All my life I’ve loved sharing the magic I see in things. It might be light on the mountains, stars in the sky, raindrops of spring leaves, but whatever it is, I like to call it to other people’s attention, it makes my joy multiply.

Not everyone likes this, some people are downright insulted that I would speak to them or their child, and I get that, I guess. I know my own children, though they have benefitted greatly from the beauty I have shown them in the world, are sometime embarrassed by my willingness to connect with others out there.

They will say I’m too hyper, I should leave people alone, I shouldn’t try to make babies smile, but that’s my favorite thing. For the most part, a shared joke or a compliment is well received, people giggle, or smile, or nod knowingly and we part, having had that one tiny connection. they  know they were seen, and I have the elation of lightening someone’s day. I hope.

But the older I get, the more often I realize that I don’t have to do that. Point out a rainbow in a city fountain to some kids playing in the water? Show a family of hikers the secret pond with newts, their saffron bellies flashing as they swim like tiny dinosaurs through the silty mud? Mom! Leave them alone!

So yesterday when I took a solo trip to the Woodland Park zoo in Seattle, I decided I would refrain from my usual running commentary to other visitors. (Okay, I made one exception when I overheard a French family struggling to figure out what was in a particular exhibit, so I said, “Regarde, les grands oiseaux.” Look, the big birds!

I decided instead to just watch and resist the urge to share what I saw and my knowledge about whatever it may be. It was interesting, honestly not great. I felt separated, distanced from others, kind of, well, solitary. I mean, it was okay, I like to be alone, I love to travel alone and go to museums and have experiences on my own. I prefer hiking alone and spend much of time in the forest listening to what the earth around me has to say. It’s quite a bit.

So, when I came up a group of kids on a school trip in the reptile house, I just tailed along behind them waiting my turn to look in at the monitors and the snakes and the frogs and the dragons. When a spot opened at one of the glass fronted cases, I leaned down and searched around with my eyes for the animal within. I saw nothing, but knowing that camouflage is everything for some of these creatures, I kept looking.

And then I felt a delicate patting on my left arm, like a butterfly testing its wings, trying to get my attention. I looked down into the huge, brown eyes of a seven-year-old, who smiled shyly at me, and then, without taking her eyes from mine, she pointed down in front of me.

And there it was, a turtle, so perfectly colored that he blended in with the leaves and ground of his tiny world. I exclaimed with delight, surprised that I could have missed it, and when I looked back at the child to thank her, her eyes shone with the delight that can only come from sharing something like a secret.

My kindred spirit. Thank you, child. You restored my love and confidence in sharing with strangers.

Please never stop, so much happiness can be made from small things.

From a glance of sympathy,

from a smile of knowing,

from a secret joke.

We are all, after all,

here together.

Shari, June 19th, 2025