i know, people usually think that the moment a child learns to say 'I' for the first time is the end of the magical childhood, the pivotal moment of becoming an individual, entering a realm in which the 'I' will forever face the other and be hunted by the wound of this rift, this scissure. and yet i have always wondered: perhaps children stay children until they come to understand autumn's longing and nostalgia, until the sweet-bitter melancholy of october starts to tinge their unsuspecting world, outside of time and its golden flow.
and then i found the confirmation of my suspicions in Nabokov's Speak, Memory:
...the beginning of reflexive consciousness in the brain of our remotest ancestor must surely have coincided with the dawning of the sense of time.
Initially, I was unaware that time, so boundless at first blush, was a prison. In probing my childhood (which is the next best to probing one’s eternity) I see the awakening of consciousness as a series of spaced flashes, with the intervals between them gradually diminishing until bright blocks of perception are formed, affording memory a slippery hold.
Initially, I was unaware that time, so boundless at first blush, was a prison. In probing my childhood (which is the next best to probing one’s eternity) I see the awakening of consciousness as a series of spaced flashes, with the intervals between them gradually diminishing until bright blocks of perception are formed, affording memory a slippery hold.
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(which is the next best to probing one’s eternity)
ReplyDeleteThis is so true to me. To see as a child not like a child is so true of poetry to me.
beautiful yellow! and am liking the icon also.
ReplyDeletecoincidentally am just off the back of a massive discussion re attachment theory and its effects. interesting!
another masterpeice chère magnifique tellement gentille Roxana.
ReplyDeleteThe little girl is beautiful she has such expressive eyes and I love the symbolism of the tree rings and the ephemeral flower all representing the fleeting time.
I love your interpretation that when you say the child grows up when she understands the autumn's longing and nostalgia. yes that is when as adults we long for the past and look into the future for happiness instead of the precious moment.
When my elderly aunt was dying in the hospital I remember handing her a bright red canadian maple leaf fallen in the autumn. She picked it up with a trembling hand as if to appreciate momentarily the outside world that had slipped her grasp and her longing for the past and her desires for the future seemed to fall away from her like the autumn leaves from the tree of life.
and with a childish grasp of the moment I turned this into a verse of light play that amused some kids in my life.
thankyou for another wonderful post and a beautiful visit.
If you have any messages please leave them with amar..
HUGS
trop adorable!!
ReplyDeletei can't tell you how much i adore this post.
ReplyDeleteAh, what can one do but sigh on reading this wonderful post? And what a charming little princess that is.
ReplyDeleteSo direct and arresting, perfectly complimented by the musings of the text. Bittersweet indeed.
ReplyDeleteThe age of innocence... a most lovely innocence. Such dark and beautiful eyes, with which to regard bright mysterious flowers... and contemplate the mysteries of time and self and other... Could but we all go back to that time and space and look again... but now we can only look back and wish we could re-live those glorious moments of discovery... which now we can only do vicariously
ReplyDeletebeautiful post - dawning of the sense of time, and of perishable colour --- yes, autumn as a defining moment in reflective thinking
ReplyDeleteChildhood is fraught with perils, imagined and real. The essential magic of childhood is that the imaginary is barely distinguishable from the "real." There is a longing, perhaps, to grow up but not to return to the past, which is too recent and new. That moment when one begins to look backward with a tinge of nostalgia may be the defining moment of "the dawning sense of time." Time definitely seems to contract and speed up as one grows older.
ReplyDeleteSuch a gorgeous little girl you have pictured here. Soulful, contemplative eyes.
so viel Helligkeit hier bei Dir! Gerade das erste Bild hat es mir doch angetan. Reinheit, Einfachheit, Untastbarkeit... das Sonnenlicht, das wohl in das Herz Dir drang..! Und nun muss ich zugeben, ich weiss nicht, was ich sage hier... und deshalb verabschiede ich mich (nicht für immer!) lächelnd und mit einer tiefen Verbeugung!
ReplyDeleteRenée
perefeito seu blog , parabens mesmo
ReplyDeleteEt j'adore aussi le flou de la fleur ca me fait plonger dans un reve ou la fleur ephemere devient comme le soleil brillant de l'esprit.
ReplyDeleteCe n'est pas la meme chose chère Roxana si je ne laisse pas un commentaire en francais ici parceque une parti de moi n'est pas exploré si non
ah que c'est le paradis d'interprétation ici.
HUGS
a la prochaine blogging.
Il y a des choses de l'enfance que seule l'enfance connaît....Colum McCann
ReplyDeleteBonjour Belle Amie..
pardonne ce long silence..parfois les mots se jouent de moi...la parole est encore un mystère a comprendre..
Chaque enfance est un chemin parallèle a la route de notre devenir collectif,une histoire qui s’écrit différente pour chacun d'entre nous..
J'aime le lien qui s’établit ici entre la fleur et l'enfant(les photos sont très belles)...ça souligne avec poésie le coté éphémère et sacré d'une période bénie pour certains malheureusement plus terrible pour d'autres..
Une alcôve ou l'on se nicherai bien encore parfois dans les automnes et les octobres de nos souvenirs...
une passerelle posée sur le chemin du temps qui passe ...
Je t'embrasse Roxana..tout plein..
bon Dimanche..
And playing with the sens of time, no ?...
ReplyDeletemereu m-am apropiat nestiutoare de cate o puternica iradiere a soarelui,imprastiata cu atata eleganta intre cutele gri a timpului,nestiind daca e mai liniste cand o contemplu,cand o desfoliez,cand incerc sa devin una cu esenta ei;doar in copilaria stiam,da,de floarea dintre cutele cenusii,si abia apoi am inceput sa caut,rostogolindu-ma,printre flori,in adanciturile negre ale materiei.si,cum,gasesc aceasta poveste,in filigran,aici.cand ai scris-copil sau...ai peste tot flori,nu?
ReplyDeleteQuel bel essai sur l'enfance, sur, quand perdons-nous notre insouciance, notre âme d'enfant pour devenir "je", individu tendu vers l'âge adulte !
ReplyDeleteTon texte me fait penser à ce que propose Françoise Davoine sur, cette notion que, l'enfant qui est en nous est un témoin des générations qui ont existées, bien avant lui !
La notion de "corps à plusieurs" où chacun est le représentant d'une lignée d'ancêtres, en "première" ligne, porteur de toute une histoire... je ne sais pas si je me fais bien comprendre ?
Tes photos montrent bien, à travers ce visage d'enfant, ce questionnement, cette insouciance avec cette fleur jaune, vive.
"Je" commence à exister dès les premiers moments de la vie.
Prendre conscience qu'on devient un être individué, c'est perdre quelque part "une idée qu'on peut se faire du monde".
Dire "Je", c'est prendre sa place dans le monde, s'exposer, prendre la parole.
Tu abordes ce sujet très intéressant avec beaucoup de finesse, d'intelligence et donne réellement envie de poursuivre un débat !
Bon, je passe te chercher et on en discute avec une bonne bouteille de vin rouge ! ! !...:)
Bises Roxana...
A bientôt !
PS : Je préfère re poster ! ! ! Trop de fautes d'orthographes...':[
Merci !
thank you so much, dear friends, i knew you would understand every nuance of these - often so mixed that it is impossible to describe them - feelings...
ReplyDeleteas i have been away on a short trip to Paris (there will be some posts on the topic :-), i have been rather quiet lately, both here and at your places, but i know you understand this as well.
i wish you all a wonderful week...
merci de tout coeur pour vos pensees, cheres amies et chers amis, si riches, si pleines d'imagination et de sensibilite comme toujours... j'etais un peu absente du monde des bloggeurs, en fait j'etais pour quelques jours a Paris, mais si occupee que je n'ai pas eu le temps de profiter de cette petite visite, de savourer quoi que ce soit...
ReplyDeleteje vous embrasse et vous souhaite une tres belle semaine, a bientot, sur vos blogs aussi...
ach, liebste Renée, du musst aber gar nichts sagen, dass du dich hier so wohl fuehlst, und schweigend betrachtest (und vielleicht auch laechelst und mich in Gedanken umarmst), dann ist schon genug :-)
ReplyDelete(bald mehr)
eine wunderschoene Woche dir...
Cerasela, pentru tine, copilaria de flori, mereu, nesfarsit...
ReplyDeleteJ'aime cette photo quand tu ouvre bien; le jaune les petit beurre de ma jeunesse; surtout ce visage d'enfant est toujours remplit de magie; ou les yeux nous dit de les protéger. j'espère que le moral est bon pour toi Roxana; de mon coté sa va.
ReplyDeleteYou are wonderful. And so is she. : )
ReplyDeleteand yet i have always wondered: perhaps children stay children until they come to understand autumn's longing and nostalgia, until the sweet-bitter melancholy of october starts to tinge their unsuspecting world, outside of time and its golden flow.
ReplyDeleteWhat you've said here makes perfect sense to me...perhaps because Speak, Memory is one of my favorite books (the only I read once a year).
I love your writing! Here, it is like a special gift to the child, and this child deserves many special gifts.