The Child as the Teacher

From the original manuscript by Mendek Rubin,
”In Quest of the Eternal Sunshine”

We cannot understand our children unless we understand the child in us. Only when I began to reflect on the child in me was I able to comprehend how different a child’s emotional and intellectual responses to everyday experiences are. Without being able to comprehend these differences, we cannot truly communicate with children during the most critical time of their lives.

As an adult, my psychological makeup is geared towards becoming. I am always in want of something. I want what I don’t have, and I don’t usually fully appreciate what I do have. When I look at my neighbor, I experience envy. My hopes, drives and ambitions are directed towards the future; today is just so-so, but hopefully tomorrow will be better. Today I am unhappy, but hopefully something wonderful will come my way tomorrow to make me happy.

Unfulfilled longings, unsatisfied needs, and unrealized goals have become a way of life for many people. So many of us feel pressed for time, as if life was a speeding train whose only purpose is to get there—to reach a certain destination in the future. I am pushing my life in front of me — the minutes, hours, days and nights — hoping and waiting for a better tomorrow.

Sadly, the tomorrows never come. They are always just a little ahead of me. I am chasing shadows. Life is a faraway land whose shores I never reach. Sadly, when I escape the now, life eludes me altogether. Life only exists in the now. Tranquility and peace of mind cannot be found in the later. 

As a child, I lived in the now. I was still capable of experiencing life as a spontaneous flow, without the interference of thought. But everyone was trying very hard to remake me into his or her own image.  Soon, my joyous original innocent state was eclipsed, covered with layers upon layers of thought. My original state went silently and sadly into hiding. What was left was a shell, composed of ideas of what is “good” or “bad.”

“Shoulds” and “musts” settle in our psyche without our conscious knowing. They act like automatic reflexes, becoming a permanent structure within. They create self-doubt and insecurity, and distort our sense of reality. They rob us of our free will, and diminish our freedom. They fence us in an inner prison, a servant to our programming, just like robots. They are like visitors who just take over and never go away. 

A tree is not dissatisfied with being a tree, nor is the sun dissatisfied with being the sun. God is not dissatisfied with being God. But I am dissatisfied with being me. I, in turn, teach my children to be dissatisfied with being themselves. No matter who we are, we are not going to love and appreciate ourselves the way we are — the way we should be appreciated. 

Unbeknownst to the parent and child, a metamorphosis takes place. The naturalness, the spontaneity of the child gives way to the control of its parents.  The weaker gives way to the stronger. The simple life of the child is replaced by a complicated and artificial structure created by the mind — the cultural milieu. Thus the child, slowly but surely, gets usurped of its birthright.

I remember how guilty and ashamed I was to feel good and happy when I was a child. How could I be happy when everyone else was somber and joyless? I thought that there must be something wrong with me. In my confusion, I repressed my joy and my sorrow. The child does not exist in a vacuum. If I am insecure and believe that I have to measure up to society’s expectations, I automatically impart these beliefs onto my children. It is like taking a bird out of nature and shutting it in a cage.

I must teach my children reading, writing and arithmetic. They must learn to become architects, pilots or bricklayers. Other than that, what else can I teach them, since I know nothing myself? I can impart to them only my mistakes. I can teach them how to become victims, how not to stand on their own two feet. They can learn from me how to blame others for the ills of the world. I can teach them how not to follow their intuition, not to trust life, not to trust themselves, and not to follow their bliss.

And that made me think that perhaps we can learn from the child just as much as the child can learn from us. Through the eyes of the child we can have another look at ourselves, and can appreciate the miracle of life. The child can remind us that everyone’s beginning is an expression of divine love, simplicity and playfulness. It is up to us to live up to this great event.

When we gaze at a baby, we behold a being that still exists in the “now.” It has not yet learned to be dishonest, nor has it been contaminated with the germs of cynicism, derision, pessimism or sarcasm. No, I don’t know how to bring up my children! When I think I do, I am only fooling myself. I only succeed in robbing them of their dreams, and of their love of life. My legacy to my children is essentially a world of denial.

The job of bringing up my children and bringing up the child in me is inseparable. The perfect parent will never come along. They have not been born yet. I myself must choose to give direction to the kind of inner world I want to live in. I must choose for myself what kind of “home” I want to occupy. I must refuse to accept a state of mind that has been handed down to me from one generation to another.

The child and the young at heart still retain the capacity to believe. Maybe they are considered gullible and easily fooled, but this does not diminish that there is something of the divine in their very innocence. Their joy, pain and sorrow are immediate, and they live in a world of wonder and excitement. The very act of believing is part of this wonder. It is what makes their experience outside the dimension of time and space - a dimension where the angels and spirits reside.

The young at heart retain their capacity to believe because their minds are still uncluttered and, perhaps, not yet sophisticated, educated or cynical enough to know better.

Once, while skiing in Arosa, an eight- or nine-year-old boy joined me on the tee-bar. He was extremely handsome. He had a few freckles on his face, which only added more charm to his already magical looks. I had never seen a more perfect face. His delicate features and sparkling eyes were a pleasure to behold, and he seemed as beautiful within as he was handsome without. Out of nowhere he said to me in German, ich bin ein hipsher junge - “I am a handsome boy.”

I was caught off guard by his statement. Not for a minute did I think that he was conceited or bragging. He was just stating a fact in a most natural manner. I was astounded by his self-confidence, and by the positive image he had of himself. He knew who he was, and he was free from the false modesty so prevalent in our culture. For years afterwards, I kept thinking about that episode. Ich bin ein hipsher junge made me think about myself as an eight year old. By seeing his loveliness, I could project the same vision on the little boy that I once was.

At times it seemed that it was not my adult self that took care of the child in me, but really the child in me who gave substance and hope to the adult. It is the child who infuses the adult with aliveness and joy, making the grownup come alive and take on some of the qualities of the child. It is the child who can bring change and improvement to the life of the adult.

I wonder why I always thought of the child in me as a helpless creature. The child in me has the capacity and freedom to abandon himself unreservedly to life, love, and joy. I must bow in reverence to him, not the other way around. I must cherish him if I ever want to be whole again. It is through the child in me that I can begin to envision this world as a large playground, full of mysteries and wonders to explore.

My respect for the child in me grows in proportion to how well I get to know him. I am learning to admire his curiosity, his mechanical aptitude, and his sense of wonder. Sometimes I gaze at him with awe for his ability to find amusement and experience the thrill of life — a capacity that lied dormant in me, but was never completely extinguished.