I can remember the feeling as if I’m there. Sitting in her living room, peering around the wall to look towards the dining room, and seeing grandma, rocking my younger brother in the dark far left corner. In that common moment, every time, she simply sang “You are My Sunshine.” She always held us so close, so tight, and where my days of naps and creeky rocking in that thrift store find were over, my brother was two years younger and still afforded the opportunity. Over and over she would sing. “You make me happy, when skies are grey…” And though it was her voice I remember, it is he I associate all the emotional ties to the song. My little brother, the constant sidekick of my childhood with his oversized glasses and M.C. Hammer lightning pants. This is his song.
The first children’s toy I ever made for my business was a sun. A simple round shape, with rosy cheeks and “beams” of sunlight made from different patterns and textures of fabrics. Maybe it was because it was the first thing I’d made that my 3-month-old Octavia could hold, but I absolutely adored that toy. I named her “Huggable Sunshine”, and though she was never overly popular, seeing her still reminds me that everything has it’s beginning. She was mine.
Once Octavia hit the age where her takings to crayon and paper were more than just speedy scribbles, her first connected shapes were people. Blob people, I know you know them. But soon the blob people were blob families, and after that they needed scenery. The first thing: a sun. EVERY picture suddenly had a sun, with long, beautiful beams extending towards those people. It just fit, for after the sun came the grass, and after the grass the flowers. And she would tell us, in simple preschool wisdom, that the people needed the sun to live. The sun was what made them happy.
These days, when my girls wake up in the morning, they head straight for our living room, where they are commonly greeted by me and my cup of coffee. It’s pretty standard that as the sun rises just beyond their swing set, June will look outside and comment, “The sun is out! It’s going to be a sunny day!” It’s so simple, and yet the joyous proclamation from a three-year-old that it’s going to be a “sunny” day tends to be the positive outlook I need to begin my morning as well. As the day progresses, the sun gradually (or some days, too quickly) finds itself in my dining room. It shines so brightly through my window that I tend to stand there in awe, absorbing it, taking a few deep breaths. Heaven knows, no matter what, there is always stress that needs to be released. So I let go, and let the sun shine in.
Long after the sun is gone and I’ve reached that point where yeah, I want to be done with the day as well, we hit bedtime. Face it, bedtime is never easy. You want it to go as quickly as possible, and you’re praying that there’s an inkling of time before you too go to bed that maybe, just maybe, you can relax and make a little time for yourself. In our house, my husband takes Octavia, with her book of choice and chatty conversation, and nestles her in until she falls asleep. Me, I get the twins. Twice the pajamas to put on, twice the blankets to tuck them in just right, and twice the determined toddlers to resist the inevitable. I even have to make sure the dogs are cozy on a bed so they don’t whine at my feet to join us. But, after all that, when the book is read and all is well, I get to sing, “You are My Sunshine.” Over and over and over again, it wouldn’t surprise me if I’ve dozed off singing it. There’s a peace to it. There’s a peace to looking at one of my girls while I sing and seeing them, with fond eyes, truly appreciate that mom is taking the time. There’s a peace in singing a song that meant so much to me over the years, knowing it will mean the same to them someday as well. And there’s a peace in pausing life and just hearing the words. After a long day being a parent, something so simple is just the ticket.
The fact of the matter is, anything around us can inspire. Anything can bring us to appreciate. Anything can put us in a place of remembrance where we pause and reflect. You just have to find your “something”. My brother is 33 with a family of his own. But in the midst of a song that takes me back, I remember, he is also, so simply, still my brother. We can peel away all those newfound responsibilities and find ourselves back where it all began. As with all things, we can see how far we’ve come by looking to where we started. I can look at a simple circular piece with rays of scrap fabric and find why I do what I do today. I can gaze outside and realize not only when a new day is beginning, but also find when that same day is about to close. I absorb it; my day is reflected in who I am. And I have found enormous satisfaction of life through the simplicity of sunshine.
