Tickling. My youngest daughter loves to have tickle fights.
Being tickled drives me crazy. Tickling is the last thing I need today. I have laundry, dishes, lesson plans. . . There's no time for this nonsense.
But she absolutely loves it. Last night, I'm reading to her in bed, and she leans over and starts tickling me. She's laughing so hard (and she's not even the one being tickled). She throws her head back and laughs with that open-mouth-can't-catch-your-breath laughter.
I keep myself still as stone, and then, just when her laughter turns to concern that she's somehow frozen her own mother, I pounce on her with tickles.
This morning, the two of us (now experts in guerrilla tickling), attack an unsuspecting father and older sister in the kitchen. They're too old for tickling, but somehow, they can't resist the game.
Maybe we're never too old for tickling.
Did God make tickling for any good and useful biological reason? I love that it's spontaneous and supremely useless in terms of productivity. But we needed it today. I suddenly remember how this big flair project began. I did something else in my kitchen that changed the whole feeling of the day: I danced in the kitchen.
Then I asked, "What is it about the spontaneous, the supremely useless, and the silly that lets the joy in?"
Tickling made this morning have flair. It let some joy in.
Journal: Who needs a tickle today?