Friday, September 24, 2010

what a child sees

my brother's daughter approached me one time and said,"uncle, i made a picture of you. i want you to have it, but, don't be angry with me if it does not look good!" she warned me.

i smiled. "why, thank you, my dear, of course i won't be, c'mon let's see it!" i told her reassuringly.

she ran excitedly back to her study table and she handed me her drawing. she even scrawled some dedication beside my face. i laughed hard when i saw it. she squirmed.
"you don't like it?" she asked.
"of course, i do! i love it!" i hugged her tight to prove my honesty.
she smiled at this reassurance. "see, uncle, i even gave your hair back!" i glanced at my portrait again and it's true i have a full head of hair. she did not forget my eyeglasses which hovered snugly over my nose. and what's amazing is that mole on the right side of my face. even that was included!

"you can keep it," she said.

"why, thank you, bea! i hope you can draw my face again sometime" i replied.

"maybe" she said as she went back to finish her school assignment.

later that night, i looked at my portrait again. the one bea gave me. i thought to myself, well perhaps this is the most honest picture of me. this one which a child did. i remembered what they say of children. that their eyes and minds see the real picture of the world. uncluttered by the incessant worries and uncertainties that we adults have. no biases. no cover ups. just the plain truth. we have had that frame of mind before, but we lost it as we grew up. because we learned that in order to survive in this world, one needs to be condescending. one needs to allow for untruth. most often, it is untruth that dictates our lives. we are actors on this stage we call Life, that's a cliche we most often hear.

and that's why we must turn to spirituality at some point in our lives. or religion. because we must become as children again. become pure minded again. but it will be difficult of course. we will have to have a lot of undoing. but we must try, if we wish to be truthful again.

i remembered a poem i once wrote from way back -- april 22, 1995 -- when i read about this atrocious crime against a little girl named Angel:

these are really different times now
it is her Age,
one easily gleans her hideous form
and her fearsome activity and influence
in the events surrounding, unfolding.
we are raping little angels now
and we leave their mangled bodies
inside sacks or cement bags
to rot,
silently, or perhaps
to be further mangled
by speeding trucks.
i wept that time. they never were able to catch the criminal. and Angel is now forgotten. we were in that frame of mind then, we are still now and will continue to be unless ... we strive
to see as a child again.

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