The longer you parent the more you learn that simple things are best: carousels, crayons, mud, and trees. The camphor tree in our front yard has a swing hanging from one limb, a sublime scatter of shade, and an entire world of branches and leaves ready to explore by our three-year old. Once placed in the tree, Child Harbat wanted to stay up there, and who can blame her?
Our tree became a roost from which the world could be watched with impunity, a royal post removed from the common world. She gave our tree hugs, kisses, and once she found the right-sized perch, clung on like a baby orangutan, at one with the bark and gently swaying branches.