2003-08-06 - 9:00 p.m.
�But to be most effective, the faces of the children would need to be painted in a blur, the way all children�s faces truly are. For they blur as they run; they blur as they grow and change so fast; and they blur to keep us from loving them too deeply, for their protection, and also for ours.� --Ruth, Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister
A small fountain is overflowing. The surrounding trench is filled to the brim with water. A vast puddle threatens to engulf the square. Smaller puddle-larvae are scattered about the area.
Nearby adults ignore the fountain, trusting that someone else will unclog the drain. Some, fearing for their shoes, relocate to higher ground. A few remark in passing, �The fountain must be clogged,� but they immediately lose interest and continue on their way. All of them view it as a mere inconvenience.
But not the children.
Soon, a cluster of children of varying ages has formed around the fountain. Two small siblings run races around the fountain�s perimeter, their pitter-pattering feet throwing up sparkling droplets. A little boy jumps into the smaller puddles, splashing water everywhere and laughing with delight. A young girl in a checkered dress dances happily in the parent puddle to the sounds of jazz and her own inner rhythms. Three slightly older, braver children lean precariously over the brimming moat, gazing curiously at the jets of water shooting up into the air. In ones and twos and threes, more children join the jubilant throng. The square soon resounds with laughter.
But all too soon, the fun is over. A man finally unclogs the fountain. Some of the children watch, perplexed, as the amount of water in the little moat dwindles. Others continue to splash in and the drying puddles, but they soon realize that as each successive splash shrinks, so too does the fun. Only the girl in the checkered dress continues to dance, lost in her own reverie.
In ones and twos and threes, the children drift away until only the girl in the checkered dress remains. Eventually, she too loses interest and scampers off to rejoin her parents.
And I, the casual observer, am left to marvel at the whole performance. How is it that adults can marvel at the beauty of a perfectly functioning fountain, yet completely overlook the equal beauty of one which overflows? What makes us so blind to the little things which add color and texture to our lives? What is it that these innocent youngsters possess that we, with our supposed greater knowledge of the world, cannot muster?
And I fervently pray that these children who play so beautifully today may retain the ability to so enjoy life as they grow and mature. And I hope that I, too, may remember the simple joy of splashing joyfully in puddles without worrying how I may appear to others.
Because I know which is the Fountain of Youth: it�s the one that overflows.
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