She held my hand as we walked around the park. And my special charge is a little person – aged three – clutching a knitted rabbit in one hand and, with the other, me. It is something I might not think about much as it very rarely happens in my life until recently. I remember from the other side as well; when joining up with my own childhood self – we’re being big, encouraging and sweet to the little person we once were – and in part still are.
There’s an unfamiliar surge of protectiveness and a revolution in one’s resources of patience. And a new alertness to danger and opportunity: will those three steps be a problem? One becomes supremely careful at the kerb. A dog being walked nearby might be charming, but for someone the same height as the dog, it contains the potential for terror. You are acutely watchful, ready at any moment to swoop in and scoop up your charge into the perfect safety of your arms.
One had forgotten how charming a child can be: the intense seriousness with which they investigate a pine cone. In their company you are reconnected with how extremely interesting a puddle can be and what fascination there can be in a neighbour’s rubbish bins or the rocks at the water’s edge.
The pleasure of the child’s company is an antidote to the real (but now so familiar as to be taken for granted) errors and natural flaws of adulthood; it is the pleasure of meeting again some crucial truths – about the splendour and fascination of the world, the truth about love (and one’s dormant capacity for unconditional kindness).
I wondered, perhaps, that one day this child I am so carefully leading will themselves be my age and will do the same and have the same kind of thoughts which, at the moment, are so remote from their consciousness.
And for a brief pointed time, as I momentarily contemplate this ‘milestone’ birthday, one is astonished by the utter strangeness of the course of human experience which gradually takes everyone from childhood to death.
