Fear - People - Children

I tell myself a lot of things; really, I'm a shockingly good companion for myself. Truths and lies and by-the-bys, why, there's nothing I won't soliloquy. I dialogue and diatribe, digest and deny, and pages and pages of diary define such directionless drivels. And nowhere I go, quickly, faster than you know.
Yesterday, while failing rather spectacularly (the result wasn't spectacular, only the difference between the result and reality) at drawing, a rather adorable boy (aged roughly four), came scampering across a wide field towards me. I was seated upon a bench, gazing into the orchards of hazelnuts and across a grassy field, and the boy, breathless and excited, came scampering all the way across the field directly towards me.
His sisters, aged probably fifteen, saw where he was heading (me) and frantically began chasing him, racing to recapture the renegade child - but they were too far behind, and the boy reached my little bench and plopped down beside me.
"I'm tiiiiiiiired" he said to no one in particular, breathless, and slumping down in adorable fashion.
I smiled and said he'd run a long way and so fast! He was quite the little runner.
By this time, his sisters had arrived, and with many apologies, they took the boy away as quickly as possible, hastening him to another bench, though he'd been no bother whatsoever.
I remember hearing a story from a russian missionary when I was a child that I've never quite let go. They said it was not unusual for a neighbor in their small town to knock on the door in the wee hours of the morning, 1am, 3am, or even a random stranger. In these instances, the owner of the household would rush to the door, and welcome the stranger into their house, offering them food and hospitality. Often, the missionary said, they would not even lock the doors, and would always be prepared with drink and food, even to make a feast in the middle of the night for someone they did not know.
This hospitality and kindness is so dissonant with the american individualism and paranoia, but it's beautiful, too. I always cherished that level of kindness and consideration, and that level of community. In America, we're trained right from the moment we can understand that strangers are not to be trusted. The little boy wasn't old enough, but his sisters were well conditioned to be wary of strangers, and to hasten his separation from me - am I creepy or frightening? Dear Lord, I hope not - and shepherded him away from me in a frenetic string of apology.
There was fear.
A couple of days ago, a little boy was looking over the railing of his apartment complex while his mother hung laundry below. When I walked past on the sidewalk, the little boy began waving with a mighty wiggle, shaking his whole body in his excitement to say hello.
"Hello! Hello! Hello!" he called out to me excitedly.
I turned and waved at him. "Hi! Hello!" and gave him a broad smile.
The boy, likely also four, or maybe three years of age, turned to his mother and said, "Mother, the stranger said hi! Is that okay?"
It bothered me a bit, this fright.
There are many things that are more worthy of fear (spiders, wasps, hookworms, spilt juice), but we indoctrinate our children right from the get-go to fear every unfamiliar face. And the saddest part of it all is, sometimes, a lot of times, I can't blame them. Watching the news, it sometimes seems like  only a matter of time before something monstrous shows up on the front porch. Why can't people be good?

Nelson Mandela

I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.

For to be free is not merely to cast off one's chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others.

Do not judge me by my successes, judge me by how many times I fell down and got back up again.
~ Nelson Mandela

Today, a brave, important man died, and the world is a bit darker for his departure. But oh, how much brighter the world from his living. The man who fought apartheid, racism, and hate, persevering through anger, slavery, hate, and disregard into a triumphant model of love, redemption and forgiveness. He moved an entire country towards forgiveness and acceptance, a united people.
I read a story once called The City and the City. I've never recommended Mieville much to my friends, simply because his style is convoluted and confusing at times, though his writing can be a marvel. In the same geographical space lived two different countries, and they were forbidden any semblance of interaction. Even seeing the other country, its citizens, buildings, or possessions, was against the law. They were required to "unsee" anything from the other country, and recognized certain patterns and colors from the other country that they would subsequently erase from their conscious. Sometimes, you might be sharing the road with someone from the other city, or a sidewalk, or even a building - still you fastidiously forgot their presence, as soon as you could. Perhaps the worst crime in the city was 'breaching' or crossing over into the other city by means of seeing what you should not, or physically entering into zones restricted for the other city.
I'm reminded of this as I read through documents about apartheid and Nelson Mandela's life and South African history.
In the first quote above by Mandela, I'm also reminded of Dune (the book-nerd in me): 
I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain
~Frank Herbert - Dune

Just some thoughts, really. I read some Carl Sandburg today, marveling at the changes in his writing over fifty years. I have a book that contains all of his publicized poetry, essays, and stories, and it has everything in chronological order, so I can flip through the fifty years of writing in a breath, from his very first pieces to the things he wrote as he neared death. It is a strange thing, seeing how drastically my own writing changes year-to-year, being in a very infantile state, and then looking at a famous writer and seeing the improvements and changes he or she saw fit to make over the course of a writing career.


Cleft, together and apart into a knife
thin line separating us like sea and sky
forever apart, forever nigh
and what is the difference between death and life
the chasm crossing from black to white
and how far, really, are any two hearts
when the stars much farther apart still shine
bright and lovely
we, as the dark and light sides of the moon
~~~
each a season in its time
you,
summer eyes, spring smile,
winter hands and autumn tresses
and I
janus eyes, september smile,
vernal hair, and harvest hands
maybe meant to pass
like ships on different paths