Dust Gazing

“What did I do with that time and space? I spent an inordinate amount of time gazing up. One of my favorite pastimes was pretending that the ceiling was the floor; the living room looked so spacious and uncluttered with the modest ceiling medallion in the center where a light fixture might once have hung. From my prone perspective, I imagined marching over the door and window frames (I’d have to lift my knees high!). While my mother cooked, washed and hung laundry, and ironed my father’s white shirts (sigh), I day-dreamed—both indoors and out. On the lawn, I often found a hilly spot to recline and gaze into the sky or maple trees, imagining fairies and alligators in the clouds or leaves. Rarely was I bored.”—Kathryn E. Livingston

Words & Wonder

By Kathryn E. Livingston

BOGOTA New Jersey—(Hubris)—1 July 2023—I confess that I was a spoiled quasi-only child with very few chores. My two siblings were slightly more than a decade older than I and were married and gone from the house by the time I was ten or so (I walked down the aisle at my sister’s wedding as a junior bridesmaid when I was in third grade, and I became an aunt two years later). In our Victorian home in Upstate New York, my parents’ bedroom was downstairs, so once my elderly aunts moved out to a nursing facility, I had the second floor to myself.

What did I do with that time and space? I spent an inordinate amount of time gazing up. One of my favorite pastimes was pretending that the ceiling was the floor; the living room looked so spacious and uncluttered with the modest ceiling medallion in the center where a light fixture might once have hung. From my prone perspective, I imagined marching over the door and window frames (I’d have to lift my knees high!). While my mother cooked, washed and hung laundry, and ironed my father’s white shirts (sigh), I day-dreamed—both indoors and out. On the lawn, I often found a hilly spot to recline and gaze into the sky or maple trees, imagining fairies and alligators in the clouds or leaves. Rarely was I bored.

From the floor (which my mother vacuumed daily), I also gazed at drifting blue smoke (my father adored his pipe). This may have been unhealthy, but magical, nevertheless. From the floor I also watched the dust motes floating in the sunlight (though Mom was forever dusting—a task I actually helped with on occasion). Frequently, I lingered on the stair landing, peering through the stained-glass panes at the multi-colored yard below. At night (when I was still small), my dad would lift me to his shoulders and carry me out to the front wrap-around porch where we would gaze up together at the moon and stars.

When I wasn’t simply gazing up, I was playing dress-up, drawing, painting, writing stories, taping tiny name tags on my hundreds of marbles (I personified everything), creating stew from grass, twigs, and dandelions, playing dodge ball with kids on the street or dolls with my best friend, or practicing the upright piano. (My piano teacher, a divorced mother of adult daughters, lived in a flat nearby with two baby grands, her easel, and paints. She was my earliest mentor, and an inspiring example of an independent and creative life well-lived.) Of course, there was TV; but technology wasn’t omnipresent, and there were only three channels. For a good part of each day, especially in summer, creativity reigned. (School intervened, but in those days, homework didn’t kick in until junior high.)

Sometimes I felt lost, but not in a frightening way. In fact, it may have been that childhood sense of being lost in a safe environment that led me to writing and drew me to the familiar and addictive aura of freedom that comes when completely absorbed in a creative endeavor.

Back then, creativity was built into every day—as effortlessly as getting out of bed in the morning and sliding feet into well-worn slippers. Childhood and creativity were a given; as an adult I miss that sense of daily creative ownership. A part of me resents having to justify (mainly, to myself) time to daydream, sing, or scribble. Why do we need permission to just stare into space and watch the dust motes dance (without having to grab for a rag or mop)?

Not long ago I found a stack of drawings I’d made as a child that my mother had carefully packed away. I didn’t become an artist (for good reason!) but the innocent joy in those drawings returned when I leafed through. Emptiness (and the time to fill it) is indeed a rare and precious gift, and I’m grateful that my parents were able to provide it. I wonder if they knew how truly important a gift it was.

I wonder, too, how many children are still able to idle and play in a carefree state of creative reverie. In times gone by (before AR-15s in classrooms) a charmed American childhood was possible; I can only hope that it still is.