Jao is not yet a year old,
but he knows that there are two places:
inside and outside.
Jao is a semi-mobile experimental scientist,
not yet quite really a counterpart
to Albert Einstein or Steven Hawking,
on the theoretical side of things,
but obviously on his way.
He has discovered, entirely on his own,
and while still a creepy-crawly critter,
that cupboard doors and drawers
are gateways to alternate realities and pleasures
that C. S. Lewis never dreamed of in his closet.
Like a small man on a large mission,
the has tracked and mapped
the hiding places and food preferences
of our old Annie Cat. He cannot say, "Kitty: or "cat",
but if you know enough German
to do an imitation of the "ch" in Johan Sebastian Bach,
or maybe the "gh" in Vincent van Gogh
(should you prefer the Dutch visual arts),
and if you gutturally string a series
of "ch"s, and "gh"s together,
then you can say, "Kitty", as Jao does.
He knows the location of every
electrical outlet and device in our house.
All on his own, he has discovered
the principle of a wedge
by jamming his own body
behind every barrier heaved into his way.
He knows how everything,
found on the floor, tastes.
He has mapped and memorized
every head-height, hard corner in the house.
He knows that vertical things
can become horizontal things,
and that large objects
can be reduced to their sub-atomic particles.
He knows all about deception.
But it is the other place
that entrances him now.
He is ready to learn the outdoors.
There is gravel out there;
every piece different.
There are cacti, and flowers.
Things flit in trees, and fly.
There are odors.
The palm tree does not feel like the mesquite.
He does not quite understand the gong
that is in the entry, and that it persists,
and that, even when finally quiet, it trembles in his hand.
When we carry him to the streetside mailbox,
he imagines what might be in the box,
and on the way back, lurches, and focuses
like a laser on a cactus he had not noticed before,
saying something like, "Oh, my god! Look at that!",
which comes out as something indistinguishable
from Bach, or Gogh, or Kitty.
Today he discovered snow
for the first time, in his universe.
Pointing at every window,
and saying, "Johan Sebastian", or "Vincent",
or maybe just, "Kitty", he persuaded us
to allow his meteorological career to begin.
He already knows that just observing
affects what can be observed,
so he just let the snow fall on him,
and on the terra-cotta Chinese general
who was even more serene than he.
I wish I knew what he was learning,
and even more, how he was learning it,
but he cannot tell me now, and later,
he will not know it, either. It just happens.
It happens, and it is a joy.
It is how we know what is worth knowing.
We begin as experimental scientists,
observing, tasting, touching, and hammering like a drum.
For some, it becomes theoretical.
Already, I suspect, something in Jao's head
is anticipating, making assumptions and theories.
Jao doesn't know they are theories:
he is just wondering if.
If I have a fear for him,
it is that someone, someday,
may hand him a package of answers
to everything, and convince him
that all the thinking has already been done.
That, I believe, is a very small fear,
because there are few pleasures in an inert brain,
and the joy of learning is voracious.
"Say after me, Jao: 'Johan Sebastian ChGhChGh'."
Comments
Post a Comment