A Christmas Offering
― Flannery O'Connor, Mystery and Manners: Occasional Prose
Wall Mural by Dr Abe V Rotor (7ft x 90ft)
"A thing of beauty is a boy forever." AVR wall mural at author's residence, Barangay Greater Lagro, QC
Three young musketeers are set to conquer the world
away from the mall, home and school;
If Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn were real and alive today,
we wouldn't know who's genius, who's fool.
Who is the primitive, who is the civilized, oh brother!
when we prefer the city over the quaint village,
car for walking distance, processed over fresh food,
philosophy over instinctive knowledge.
Everything defined in rich vocabulary, but a rose is a rose
and nothing else, energy to matter and back,
universal cycles no genius will ever truly understand,
Homo sapiens! it is humility we lack.
Innocence in children, we make up for the falsehood
of the world of grownups and sages;
Einstein and Darwin never knew the whys of the world,
children have been asking for ages.
If genius is reborn in the innocence of children,
then knowledge into wisdom distilled,
compensated in old age for the young ones' sake:
'tis the fate of humanity in Nature sealed. ~
“I do not miss childhood, but I miss the way I took pleasure in small things, even as greater things crumbled. I could not control the world I was in, could not walk away from things or people or moments that hurt, but I took joy in the things that made me happy.” ― Neil Gaiman, The Ocean at the End of the Lane
“and when all the wars are over, a butterfly will still be beautiful.”
― Ruskin Bond, Scenes from a Writer's Life
Children and Nature“Because children grow up, we think a child's purpose is to grow up. But a child's purpose is to be a child. Nature doesn't disdain what lives only for a day. It pours the whole of itself into the each moment. We don't value the lily less for not being made of flint and built to last. Life's bounty is in its flow, later is too late. Where is the song when it's been sung? The dance when it's been danced?
It's only we humans who want to own the future, too. We persuade ourselves that the universe is modestly employed in unfolding our destination. We note the haphazard chaos of history by the day, by the hour, but there is something wrong with the picture. Where is the unity, the meaning, of nature's highest creation? Surely those millions of little streams of accident and willfulness have their correction in the vast underground river which, without a doubt, is carrying us to the place where we're expected! But there is no such place, that's why it's called utopia.
The death of a child has no more meaning than the death of armies, of nations. Was the child happy while he lived? That is a proper question, the only question. If we can't arrange our own happiness, it's a conceit beyond vulgarity to arrange the happiness of those who come after us.” ― Tom Stoppard, The Coast of Utopia