On Being Four

 

Tomorrow is the fourth birthday of one of my granddaughters, Naya, and it has prompted me to cast my mind back. I think I am about four on this photo and can even vaguely remember it being taken in our front room, sitting on cushions to bring me level with my sister sitting next to me. The huge bow was de rigueur, of course, circa 1959, as was the hand-knitted jumper to accompany my sister's cast-off grey pinafore. How times and fashions were different then. I don't remember any kind of birthday party, but there was probably a cake with candles and maybe a card from my grandma and granddad, one of those with a pop-up, perfumed vase of flowers inside and a precious ten bob note tucked in the back.

I found this rather appropriate poem by Christopher Morley. 

To a Child

The greatest poem ever known 
Is one all poets have outgrown
The poetry, innate, untold,
Of being only four years old.

Still young enough to be a part
Of Nature's great impulsive heart,
Born comrade of bird, beast, and tree
And unselfconscious as the bee—

And yet with lovely reason skilled
Each day new paradise to build;
Elate explorer of each sense,
Without dismay, without pretense!

In your unstained transparent eyes
There is no conscience, no surprise:
Life's queer conundrums you accept,
Your strange divinity still kept.

Being, that now absorbs you, all
Harmonious, unit, integral,
Will shred into perplexing bits,—
Oh, contradictions of the wits!

And Life, that sets all things in rhyme,
may make you poet, too, in time—
But there were days, O tender elf,
When you were Poetry itself!

Naya, our very own 'tender elf' is indeed 'poetry itself'. 

Writing prompt: Cast your mind back, if you can, to being four. What do you remember? Are they happy or sad memories? What has changed for you since then? Write for ten minutes.