Before we left Utah, I took my kids to the BYU Museum of Art. They were having an exhibit of work by Walter Wick, the photographer for the “I Spy” books. I thought they’d be fascinated. One was. My oldest daughter studied the photos and the displays carefully, looking at all the details and creativity. My younger daughter, however, kept looking down the other hallway. It had black walls and a pile of black garbage bags in a room at the end.
“Can we go down there?” she asked.
“Not now,” I said.
We had limited time. I’d learned, from experience, that tackling an entire gallery could be overwhelming. I wanted to stick to one exhibit.
We went back to Walter Wick.
My youngest daughter looked. She ran around. She needed to go to the bathroom.
The bathroom was outside the other exhibit. I saw her eyeing it, being drawn to it. Walking close enough to peer down the hallway and then walking away, to the bathroom. We left the bathroom. Her eyes skirted down the hallway. Again. To the garbage bags. She looked at me.
Off she ran. Down the hallway to piles of garbage bags and a huge canvas of colored balloons. There was a sculpture of plastic chairs and a roomful of packing peanuts that were blown by a fan into an impromtu dance.
She ran from room to room. Excited. Giddy.
I thought about her personality. Spontaneous. Energetic. Impatient. Brave.
My oldest was still with Walter Wick. She was quiet. Disciplined. Detailed.
Both daughters found the same thing: something that intrigued them. They were just in different rooms.
And me? I loved them both.