You don’t need me to tell you that this world is bouncy.
The word sounds so friendly until you fall off the seesaw.
You don’t need me to remind you how high and low a single hour can go. Between your breakfast blueberries and the noonday sun, you may get called into your boss’s office, called “incandescent,” and called by the veterinarian — not the receptionist, but the vet herself, with seawater in her voice.
You may catch your sweater on the edge of the swingset or catch yourself singing hymns in the car.
You may catch your reflection in the mirror and wonder who you are.
Unlike the cats, we cannot even pretend to control everything. Our bottoms get sore from the seesaw. What can a human bean do?
Harvey will tell you. You can’t stop the seesaw, but you can choose to see.
If we ran the playground, we would have written Harvey’s recess very differently. His brown-burrow body is stricken with slides that lead nowhere and swings that fling him into the mud. His ear canal has proposed a duel with cancer, ten paces to surgery. His frequent-flyer card at Dr. Fantastic’s has been punched so often, he has earned a free barbecued elk.
Harvey did not choose his macabre carnival of conditions, but Harvey holds the reins of each ride. High and low, well and ill, Harvey sees.
Harvey sees the volunteer whose violets have gone grey. Empathy dressed in soft brown flannel, Harvey comes beside all who sigh. If you ache, Harvey knows. He cannot change the speed of your bumper cars, but he will ride in your lap.
Harvey sees the invisible moon shoes under happy feet. Pure generosity in a white bib, he jumps for the joyful, exulting in your existence. If you are grateful, Harvey joins you. He cannot freeze the golden hour mid-air, but he will savor it until laughter runs down both of your chins.
Harvey sees the needful normal, the hopscotch hours where we live most of our lives. Unaccustomed to being underwhelmed, he will head-bonk you loose from the mundane. Hey. Hey. We get to live on a playground, you know. We get to hold hands and snuzzle fleece and dream of elk with mozzarella antlers. Or marriage proposals from Paul Rudd. The dream is up to the dreamer, you know?
Harvey sees dreams walking, and suddenly we find ourselves awake.
The day may toss us like wiffle balls and whirligigs, but we remain free to see.
We can start simple, trying it on cats. Have you seen the iconic GIF of Shaquille O’Neal wiggling with delight? Test me on this: summon your inner Shaq or Harvey the next time you see someone you love or like or tolerate. Wiggle merrily. Stare straight in their eyes. Jiggle the pillars of the crotchety careful universe.
Keep doing it. Lock eyes with a cat and make the most ridiculous, gaudy, flamboyant smile you can muster. Do it with the squirrel eating your mums. Do it with the aunt who asks when you’re going to get married. Do it with the cashier whose face can’t hide recent tears.
Tell me they don’t smile back. Maybe even wiggle. Maybe even steady the seesaw for one moment of mercy.
Do it in the mirror, too. Then come back and do it with Harvey.
We’re all seesaw-sore. But Harvey sees endless opportunities. Harvey sees you. Cats and people and wombats, we get to see each other through.
Open your eyes, kittens. The dream is up to the dreamer.