Cherry Picker

The petals, dispersed by the sigh of the wind, gently danced to the ground.  Sometimes a gust would send them swimming in a brief flurry, before drifting down to blanket the playground and garden in a layer of pink.

The cherry tree, that majestic tower standing tall behind the kindergarten had bloomed as its fruit begun to ripen.  The tree greeted children and parents and bade them farewell as they tore themselves away and headed for home after another day.

A colleague mounted a ladder and collected a handful of cherries-some were not quite ripe.  This collection was hurriedly devoured.  With the children's curiosity whetted it was only a matter of time before it piqued.  And I was the smiling victim.

First I was asked for a simple cherry, a request to which I happily obliged.  Within an instant I was swarmed, surrounded by bear trap paws that clutched and grabbed and screamed.
'Cherry, please!'
I stretched reaching for chose cherries hanging from the lowest branches.  When I had exhausted my limited reach, I turned to face the masses of eager faces and frowning to convey the full weight of my disappointment I told them there were no more.  Most relented and turned sorrowfully away, plodding back to the swing, trikes or sandpit; empty handed.
I would have thought it'd end there.  I returned to my regular duties of being pulled, pushed, quizzed, sat on and being an  accessory to general mayhem and chaos.

However, the following day I was approached by one the smaller shier children, she smile a toothy smile and made a request I could not then refuse.
'Cherry, please.'
'Okay.'  I replied.  'I'll see what I can do.'  Unsure whether she had understood I followed her to the cherry tree at the bottom of the garden.  My movement in the appropriate direction had obviously signified that I'd accepted to grant this request.

After several laps of the tree, with my gaze arched upward and a multitude of sighs.  I tried jumping and clutching.  With much ado this initially unsuccessful comical effort worked.  My success was short lived; a hungry mob of spectators had gathered and they began to chant.  They wanted their cherries.

I was the ladder.  I was the stair, as they climbed up reaching for the branches and the cherries, laughing and yelling loudly and directing me in German.  I coaxed and pushed them to repeat everything in English.
'Left.'
'Right.'
'Back.'
'Stephen, back!'
This could have gone on forever, or at least until there were no cherries but I soon feigned a sore back, bending and stooping I made my way to the bench and lay down.  I pretended to sleep, snoring loudly with my hands cupped on my chest.  I soon got a smack on the belly and felt the wind knocked out of me.  Hands and knees pressed upon me as little bodies began to crawl on top of me.
'I'm awake!'  I yelled.  'I'm up, I'm standing up.'
No where is safe here.
Everything can be climbed; a peak or summit waiting to be conquered.  The trick then, is to never stand still.

Always be moving.

There is seldom a body that remains stationary here anyway, save for those that pause to shed a few tears, but usually within moments they too remember their momentum and their eyes dry as they rush off to some other adventure.  There is a multitude of stories unfolding every minute,  It's a time of experimentation and boundary pushing.  Their lives, like their playtime can encompass a multiverse of narratives, each clutching and begging to be fulfilled.

Always be learning.
Always be changing.
Always be growing.
Always be climbing.
Always be reaching.