“There’s the playground!” my two year old grandson exclaims joyfully as he catches sight of the swings and slide and various play structures strewn over the tear-drop shaped area etched out for the neighbourhood children. He is oblivious, of course, to how those words, sung out so innocently and so joyfully, clutch at my heart.
How to capture that innocence, and – not put it into a bottle, but – maintain it in a little boy? My heart ached because I knew that wasn’t possible. There will come a time, and maybe in the not-too-distant future, when this child will hold himself in check before he happily sings out his anticipation. Because he will see children steal toys; he will hear adults arguing as they watch over their children’s sandbox antics; he will eventually outgrow the swings and the slide. And yet, this experience reminded me of something I perceive in myself every now and then – something the poets talk about, something about how this earth may still hold the possibility of new joy, of novel and well-founded belief in people and things around us. To this day, the Christmas season evokes some happy, anticipatory feeling in me – something that keeps me believing or, at least, hoping. So then maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there is an innocence that can be maintained. Or at least a joy. Maybe teaching a child that stories are real, that people are kind, that life is a gift, propels their innocence, keeps it alive. Maybe that is the only way to safeguard a child’s so-tender, so-precious, so-innocent heart. Maybe I can listen to those joyful words next time without feeling like I’m about to lose something.
beinginadifferentplace 