The Sacrifice of Presence
Being still can sometimes be very tough. It is a lesson that adults have learned in dealing with little children who, like restless fireflies, seem wired to fly. At Heathrow airport some time ago, I took interest in passengers with little children: Chinese, Indians, Africans, Caucasians, Arabs; all the children behaved the same. They generally seemed pricked by a common bug which made them jump, run, climb, kick a leg at nothing, or scream for no reason that I could see. The younger they were, the more boisterous. Being still seemed an adult sickness that they could not endure. Some of them had to be tethered, like biped pets. Even with those, what their legs lacked, they made up with their wiry voices like tireless radios.