This morning I read that our primate ancestress Lucy was likely spending more of her time waltzing on her beautifully arched feet than swinging from trees. I gathered this was a big deal and wasn’t sure why. Three million old ape bones seem about as useful as the latest theory on Armageddon.
So, I do what I always do when something that makes sense to other people doesn’t to me. I eat an egg for breakfast and ask the big A. He said, “Do you remember the orangutans at Lowry Park Zoo?”
I do. They loved each other. The mom orangutan was wiping her baby’s face with a rag, and soon after he was cleaned, he started climbing all over her. I think she laughed.
I like to think our home is full of love, that Dakota and Delilah are evolved canine versions of Darcy and Elizabeth Bennett, that Clara’s heart is in her smile. Yet, Dakota is made nervous by Clara. He has barked a few times and scared her. The other day, as she inched her way closer to his couch, he gave me an unspeakably human look: “Please help. I don’t want to bark. Please help me not bark.”
For an education class, I am reading a horribly tautological book on research, e.g. “You may find you have no time to research because you are busy. Researching can be difficult because it is challenging. Try to make time for things that take the most time.” But sometimes tautologies make delicious sense. Animals are so animal. You love who you love.
Anyway, I think Lucy and her arched feet are trying to tell me how to play blocks and have crawling races with Clara. How to waltz to Ingrid Michaelson, how to get dirty, how to swing from these branches with a smile.
And, here’s my little muffin, who knows how to play with chairs: