Boy By the Water

The boy, three years old, is my grandson. He might be me, as well, sixty years ago. Or any child exploring some available nook of a world that abounds in wonder. In the long course of human history, play is ancient, as it is with other animals. Toys, by comparison, are a novelty.

   
Here, the boy just needs a stick. It could as easily be a tool as a toy.

The stick serves to stir the waters, propagating watery patterns as rippling waves overlap and interfere in each others' progress. The child watches what happens, knowing he's causing an effect in the world. The doing and the watching are inseparable, and absorb him completely.

A moment before the stirring of the waters, he dug in the sandy soil, and excitedly called my attention to his discovery of an earthworm. A moment later, he will use the stick to dig out a rock embedded too deeply in the sand for him to pull out without moving some of the sand with the stick, then levering out the chunk of gravel. Another moment, and he'll enjoy throwing the gravel in the water and watching the splash.

He sees water respond quickly to the thrown rock, picks up another rock, repeats. Watches the surface of the water as it quickly returns to stillness.

Like most boys his age, he moves around energetically, constantly seeking novelty and stimulation. Inside, among his toys, he's at or near a frenetic pace much of the time. Out here, he seems more absorbed by his surroundings, by his explorations, pushing against the objects around him to see what they feel like, how they act, how they respond to his interventions. The pace moves with a rhythm that's natural and pure. He breathes, his heart beats, his acute senses show him a little more of the world. And in the joy of his own vital body, he plays.