Alone on the sandy white beach he sits, while the clouds overhead shield the warmth of the sun. The beach is deserted save his mother who sits in a beach chair under an umbrella reading a book. She keeps a weary eye on him. He is not yet seven years old. Fair of skin with a face charmed with bright blue eyes, a small nose and a crop of blonde hair bleached from the sun, dripping down his face in locks, that he periodically blows away from his face with a pursed pair of lips. He is a cute one by standards of any passerby. From a distance he would appear to be engrossed with his pail building a sand castle that, if you took the time to observe never materializes. The pail sits by this child and the sand waits.
He seems to be deep in thought, quiet yet with a gentle rocking motion to his manner, a comforting rhythm to his inner clock. Something is adrift in the inner sanctums of his mind. It is a damaged offering from an innocent past. Might it be a solar flare in collusion with Martian Dust in space creating subatomic muonic-quarky hell that drives through the body at blinding speed to create villainy of sorts on the structure of the DNA – deleting, duplicating or inverting chromosomal pieces thus affecting the brain development. Or is it man at his most intellectual self, creating disorder by trying to prevent disease. Or is it the chemicals that man uses to keep crops from being engulfed with disease to save humanity from starvation. Or, is it just a chance mutation causing the brain trust of neuronal circuitry to find inherent loops within smaller compartments and not seek the advice and consent of the rest of the imaged experiential self. This loop fosters a genius in a single application at the risk of losing comfort from the rest of the society leading to an undesired ostracism.
But there he is now drawing a circle in the sand and then erasing it. Over and over again he draws the circle and then comes the erasure as if the entire future of the world depends on the perfect circle. To any one else it would be near perfection, but to these pairs of perfectly created ocean blue eyes there is always a hint of distortion, imperfection, not quite good yet that forces another attempt. Maybe better next time. Maybe the radius is not equal in all quadrants or maybe it has not equaled the measure of his keen stare. As he erases each circle to make room for the next rendition there is no emotions of frustration or anger, just a peaceful transition into the next attempt.
A man with dyed blonde hair approaches the mother. “How’s he doing?”
“Fine.” She replies. “He is playing happily. Don’t bother him.”
“What’s going to happen when he grows up?”
“We’ll take one day at a time.” She closes her book.
“Yeah, I know but he is never going to be able to get married, have kids and all that –live a life you know?”
“And I wont have an empty nest syndrome.” She laughs.
“I am serious too. I love our little child and I would not trade for another.”
“I love him too, but look what he is going to miss.”
“What he does not know won’t hurt him,” she says firmly. “And who knows what the future holds for him. Someone could fall in love with him as a person. Not every girl is looking for the muscle bound steroid dripping male you see on TV.” ending the conversation.
“Six out of a thousand eh? Why couldn’t he have been one of the 994?” He mutters.
They remain quiet, observing their offspring nearby as he continues to rock to his inner beat perfecting the near perfect circle.
“Who knows that we all may not have a little bit of him in us?” The mother says whimsically.
“What do you mean?” Her husband replies defiantly.
“Lets see,” she stretches open her hand to count down the frailties, “You go through your rituals every morning. The towels have to be in the same spot. You use the same shaving cream and place the razor in the same place. Your golf shirts are hung in color-sequenced order. The militant neatness may be a small part of the whole picture. So don’t be in a hurry to throw stones.” She cautions him gently.
The little boy ceases his rocking motion briefly and grunts loudly. The mother looks at him. He grunts again and rocks a little more forcefully still in perfect rhythm. The mother slowly gets up and walks towards her child, while the father remains engrossed with the ocean view paying little attention to the two. His wife calls out to him in an urgent whisper and he walks up to them. An involuntary whistle escapes out between his lips.
“Wow that is a perfect circle.”
“Oh honey that is wonderful!” as the mother cuddles her only child not quite knowing the significance but intuitively knowing something has happened - a game changer.
The father kisses his child on the cheek and the child allows the comfort. A brief encounter with reality occurs as a synaptic electrical current flows in the boy’s self-referential system, unbeknownst to the parents. Yet they are aware of the significance instinctively. An unremitting disorder has shown weakness in its’ relentless pathological drive.
We all live in the blank slate of the white sandy beaches where the perfect circle can be drawn. Most lives are lived in quiet desperation drawing imperfect circles with perfect tools. Some achieve perfection without them. There are moments of profound joy that spring from the littlest of human endeavors while some minor accomplishments sometimes take monumental work. Both share the commonality of endeavor. Both signify humanity at work. Both signify achievement. And both need oceans of love and support. We fight as we work and sometimes winning one battle at a time eventually wins the war. Patience, kindness and love sometimes accomplish a tenor of health and a victory against disease that medicine cannot.