In the fields of childhood are growing the flowers of possibility
Gently, they blossom, from the earth, abundantly.
But their frailty is such that the least violent of swirling winds can throw them on the ground and bury them. And the farmer is so determined to dig his furrows, that he can only harvest a tiny part of the seeds, compared to the infinite fragrances upon which, as a perfect ignorant, he treaded.
He’s doing as he learned. He’s doing his best.
Let us quickly cover with our plastic fabrics these outrageous fields of childhood, where life is overflowing over every side. Let us keep out of these greenhouses, so we will be neither wet, nor concerned, by our own mechanisms. Others may have covered our behaviours, and we are covering others’ now.
Isn’t it true that, when we’re shouting at our children, if we are paying enough attention to what is standing behind these bursts of anger, we can hear the sentences from the one upset by our own behaviour as a child?
(and so on and so forth…who shouted first? what was his suffering?)
Looking at our children deeply, we can hear something calling us:
« Listen. Remember. »
And we are screaming back at this indecency, covering every life with an opaque paint of education.
What upsets us in a child, is what is calling at us, from afar, from within ourselves and that, to better muffle, we ignore with our reinforced anger, shouting at others some more.
And our well-educated voices are muting the wrists of our inner child, banging at the door of life. He’s suffocating, as, unexpectedly, the water continues to rise. And he knows, better than anyone else how thirsty we are.