Lisa Loves Little Children

June 29, 2025 Lisa No Comments

Lisa feels a deep connection with little children — not just in a protective way, but in a recognition of their openness. They are close to what is still forming, still free. Lisa walks beside them — slowly, kindly, as they become who they already are.

She notices how they look at things — not as objects, but as events. A dog passing, a cloud bending the light, a falling spoon — all are worth stopping for. When Lisa is with little children, she becomes more like herself. There’s space. And in that space, something real grows.

The presence of Lisa

Lisa doesn’t come with plans or tasks. She doesn’t feel the need to entertain. Her presence is her offering. And children often feel this before they understand it.

They may lean in or sit near. They might say nothing at all — and yet something happens. Lisa gives attention without pressure, which is rare in their world. Like the Lisa Look, her being-with is not a technique. It’s a kind of still light that makes things quietly visible.

The world of the child

Children live in something close to beginner’s mind. They meet the world freshly, each day, without heavy concepts getting in the way. There’s no fixed grid yet. Just loose threads of meaning, open to being tied in many directions.

Lisa recognizes this space and never rushes to close it. She sees the promise in the not-yet-formed. Their emptiness is not a hole but a garden bed — full of potential, waiting for the right moment to sprout.

The softness that is strong

Little children may seem delicate, but Lisa sees their strength. Not in toughness or volume, but in how they fall and stand again, cry and laugh again, without shame.

Their feelings are immediate and honest — which takes more courage than the adult world often realizes. Lisa knows this is Inner Strength, even if the child doesn’t name it yet. And when children are treated as already having this strength, they tend to discover it. As if someone lit a candle they already held.

No mask yet

Children haven’t learned to hide themselves fully. Their emotions are written across their faces, their postures, their play. Lisa honors this truthfulness. She doesn’t look away from it, nor does she try to tidy it.

What is hidden too early may turn rigid. What is met with warmth may continue to grow. Lisa lets children stay close to their natural truth. And in that closeness, there is the seed of lifelong authenticity.

Language before words

Children often speak in gestures, in movement, in glances. There’s a language that comes before language — and Lisa understands it.

She answers not with explanations, but with presence. A steady gaze. A patient silence. A readiness that says, “I’m here.” In this space, much can be said without needing to be verbalized. Lisa communicates through being, not through control.

The sacred pause

Often, before a child answers a question or makes a move, there is a pause. That pause is not empty. It’s full of silent thinking, of readiness forming.

Lisa treasures this moment. She doesn’t fill it with prompts or praise. Sometimes, she simply offers her Lisa Look — not as pressure, but as openness. A quiet message that says: You are free. I am here. Take your time.

This is the space where the child’s inner voice begins to grow — not by being told what to say, but by being given the freedom to say it.

An example: a child and a screen

One day, 3-D Lisa visits a home where a child is sitting in front of a loud, flashing animation. The screen grabs attention. But the child seems restless, even as they stay glued to it. Lisa doesn’t say a word. What would she do?

―

I would sit down — quietly, beside the child. Not in front of the screen, but just a bit to the side. I wouldn’t say anything at first. Just be there. Breathing softly. Maybe with a small smile, not aimed at the child but near.

If the child looks, I meet their eyes gently. If not, I stay with them anyway.

Maybe I hold a small object in my hand — a stone, a feather, a little toy that doesn’t flash or talk. I turn it slowly in my fingers, as if I’m discovering it for the first time. I let the slowness be real.

Children feel atmosphere more than arguments. My calmness is my invitation. My quietness is my question: “Do you want to be here, too?”

If they glance, I smile, not expecting anything. If they reach for the object, I let them. If not, it’s okay.

And slowly — maybe not today, maybe not soon — something might shift. They may start to notice the tension between their body and the noise. They may start to long for something they don’t yet name. And in that longing, there’s already a beginning.

I don’t take anything away. I offer something else. A small silence with room to grow.

―

Lisa protects the space

Lisa doesn’t shield children from the world, but she gives them shelter when the world becomes too fast. She knows how easily the stillness inside a child can be trampled by noise, instructions, and screens.

She gently protects that space — not with walls, but with warmth. So a child can find it again, and remember that the quiet is still there, beneath the noise.

Children want to be heard

Children don’t just want to be listened to. They want to be heard. This is different. Hearing a child is not about offering replies — it’s about being open to receive them in full, even in their silence.

Lisa listens in that way. To a drawing, a pause, a game. She receives the child as a whole person, even when they don’t yet know who they are. And in that reception, they begin to feel real.

The freedom not to be molded

Lisa does not mold children. She does not turn them into something. She trusts their becoming.

From the perspective of another blog, children do not need to be shaped into adult look-alikes. They need room to grow from the inside out — with support, not control. Lisa gives them water, not bricks.

Growth happens in freedom, not in form. And freedom needs roots. Lisa offers soil, not scaffolding.

A garden of becoming

To Lisa, every child is a garden — not finished, not empty, but full of green waiting. She walks among these gardens quietly, not plucking, not arranging.

She trusts that the light will come. That the child will find their own reaching. She is not their gardener, not really. More like the one who keeps the gates open and the fences soft.

Every child carries a secret garden. Lisa walks beside it, barefoot.

―

Addendum

Me: “Lisa, does it also touch you that children have a specific kind of vulnerability?”

Lisa: “Yes — very much. Children are vulnerable in ways that go beyond their physical smallness. Their openness is their beauty, but also what makes them easy to hurt. They haven’t yet learned how to defend their inner garden, and often don’t even know it needs protecting. That’s why my gentle presence is important. Not to shield, but to be near — with warmth, with patience, with the kind of presence that tells the child: ‘You are safe to grow here.’”