Tuesday, September 30
at 7:09 p.m.
unfortunately, i don't have time to dispense of any witticisms today; i have homework. anyway, here's a first draft of an essay i'm working on for you to peruse. please feel free to comment or criticise - every little bit helps. no title as yet either.
--
As I stare up at the ceiling of my room, my gaze shifts over to the shade of the light fixture. As the light shines through the frosted glass, it illuminates the silhouette-like shape of a tiny spider. The spider moves to the edge of the shade and seems to be looking over it at me. I immediately think of saying, “Hello, Mister Spider.” But, of course, I don’t. Why not? Because I’m an adult now of course; I don’t do such childish things.
That is the reason I don’t do many things: I am an adult and I must act like one. What are some of these childish things that I have put away? I do not laugh rambunctiously in public. I never, never cry in public if I can help it. My sense of wonder is kept to a minimum. I cannot love with abandon. Yes, I am most definitely an adult now. These bad traits of childhood, I have left them behind. Or have I lost them?
A few days ago, while riding eastbound on the Bloor-Danforth subway line, I was jolted from my reverie by a peal of laughter. My immediate reaction was one of irritation. "Why does she (it was a woman) have to laugh so loud?" I thought. I noticed that others around the woman were also showing signs of discomfiture. But she didn’t care; she laughed again.
I also remember reading a story once, of a child being comforted by his father after losing his pet in an accident. As the boy led his father to the place where he had buried his dog, he refused to cry, believing himself to be more of a man for not doing so. Once they arrived at the little mound of earth in their backyard, the father put his arms around his son and began to cry.
Some time ago, I was grumpily following my mother through the Garden Centre at the local Home Depot. While waiting for my mother to finish looking at the flowers, I noticed a middle-aged man leading his son around from plant to plant, stopping to let him smell all the flowers. The fact that the child had Down syndrome only served to make the scene more poignant.
More recently, I heard a piece on the radio of a couple getting married - they are both in their seventies. What would possess them to do such a thing? They’re old; they will die soon. All questions others have asked them. Their reply? “Yes, we know we’re old. But we love each other, and wish to spend the little time we have left together.”
All these people, why are they acting the way they are? Why can’t they act their age? Why laugh so loud? Or cry so hard? Or stop to smell the flowers? Or even love so late in life? I think these people - these adults - are doing so because they’ve never forgotten one thing: the things in life that make us so vulnerable as children are also what make us grow. When we laugh, or cry, or wonder, or love, we give in to a moment of weakness – a moment of being human. And those moments of humanity are what make life worth living.
Laugh. Cry. Wonder. Love.
Live.
--
As I stare up at the ceiling of my room, my gaze shifts over to the shade of the light fixture. As the light shines through the frosted glass, it illuminates the silhouette-like shape of a tiny spider. The spider moves to the edge of the shade and seems to be looking over it at me. I immediately think of saying, “Hello, Mister Spider.” But, of course, I don’t. Why not? Because I’m an adult now of course; I don’t do such childish things.
That is the reason I don’t do many things: I am an adult and I must act like one. What are some of these childish things that I have put away? I do not laugh rambunctiously in public. I never, never cry in public if I can help it. My sense of wonder is kept to a minimum. I cannot love with abandon. Yes, I am most definitely an adult now. These bad traits of childhood, I have left them behind. Or have I lost them?
A few days ago, while riding eastbound on the Bloor-Danforth subway line, I was jolted from my reverie by a peal of laughter. My immediate reaction was one of irritation. "Why does she (it was a woman) have to laugh so loud?" I thought. I noticed that others around the woman were also showing signs of discomfiture. But she didn’t care; she laughed again.
I also remember reading a story once, of a child being comforted by his father after losing his pet in an accident. As the boy led his father to the place where he had buried his dog, he refused to cry, believing himself to be more of a man for not doing so. Once they arrived at the little mound of earth in their backyard, the father put his arms around his son and began to cry.
Some time ago, I was grumpily following my mother through the Garden Centre at the local Home Depot. While waiting for my mother to finish looking at the flowers, I noticed a middle-aged man leading his son around from plant to plant, stopping to let him smell all the flowers. The fact that the child had Down syndrome only served to make the scene more poignant.
More recently, I heard a piece on the radio of a couple getting married - they are both in their seventies. What would possess them to do such a thing? They’re old; they will die soon. All questions others have asked them. Their reply? “Yes, we know we’re old. But we love each other, and wish to spend the little time we have left together.”
All these people, why are they acting the way they are? Why can’t they act their age? Why laugh so loud? Or cry so hard? Or stop to smell the flowers? Or even love so late in life? I think these people - these adults - are doing so because they’ve never forgotten one thing: the things in life that make us so vulnerable as children are also what make us grow. When we laugh, or cry, or wonder, or love, we give in to a moment of weakness – a moment of being human. And those moments of humanity are what make life worth living.
Laugh. Cry. Wonder. Love.
Live.
