When three-year-old Ava came to visit, her eye lighted immediately on the Russian nesting doll sitting happily on the bookshelf. Together we twisted the top of the doll, and then the next and the next. How I wish I had filmed Ava. Puzzlement at first, then surprise, and that glorious child-like determination to twist again. From then on, she filled my living room with delight as wooden doll after wooden doll appeared, each tinier than the last. And then the wonder of going in reverse, until the many objects became one smiling babushka.
Ava, beautiful child, reminded me of the fascination I have for objects within objects within objects. Droste art has the same effect on me—the loop of smaller and smaller versions appearing as long as the resolution allows. Mirror images in tinier replications seem magical to me, their revelations renewing themselves endlessly.
I need these memories to live well in this present time. Delight, laughter, and surprise—that “Aha” moment—are not newspaper or internet headlines. Instead, suspicion, expletives, and fury take my attention. The placard reads, “If you’re not outraged, you’re not paying attention.” Ava was paying attention: engrossed, happy, and full of wonder. What if I added a political button that read, “If I’m not surprised, I’m not paying attention.” Surprise means I am caught off guard, the way a joke’s punch line unexpectedly tickles my funny bone. Surprise (it lasts as long as a blown bubble) refuses to rage against another.
Little wonder that the scripture story tells of Jesus welcoming children. I imagine he found it more fun to be with creatures of wonder than jaded intellectuals or clueless disciples. How do I become a child again? I will never erase my angry self, yet I want a reprieve. In my best moments I would like to bring a different kind of alertness to the world: that of the child—face alight with surprise—who holds a doll who holds a doll who holds a doll, every face of flesh and wood fully alive.