A Clear Window
Movies and novels used to be my bread and butter . . . but not in the last ten years. I think about the characters, and I spend enough time thinking about clients, friends, and family without adding a host of fictional people to the list. And, as I wrote in my last entry, No News Is . . . , I can find sheer amount of suffering in any given half hour of the news to be overwhelming.
But among the things I do like to watch, at times, is a BBC series called The Vicar of Dibley, which aired between 1994 and 2007. At the end of a long day, village life seen through the eyes of Vicar Geraldine hits just the right balance of hilarity and reflection.
The other night as I was watching, a big wind blew a tree through the stained glass window of the vicarage. At the church council meeting, it was agreed to replace the window with another of the same scene. But, although everyone had been staring at it for decades, no one could agree on just what that scene was. One of the members said he had a picture of the window in his wallet, and passed it around. But it turned out to be a photo of his dog – who happened to be outside the church at the time. “Maybe,” the old man said, “you can see the window reflected in his eyes.”
Working with children and families can be like that. Everyone has been looking at the child for years, but each sees a different picture. Parents see their hopes and fears, their own best and worst qualities reflected in the child’s eyes. Teachers see the qualities that make their work seem rewarding or exasperating. A child tends to oblige by enacting what is expected of him, and becomes clouded with projections.
Back to Dibley. Someone on the church committee does some research, and discovers that the scene was of Noah and the ark. Vicar makes a trip to the local school to ask the children which animals they would like to see in the window. But all she can get out of them are veloceraptors and T-rexes. This episode clearly aired during the heyday of Jurassic Park.
Ah, children and the media. One problem with movies and TV and even cartoon characters is that they seem to overwhelm the imagination with an inflexible set of attributes. The story can only go one way. When I tell stories with children, I don’t allow superheroes or any character with a name. We do dragons, giants, princesses, archetypes that can flow into the stream of consciousness that is the natural flow of children’s play.
But not all is going well in Dibley: replacing the window is prohibitive. Vicar does some creative fundraising and finds a benefactor. Everything is all set - until one evening she turns on the news. There has been an earthquake in another country. As she listens to the report and watches the scene, tears begin to roll down her face.
Next scene: everyone gathers at the church to unveil the new window. It is early evening, and as the curtain is pulled aside, we see – not stained glass, not Noah and his ark, not even one veloceraptor. We see the sunset. The vicar has gotten the benefactor to agree that any leftover funds can be sent to the earthquake relief, and she has seen to it that the “leftover” amounts to about 95% of the budget.
You’d think that everyone would be furious. Of course, the benefactor is. But the parishioners treat the surprise with complete equilibrium. It is such a beautiful sunset. “You can’t surpass the work of creation,” says one.
Is this completely unrealistic, BBC romanticism? I don’t know. People surprise you. Fact is, if the scene had been Noah and his ark, everyone would have found something to criticize. But looking through the unexpectedly clear window, they simply saw the things as they are. And it was such a beautiful sunset.
Once in a while, we get surprised out of our expectations, and see the child. And any child – any person – truly seen – is an unsurpassable work of creation.
Comments
This is a favorite. Recalls the village and
churchgoers in a book (can’t recall its name) by
Penelope Lively that we enjoyed enormously.
Of course, “Listen” is in a class by itself.
All of your blogs so far have been entertaining,
provocative, and unique.
You are our favorite weekly columnist. By far.
Thanks so much!
Ivy Lucco Mar 06, 2011
Immobility is impossible for life to exist. Especially in children, there is an innate ability to move around. Mental and physical development is dependent upon each other. With the appropriate curriculum of sensory activity the child has the opportunity to develop at a higher level.