With a Child's Eyes

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Just in case I haven’t told you recently, let me reiterate how much I enjoy being a grandmother…especially yours. Because of the freedom that one generation of separation brings, our relationship is basically carefree and…for the most part…I have no other obligation to it other than enjoyment. It’s a redo of being with your mom and Aunt Bee when they were young…seeing through their eyes even the smallest of wonders all over again as they discover them…but made even more delightful by being unburdened with the responsibility of raising you.

Wouldn’t it be nice if somehow life’s unfolding allowed us to keep the incredulity? To always be amazed by the details of our surroundings. To let the brushes of our imagination run freely over the canvas and create fantastic images of hope and pleasure…and not get so settled in reality that we become immune to the enchanted nature of life itself. Why can’t we thrill at the laughter of a child as they blow the seeds of a thistle helter-skelter into the wind instead of worrying about all the hideous weeds that will result?

I was combing through the scrapbooks of your great, great, great, great grandfather Joseph Benson Cottrell earlier today and found a poem he had clipped from a newspaper sometime in 1887. Although it is titled, the attribution of authorship carries only initials and I am unable to find who that might be. It seems to capture my speculation that if…maybe…we adults would just close our eyes and let you tell us how things should be seen…we would be better off.

With a Child’s Eyes

I saw them pass along the thoroughfare,

A blind old man with long hair, snowy white.

And at his side a little maiden fair

With golden locks and large eyes, blue and large.

The old man listened to the prattling child,

Who told of sights that filled her with surprise.

He turned his head this way and that, and smiled

As if he saw them with the maiden’s eyes.

She told him of the wonders she could see

In the tore windows where, in bright array,

Beautiful dolls, a fairy company

Regaled forth on all who passed along the way.

She told how horses prancing through the streets

The gorgeous equipages drew along,

From which reclining on the cushioned seats,

Fair women looked upon the passing throng.

And then they turned their steps into a park,

And sat upon a bench beneath the trees;

The old man, though the world to him was dark,

Heard the birds sing, the leaves stir in the breeze.

He heard the waters from the fountain fall,

And with the little maiden’s eyes, could see

The green grass and the beds of flowers, the full

Trees and the children sporting merrily.

The joy of all the world he seemed to share,

And love in others’ happiness the sense

Of the affection, for he had no air

Of sadness or of suffering intense.

Looking upon his patient, smiling face,

I said, “The blind who pass beneath the rod,

Groping in darkness, seem to find a grace

That others miss, and so come nearer to God.”

—JMH in the New York Ledger