On Childhood

Some children come to speak of their school day. Some speak of science, others of mathematics, language, or history. And some speak of fights, of scoldings, of moments of anger. How beautifully innocent they are—speaking simply, describing life exactly as it is.

And yet, one cannot help but reflect. Will these children retain their stillness, their purity, their fearless courage to move forward, their intense longing to know the unknown? Or will the pressures, the expectations, the subtle burdens of life gradually erode these precious qualities?

Then there is the question of the schools themselves. Are they truly open to nurture life, to cultivate what is already vibrant within these children? Or are they merely places to impart fragments of knowledge, exchanging trivial information while unknowingly diminishing the priceless vitality that already exists within them? How strange it is: the innate brilliance, the spontaneous courage, the fearless curiosity—priceless—yet measured, shaped, and often diminished in the process of “education.”

And here lies the great paradox: to destroy by effort what is instinctive, what is natural, is called development. To recover it, after it has been lost, is called righteousness. How bitter, yet how truthful, is this rhythm of life! First, one loses what is effortless; then one struggles to regain it. And in this cycle—the losing and the regaining, the shaping and the reclaiming—life itself unfolds.

So listen carefully: the life of the child, spontaneous and unbroken, is a window into the eternal. And the lesson is this—true understanding is not in teaching, not in imposing, not in adding, but in protecting, in allowing the inherent brilliance of life to flourish without interruption.