Flying free

He took a deep breath. Then he started to sing. He seemed to be composing the music, too. His voice was clear, melodious, and sweet. The music presented a contrast to the words he composed. His hands were clasped together. His expression was serious. He looked like a little choir boy. The words, though, were not choir-boy words.

"Oh, I hate-hate-hate," he sang. "I hate the walls and the doors that lock and the people who shove you in. I hate the tears and the angry words and I'll kill them all with my little hatchet and hammer their bones and spit on them." He reached down in the sand, picked up a toy soldier, pounded on it with the rubber hatchet, spit on it. "I spit on your face. I spit in your eye. I gouge your head down deep in the sand," he sang. "And the birds do fly from the east to the west and it is a bird that I want to be. Then I'll fly away over the walls, out the door, away, away, away from all my enemies. I'll fly and fly around the world and I'll come back to the sand, to the playroom, to my friend. I'll dig in the sand. I'll bury in the sand. I'll throw the sand. I'll play in the sand. I'll count all the grains of the sand and I'll be a baby again."

He sucked on the nursing bottle again. He grinned at me. "How did you like my song?" he asked.

"That was quite a song," I replied.

"Yes", he said. "Quite a song." He got out of the sandbox, walked over to me, looked at my watch. "Ten more minutes," he said, and held up ten fingers.

"Yes, ten more minutes," I replied.

"You think it'll be ten more minutes and then it'll be time to go home," he said.

"That's right. That's what I think," I replied. "What do you think?"

"Aha!" he exclaimed. "You want to know? Well, I think, soon it'll be time to go. I'll get out the rest of the fighting men. These two are with guns. And this airplane. Like a bird. Airplane, fly. Oh, airplane, full of sand. Fly around. Fly around. Fly up to the sky!" He ran around the playroom, holding the airplane aloft, moving with grace and rhythm. "Oh, airplane, tell me! How high can you fly? Can you fly up to the blue, blue sky? Can you fly beyond the sky? To the clouds and the winds that hold fast the rain up there so high? Can you fly? Tell me, lovely airplane, can you fly? Oh, airplane..."


-Excerpt from Dibs: In Search of Self by Virginia M. Axline, the story of a very special five-year-old little boy.



"Oh, tell me! How high can you fly? Can you fly up to the blue, blue sky? Can you fly beyond the sky? To the clouds and the winds that hold fast the rain up there so high? Can you fly? Tell me, can you fly?"

Beautiful words from someone so young.