A CHILD IS NAKED

A CHILD IS NAKED. Why are you not a child that I may love you? Why are you not naked that I may know you? Why are you so thickly encrusted in protective devices that I cannot reach you? I have called your name but you have not answered. I have sought your attention but you were not there. I have torn my knuckles at your outer door. I have ripped my nails at your outer skin. And you have not been shaken. And you have not been moved. And I hated you for not letting me love you.

Then I saw the picture album on your dresser. And there you were, naked, as a child, picking daisies. And there you were, playing games and riding bicycles. And there you were, running on the beach with the sun in your eyes. And there you were, frolicking in the wheatfields of your youth, exalted, joyous, drunk with life. What happened to you that you now be so somber?

You came out one day from the dreams of your childhood and greeted the world with a smile. And the first person you met scowled at you and your smile got caught in your teeth. The wind blew cold into your heart and you put on your first coat. And with your second encounter, and with your second letdown, you donned another coat. And from then on you donned coat after coat until they became like mortar, impenetrable.

By closing your windows and your blinds you kept out the wind and the rain. But you also kept out the sun. You shut me out. But in so doing, you also shut yourself in.

And I, Achilles, my heel thrust out, I am naked and highly vulnerable. Unshielded, unguarded, I have taken the blows but I knew why they had to be. Spring is born out of winter, delight out of sorrow. Without seeking there is no finding. And it all combines to make me feel and thus becomes fodder for my joy.

So I stand naked, my pulse forever throbbing. While you stand suited, armored, clad, with shuttered windows and double-locked doors, removed, remote. You are absent. The child in you is dead yet you live on.

WHAT ARE THEY SAYING? They are telling us to lock our doors. No! Come! The season for carnivals is over. Take off your mask. It is grotesque. Take off your clothes. They are obscene. What is it you hide? A child. Show me your face. It is beautiful. It is pure. Give me your hand. Let us run together in the wind. Let us huddle together in the cold. Let us play together in the sun. Let us go frolicking like children in the wheatfields of life.

Jay Frankston
LittleRiver, CA 95456
wlp@mcn.org