Monday, February 15, 2010

children

When we adults think of children, there is a simple truth which we ignore: childhood is not preparation for life, childhood is life. A child isn’t getting ready to live; a child is living.

The child is constantly confronted with the nagging question: “What are you going to be?” Courageous would be the youngster who, looking the adult squarely in the face, would say, “I’m not going to be anything, I already am.” We adults would be shocked by such an insolent remark, for we have forgotten — if, indeed, we ever knew — that a child is an active, participating, and contributing member of society from the time of birth. Childhood isn’t a time when one is moulded into a human who will then live life; a child is a human who is living life. No child will miss the zest and joy of living unless these are denied by adults who have convinced themselves that childhood is a period of preparation.

How much heartache we would save ourselves if we would recognize the child as a partner with adults in the process of living, rather than always viewing her as an apprentice. How much we could teach each other; adults with the experience and children with the freshness. How full both our lives could be.

Little children may not lead us, but at least we ought to discuss the trip with them; after all, life is their journey, too.

—Reverend John A. Taylor, First Unitarian Society, 1993

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Section 52

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab
and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow’d wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.

Walt Whitman (from Song of Myself)