“Children cry not to get their own way but because they know something and they want you to hear it. And you can.”
We were little children once. We know what the truth is. We know, from the inside, what is real in this world, and what is not. We know. It is essential we remember.
We were in little bodies once, wanting only to laugh, cry, jump, roll, play and hug. Yet around us we saw adult people being busy, mean, hurried, loving; often attempting to reach us in some meaningful way, not knowing how. They wanted to. They just didn’t know how to slow down inside.
Little people see our pretense, our false fronts and our efforts to appear like we know what we’re doing. They sense our discomfort at simply being present, quiet, and still, without continuous thoughts. Children, like us, recognize when they are not connecting or being heard. They can feel the separation that exists between child and adult – the big person collective belief that children are “less” and adults are more. That children are to be taught; we are to teach.
Like you and me, they often stop trying to speak honestly or to be heard. Instead, they amplify and escalate their actions to get us to slow down and be present, just as we do in our relationships with others. The adult world may label their attempts to be heard, “tantrums,” or acting out. What else can a little innocent body do to get our attention but become more extreme?
When we were little, we did the same thing. If we didn’t, we went silent inside, shutting down our expression, feelings and spontaneity, lost to an outer world that appeared to not hear us, to be unsafe for our words. There was no one to blame. We simply went silent to a world that did not know how to hear deeply behind the literal words. Even today, our response might be the same. Many of our parents demanded that we adhere to what others said was normal and socially acceptable. They did this to fit in, to do the “right thing,” to do the only thing they knew how to do - - follow the world around them. They often left their internal home, the inner place connected to heart and soul, the place that follows an inner voice. And they asked us the children to do the same. We may, if unnoticed, ask the same of our children, and other adults in our lives.
Growing up, many of us learned to be afraid, and to look good for others. We lived a secret life that few around us noticed, for they were lost in their own secret lives as well. In the everyday hurried environment, the fresh and renewed vitality of each child moving into the world may be dampened immediately by our own suppressed life force which we’ve adopted in an effort to deny that we’ve given our spirit and passion over to a belief system not our own . . . and this system of social order has no intent to expand beyond beliefs held by those before us.
It is as though we all live in a giant movie theater with the same movie playing over and over again. Same dialogue. Same roles. Same actors, complaints and beliefs. And each morning we wake up, unaware that we are entering into the same theater to once again watch and participate in the same film with the same ending. And together, six billion of us agree that this is the only movie playing. What if we suspect there is a different movie playing somewhere else, and we seek it out on our own? Would you go to school? Would you ask your children to be compliant? Would you ask yourself to be compliant? Quiet? Follow the rules? Get a job? Prepare for the future? Would all the regulations and policies and beliefs in your world be as significant?
Would you see women and men as wondrous beings without gender separation? Would you need to marginalize people by making them right or wrong? Normal or abnormal? Crazy or sane? Making up things or having amazing visions? Might you go exploring into the wisdom of your heart and soul, and be with people from that place, living differently, quietly inside, softer with others, sweet with innocence, kind to the children, recognizing they, the little ones, will bring you home to yourself deep inside, gently, with a giggle?
WHERE DID MY INNOCENCE GO?
When we were children, we had no definitions for things. We had no labels, names nor separation of anything. We played. We loved. We cried. We just were and did. Where'd all that go? How did this adult within me come to separate my daily world into so many segments of people and things? So much busyness and hurryness. Is this me anymore? Is this my life? My rhythm. Where did all this comparing and competition come from?
What if I had no need to judge, label or make wrong and right, other people? What would I be left with? I'd hang out with children more. I'd do my work but with a sense of play, and lightness and inclusion of those around me. I'd stop with this testing of children in schools to see if they have reached some artificial goal designed to prove one thing or another for those who need to have things proved. I'd delete the word enemy from my language. I'd care about what I don't understand. I'd live more from wonder than judgment.
I'd then be free to be with people with a sense of wonder and curiosity and engagement. I'd leave out the "fitting them in to a category," or class or color, or even age. All that energy expended to fit you into my belief system would be freed up to see through your eyes.
That's what it is. The children. They aren't here to simply fill in a family. They aren't here simply to bring amazement, and moments of revelation. They are here to instruct us. To demonstrate how to follow our own rhythm, play and be present once again. I know where that little bruce is inside me. He is here now. He's not going anywhere. He is always here now.
IT IS ALWAYS US
I was at the San Jose Airport last week. While waiting for a plane to arrive, I took a shuttle bus to another terminal where I could get a latte. Ten minutes later, holding my newly purchased expresso drink, I stepped onto another shuttle bus returning to the original terminal. The driver, with a most serious expression on his face, noticed my cup and said in what I interpreted as an admonishing tone, "You can't bring food or drinks on the bus."
I replied that I would keep the lid on the cup, be very careful, not drink any until my destination. "No," he said, 'You cannot bring it on the bus. You have to stay here and wait for the next bus or leave it on the trash can outside."
"Your bus is empty," I insisted, "And it is just a few minutes ride, and this cost $3.00." He said, "No." I angrily stepped off the bus, tossed the cup into the trash and returned to my seat directly across from the driver. I was in, what is commonly called, a huff. Thoughts poured in to justify how right I was, how inflexible with rules he was, and, I noticed my own body tension.
A moment later, as I sat quietly, I realized I had "reacted" to him, made him wrong, and me right. I relaxed with that realization. As the bus arrived at my original terminal, the driver opened the door. I stood, walked over to the driver, faced him and paused. He did not know what to expect. We looked into each others eyes. "I apologize," I began. "I apologize for getting angry and giving that anger to you. I had no right to do that. You did your job and I did not respect that. I am sorry."
Tears came to his eyes. His face softened. "I am sorry too," he replied. "I want to give you your $3.00 back. He also pointed to the three video cameras mounted in the bus, monitoring his every move. I said, "thank you for your offer but your what you did was right and correct. I thank you for showing me this part of myself. I am sorry." He insisted one more time that he wanted to pay me back. He saw in my eyes that there was no need for that.
He turned in his seat to face me directly, put his hands together in a prayerful hand clasp, tears in his eyes, and said "thank you." I returned the gesture, bowing to him, and said "And thank you."
I did not need the latte. I did need the reminder, one more time, to see through the eyes of others.
"AS I SEE THE OTHER PERSON IN ME, I CAN CHANGE ANYTHING. AS I SEE THROUGH YOUR EYES AS WELL AS MY OWN, THERE CAN BE NO CONFLICT"
SLOWING DOWN
What would I do, I ask myself, if I could not, emphasis on could not, have or use a computer, a cell phone or email? I like the question. What would I do? I'd slow down lots. I'd walk to your house. I'd call you on a big hand held land line connected to a rather heavy phone sitting on a table. I'd write you a letter on paper and mail it to you.
It is not that I want a horse or a buggy, or a mule, or even no electric lights. Yet, how fast can I go before I dematerialize into a human being swallowing a variety of calming drugs, anti-depressants, stimulants, pain pills, and other alcohol and plants based substances to force my body to be still inside, or at lest numb to how fast I am thinking and moving.
Doesn't make sense. When I was about 12, I remember asking myself quietly, "if life is just about getting up in the morning, going to school, getting grades, graduating, going to work, getting married, having children, buying a house and getting some disease, then dying, why do it? Didn't make sense then. Doesn't now.
A CORE QUESTION
The day before my
son's birthday, I had the idea to ask him if there was anything he
would want to be different with me, the way I treat him? Talk to
him? Be with him? I asked this question after sharing what I would
have said to my parents had they asked me when I was little, and, I
knew they really wanted to know, and it was safe to give any answer.
I would have told my father how much I liked the
stories he told me, his humor, and the affection he gave so freely. I
would have told him that since the age of 8, when I would walk to his
business to work everyday after school, that he would take a moment
when he was on the phone to acknowledge my presence with eye contact, a
nod or even telling the person on the phone that "my son has just
walked in and I want to say hello. My father would have then said, "I
will do that."
I told my son I
would have let my mother know how much I liked her cooking and taking
care of me but not to tell me any more stories about my dad that put me
in the middle. "Tell me good things about my dad but not about your
difficulties with him." She would have said, "You are right, I will
honor that."
Then when I asked my son what he would want me to
know, especially if he knows that I will hear him, not make him wrong
or judge what he says, he replied in a kind and soft voice, "Don't be
frustrated anymore. And if you are frustrated, don't give it to me."
"Thank you," I said, "I will do that." We hugged.
