Friday, March 6, 2009
"No; we have been as usual asking the wrong question. It does not matter a hoot what the mockingbird on the chimney is singing. The real and proper question is: Why is it beautiful?"
I wonder if I met a magician this afternoon.
I was on a bus excursion, and a youngster of six years or thereabouts sat behind me- one must, of course, correlate climbing, leaning and squirming with a child's version of sitting.
She enthused to her mother about the virtues of bicycles, sheep-shaped clouds and sesame seeds, the latter being a new discovery.
"What are sesame seeds?" she asked warily as her mother produced some curious looking crackers; and shortly afterward the little girl proclaimed sesame seeds to be her favourite seed in the whole world, even better than apple seeds.
I was thoroughly appreciating, in what I hoped was a suitably subtle manner, the litany of lovely things.
"Mommy, I don't like it when you do magic. Magic can go out of control."
I very nearly spun around in my seat to see what I could see, but I succeeded in maintaining my composure at the strange and sudden curve in the conversation.
Was the lady by profession a magician, with a ready supply of rabbits and black hats and white doves?
There again, perhaps the lively child meant only to suggest that her mother must be a person of endless wonders to have knowledge of such things as sesame seed crackers.
Posted by Phyllis Hunt McGowan at 12:49 PM