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Childhoods End ..

A book by Arthur C Clarke.

But what I want to talk about is how we encounter our own “Childhoods End” and what a pity it is when we do.

So many people give up being a child when they go through puberty and approach adulthood. They do this because they think they have too, because it's the price you have to pay to be a responsible adult.

I think that the price is too high and at best a fallacy.

Me?

Well I love to be up before dawn to see the new day break

Stormy days,Rainy days, Sunny days all invigorate the senses

Snowy days !! ah yes, snowy days, how can anyone not feel that deep sense of peace when they look out at the softly falling snow ?

Yesterday I and some friends walked a short section of the Bruce Trail in Waterdown, Ontario. 

A section called Grindstone Falls.

We didn't get too far before we scared a fox. Her reaction when she realised we were there was hilarious and set the mood for the morning as she scampered off down the trail.

Down by the falls the ice was forming, jewels hung from the low hanging branches and the rocks near the falls were slick with a thin, almost invisible coat of ice.

Several hours passed as we looked, saw and photographed winters wonders. 

When our thoughts returned to the here and now we realised just how chilled we had become and decided to head back to town for treats and banter.

As we sat around a table, talking, laughing and reliving the morning we were childlike still.

Ah to see the world through child like eye's and to wonder at the wonder of it all.

No, for me there can be no “Childhoods End”

“Long time a child, and still a child, when years
Had painted manhood on my cheek, was I;
For yet I lived like one not born to die;
A thriftless prodigal of smiles and tears—
No hope I needed, and I knew no fears.
But sleep, though sweet, is only sleep—and waking,
I waked to sleep no more; at once o'ertaking
The vanguard of my age, with all arrears
Of duty on my back. Nor child, nor man,
Nor youth, nor sage, I find my head is gray,
For I have lost the race I never ran.
A rathe December blights my lagging May:
And still I am a child, though I be old
Time is my debtor for my days untold”.
~Hartley Coleridge (1796–1849)