In the springtime of my youth, I possessed that innate gift that all children possess at some age or another, for some length of time or another, in varying degrees, that glorious gift of being able to see the world with wonder. It is that gift that, as a child, allowed me to understand the language of birds and trees, of grasshoppers and bumblebees, of the wind and the river. Nearly all children possess this gift of communication with the natural world, this harmony and communion with everything that is truly alive. It is saved, however, for only the most rare and elect of individuals to sustain this natural ability and to retain this sacred gift, that of possessing the heart of a child, as they age and grow older.
As is the case with nearly all children, time passed and this ability left me, as slowly and surely as a waterfall cascading from a mountaintop and into the sea. As I grew and began attending grade school, a gradual dissemination into the ways of society took over and my once inherent abilities to speak and listen to the secret language of the natural world diminished and then, all of a sudden and without notice, vanished. At the time I did not realize quite what it was that was missing, yet I knew deep inside of me that there was, indeed, some vital part of my being that was now gone, as if there was a beautiful bird that was perched in the chamber of my soul and it had flown away.
All of this changed the summer that Michael came to visit. I was sixteen years of age at the time, Michael was a distant relative and was several years older than I, he wanted to experience the world and to travel, and his parents had suggested it a good idea for him to come and stay with my family. I still remember, with certain poignancy, the first day that Michael walked into my life. From the very beginning I was completely in awe of him, I was in awe of his presence and his demeanour, in awe of his countenance, the humble yet haughty grace with which he carried himself in every step that he took. His voice was at once soft and enchanting yet firm and commanding, his words were carefully and precisely measured, each one exact to its given context. The single feature that separated Michael from every other human being that I had me up until that point in my life, however, was a gleam in his eyes, as if they were illuminated with bright stars shining through them, this gleam was at once serene and dreamlike, focused yet distant.
Michael immediately took a liking to me and took me on as his pupil that summer, something for which I am ever grateful. It was through his guidance that I remembered what I had lost and that I had found it once more. Although Michael would turn twenty that summer, he was one of those rare individuals who never lost the glorious gift that children possess, he was, in fact, endowed with the heart of a child. When he walked down the street, his smile would light up the faces of pretty girls and elderly citizens alike, when he approached the pond, doves and swans would sing to him, in the woods, robins and blackbirds would dance merrily at his feet. His favourite pastime was resting beneath large trees and simply staring at the sky, Michael loved nothing more than watching the clouds roll along leisurely yet with perfect purpose. We spent many days that summer underneath oaks and elms, watching the clouds, and time alike, drift slowly into the past.
In addition to this form of austere reflection, Michael’s other favourite pastime was composing and reciting poetry, and at any given time he was liable to voice the words of William Blake,
“To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wildflower,
To hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.”
I have heard those words of Blake’s many times since that summer and every time I am reminded of Michael, not only because he was fond of speaking them, but also because they capture his very essence. He truly saw worlds in grains of sand and heavens in wildflowers, he held infinity in the palm of his hand, and he had experienced eternity in an hour. He never spoke of neither past nor future, seeming to be firmly entrenched in the present moment at all times. Through my time spent with Michael I slowly relearned the secret language of the natural world, that of birds and trees, grasshoppers and bumblebees, the wind and the river. I slowly found, once more, that which had been lost to me, that unnamable yet integral essence, and I slowly remembered that eternal wisdom, the wisdom that rests inside the depths of every person, which had been long forgotten. Now and again, I think of Michael and I wonder upon which dusty road the wind has now blown him, yet I know that wherever he is, the natural world speaks to him and he to it. It speaks to him in that secret language that can only be heard, listened to, and understood, by those special and precious individuals who possess the heart of a child.
