly with her tongue pressed between her lips. She’s rooting for him, then decides to look back at her phone and let him get on with it.

When the impulse comes through, you make the invitation, or you accept the invitation, to move toward the fun. You don’t know how it’s going to turn out, and you don’t know what’s going to happen. But you can follow the impulse, and see what happens next.