The Dreamseller_ The Calling - Augusto Cury [41]
I observed more than ten extraordinary birdsongs. They had little reason to rejoice in that concrete jungle, I thought, but unlike me they were celebrating life. I observed and noted the resilience of the weathered tree trunks, which, despite the impermeability of the soil and a shortage of water, survived in an inhospitable setting—bravery that I never had shown. More than ten million people had passed by those trees since they were planted, and maybe ten, at the most, had actually stopped to observe them in detail. I was beginning to feel like a privileged person in a societal desert.
Bartholomew, who wouldn’t normally notice an elephant in front of his nose, also began to have more luck. He contemplated five multicolored butterflies dancing across the sky. Unlike them, he noted, he only danced when drunk. Edson noted various types of sounds produced by leaves rustling in the wind, humbly applauding passersby, unlike him, who sought applause. Dimas analyzed insects that worked tirelessly preparing for winter, something he had never done. He stole and, like all thieves, was a terrible manager, believing that life was an eternal springtime.
After this gratifying exercise, we spoke one of our favorite phrases: “How I love this life!” Never had doing so little meant so much. I had never imagined that nature was present in such a meaningful way, right here, in the middle of the city. How could a specialist in society never have done this exercise? For the first time, I truly loved silence, and in that silence I discovered that I had not had a childhood.
I don’t remember any pleasant experiences as a child. Maybe I’ve become a rigid adult because I didn’t know how to relax as a child. Maybe I’ve grown into a paranoid man because I’d never experienced the innocence of childhood. Maybe I was a chronically depressive and ill-tempered grown-up because I hadn’t lived my first years of life joyfully. The losses in my life made me into an adult very early, a young man who thought a lot, but felt nothing.
As I was recalling my childhood, the dreamseller seemed to be studying me. Taking a deep breath, he commented on the death of childhood in our time, one of the things that bothered him the most.
“The Internet, video games, computers—they’re all useful, but they’ve destroyed something invaluable: childhood. Where is the pleasure of silence? Where is the fun of playing outside? Where is innocence? It pains me so deeply that the system is creating unhappy, restless children—better suited for psychiatric care than happy, carefree lives.”
All of a sudden, the dreamseller acted in a way I’d never seen before. He turned to watch as several parents passed us, taking their seven- and eight-year-old children shopping. The children were dressed at the height of fashion, every accessory matching their outfits, and they were each carrying cell phones. But they were clearly disillusioned with life. Some whined and complained and caused a scene for a new dress or a gadget. To simply keep them quiet, the parents gave in.
The dreamseller looked furious and he confronted those parents.
“What are you doing to your children? Take them to know the forests. Have them remove their shoes and let them walk barefoot on the ground. Let them climb trees, and encourage them to invent their own games. The human species has shut itself inside a bell jar of selfishness and materialism. Instead, teach them about animals and let them learn a new way to behave.” And he paraphrased Jesus’ words: “Children do not live by shopping centers alone, but by all the adventures of childhood.”
I was impressed by his boldness in the face of strangers. Some of the parents considered his words. Others reacted brashly. One said, “Isn’t that the crazy guy we saw in the papers?”
Another, an intellectual and probably, like me, seething with pridefulness, was more arrogant: “I’m a professor with a doctorate in psychology and I won’t stand for this invasion of privacy. Let me worry about my children.” Looking us up and down he told his friends, loud enough for us to