Childlike eclecticism
It is the time of childhood, a time when, with our senses wide open, we generously welcome the manifestations of Life that are not yet filtered by self-awareness.
Of course, there is family, friends, the humanity that surrounds, protects, and guides us. But it is alone, in a secret place inhabited only by ourselves—a bare cabin, hospitable shrubs, a neglected corner of a family home—that we open ourselves to this world: our own and the one that welcomes us.
It is there, for hours on end, that tiny insects reveal their way of life. The breeze, the rays of sunshine, the passing clouds suggest the existence of dormant forces. It is there, on a slightly smaller scale, that the theater of what is promised to us unfolds.
Every day, every moment spent contemplating the spectacle of life coming to life around us and with us, forever marks the encounters to come.
And then, as the sun sets, in the sharp, acidic scent of trampled grass or the cold touch of an old paving stone, familiar voices echo in the distance, reminding us that the journey will continue tomorrow.
Other experiences will be added to these, each time pushing those first sensations a little further into the depths of a memory that welcomes them without respite and never lets them go.
Then one day, a bond is formed between the adult we have become and the child we once were. The echo of those early days resonates in our minds after many years. Like a huge wave, buried memories come flooding back unchecked. The warm wind of a distant land, the scent of an unknown city, the melody of a passing voice, or the sight of a photograph mark these very vague and very acute moments with the impression of having lived them.
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