McKay is a gifted conversationalist. I would say he has a knack for conversation. A flare. A penchant. A talent. He listens intently, waiting for his turn to speak. And then, as if he can sense what you need to hear, he launches into what can become extended diatribes (or soliloquies as the occasion calls for) full of inflection, pauses, twisted facial expressions and frequent full body smiles.
Matt and I have discussed it again and again. There is no way our other kids verbalized like this. And so early. It's like he understands us, but speaks another language. Maybe it's Heavanese. You know--like Chinese, Japanese, Lebanese. Yes. McKay speaks Heavenese.
It's a beautiful language; filled with wisdom and purity. It makes me smile from head to toe and even giggle in the middle. There is a tricky way he curls his lips to make some of the sounds. I love watching his lips. Even more impressive is that a great deal of what he says is based purely on feeling, reflecting and seemingly commenting on the emotions swirling around him.
What would it be like to have to feel your way through life again? To rely purely on your instincts to navigate? When do we lose that ability—or begin to ignore it? I propose the world would be a much different place if we all did more to feel--or pay attention to our feelings. What if when a neighbor insists she’s fine, we could sense the need in her voice, then instead of ignoring it for the million reasons we've learned to ignore so much that is pure and right and good, we fill it? What if?
Just something I'm learning from my little mentors these days. Perfecting the art of feel may be one of my most challenging lessons yet. But then the rich lessons my littlest one was sent to share rarely come easily. He leads with his heart; a heart so big and full of voice there was only room enough for half of it. Feel on.