Last Sunday I was happily among the guests at a home in
Italy,the nation which has the world's lowest birth rate. The family's Christmas tree and nativity
scene were all lit up, the terracotta figurine of Baby Jesus still missing, not
to be placed in the manger before Christmas Day. There were six adults and three children present,
two 5-year-olds and an infant in arms.
The 5-year-olds, a boy and a girl, were playmates. Their fathers are colleagues whose families often
meet outside of work. I noticed that these
children spent a lot of time asserting property rights, he over all the toys on
the premises and she over the contents of her pocketbook. For the record, the words "me, my, and mine"
are acquired around the age of three.
These two argued off and on all day. The adults attributedtheir spats to the classical
war between the sexes. The little boy,
it seems, has been picking fights with girls lately. This particular female wasn't about to let him
boss her, however, not even in his own home.
Meanwhile, in the midst of meals and adult discussions conducted above
the din of Disney animations, the 4-month-old babe in arms was the quietest of us
all. He often lay back in his carriage,
sleeping. Every now and again he'd stir just
enough to let us know he had awakened. He
was too young to communicate verbally although he was obviously trying. His mouth worked hard at times but he produced
only bubbles. Nothing pleased him more
than my leaning over him, chanting "ma ma ma ma ma ma ma." Mamma. The infant and I looked each other in the eye
and laughed as if we were sharing a hilarious secret. Something about that infantile mantra clearly
struck him as fun. This babe talked, in
any case, with ever ready smiles. I'd never
been in the presence of such a patient, good-natured baby before, one who also watched
the activities whenever he was awake on our laps. His eyes closely followed both faces and
hands, wanting to make sense of it all. Well-loved,
this baby was named Francesco like the patron saint of Italy, and the new pope,
and so many Italian children. His
parents are especially thrilled to have him:
he nearly died during delivery. Today
Baby Francesco has the demeanor not only of a sweet baby but also of a wise
soul. He was able to sleep through the non-stop
racket made by the others--how did he manage that, I still wonder? He never once made a fuss, except when his
mother took him away from the breast a moment too soon. Only then did he whimper. The Infant is the flip side of the Old
Sage. Newborn or aged, these two archeypes
are the symbols of the purity of primordial knowledge. The older I get, the more similarities I
notice 
between elderly people and the newly arrived. Some are colicky while others are more fortunate. Some are vociferous and seemingly starved for
attention, while many are content to lie back.
A few have an easy smile, while others seem diffident. Being around an infant all day was a special
occasion for me. I couldn't help but
liken Baby Francesco to the Christ Child. He would certainly fit the part in a live
nativity scene: "Away in a manger, no
crying he makes." Even in this
world where new life is denied or else taken for granted, every baby is a natural-born
fountain of hope. The whole world, yea,
the entire universe, spreads itself out before the eyes of a bambino. We who are no longer children have an obligation to ensure a healthy
place to grow for every child, for the born 
as well as the unborn. People often say that Christmas is for
children. I agree, it is, but Christmas
is also for their guardians. The tenderness
of the Nativity is a summons to innocence for everyone, young and old alike. Did not Baby Jesus grow up to say that we
must become like little children? I
don't think he meant squabbling five-year-olds, of course. He meant those bambini who have yet to master the notion of "me, my, and mine." He meant innocent babes who grace us with
their presence: Pure, receptive, likely
intuitive, and somehow, behind their peering and curious eyes, still wise
beyond their days, months, and years. UN’AMERICANA A VENEZIA
Italy,the nation which has the world's lowest birth rate. The family's Christmas tree and nativity
scene were all lit up, the terracotta figurine of Baby Jesus still missing, not
to be placed in the manger before Christmas Day. There were six adults and three children present,
two 5-year-olds and an infant in arms.
The 5-year-olds, a boy and a girl, were playmates. Their fathers are colleagues whose families often
meet outside of work. I noticed that these
children spent a lot of time asserting property rights, he over all the toys on
the premises and she over the contents of her pocketbook. For the record, the words "me, my, and mine"
are acquired around the age of three.
These two argued off and on all day. The adults attributedtheir spats to the classical
war between the sexes. The little boy,
it seems, has been picking fights with girls lately. This particular female wasn't about to let him
boss her, however, not even in his own home.
Meanwhile, in the midst of meals and adult discussions conducted above
the din of Disney animations, the 4-month-old babe in arms was the quietest of us
all. He often lay back in his carriage,
sleeping. Every now and again he'd stir just
enough to let us know he had awakened. He
was too young to communicate verbally although he was obviously trying. His mouth worked hard at times but he produced
only bubbles. Nothing pleased him more
than my leaning over him, chanting "ma ma ma ma ma ma ma." Mamma. The infant and I looked each other in the eye
and laughed as if we were sharing a hilarious secret. Something about that infantile mantra clearly
struck him as fun. This babe talked, in
any case, with ever ready smiles. I'd never
been in the presence of such a patient, good-natured baby before, one who also watched
the activities whenever he was awake on our laps. His eyes closely followed both faces and
hands, wanting to make sense of it all. Well-loved,
this baby was named Francesco like the patron saint of Italy, and the new pope,
and so many Italian children. His
parents are especially thrilled to have him:
he nearly died during delivery. Today
Baby Francesco has the demeanor not only of a sweet baby but also of a wise
soul. He was able to sleep through the non-stop
racket made by the others--how did he manage that, I still wonder? He never once made a fuss, except when his
mother took him away from the breast a moment too soon. Only then did he whimper. The Infant is the flip side of the Old
Sage. Newborn or aged, these two archeypes
are the symbols of the purity of primordial knowledge. The older I get, the more similarities I
notice 
between elderly people and the newly arrived. Some are colicky while others are more fortunate. Some are vociferous and seemingly starved for
attention, while many are content to lie back.
A few have an easy smile, while others seem diffident. Being around an infant all day was a special
occasion for me. I couldn't help but
liken Baby Francesco to the Christ Child. He would certainly fit the part in a live
nativity scene: "Away in a manger, no
crying he makes." Even in this
world where new life is denied or else taken for granted, every baby is a natural-born
fountain of hope. The whole world, yea,
the entire universe, spreads itself out before the eyes of a bambino. We who are no longer children have an obligation to ensure a healthy
place to grow for every child, for the born as well as the unborn. People often say that Christmas is for
children. I agree, it is, but Christmas
is also for their guardians. The tenderness
of the Nativity is a summons to innocence for everyone, young and old alike. Did not Baby Jesus grow up to say that we
must become like little children? I
don't think he meant squabbling five-year-olds, of course. He meant those bambini who have yet to master the notion of "me, my, and mine." He meant innocent babes who grace us with
their presence: Pure, receptive, likely
intuitive, and somehow, behind their peering and curious eyes, still wise
beyond their days, months, and years. UN’AMERICANA A VENEZIA
Nessun commento:
Posta un commento