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Terbang

Tuesday May 6, 2008 | Filed under: Family


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dipajalan1.jpg

Dunia anak adalah ruang 7 x 7 meter di arena bermain, dimana mereka diajari menggambar di atas selembar 11 x 16 inci, dengan krayon 13 warna. Tapi coba letakkan anak-anak di tengah lapangan bola, maka mereka akan terbang kesana kemari, berpusing bak gasing.

Dipa, kini 15 bulan, berjalan, berlari. Dan itu berarti petualangan baru, dunia baru, dengan sejuta milyar kemungkinannya. Berputar-putar, jatuh dan bangun tak jadi soal. Tak ada tembok yang membenturnya. Tak ada kursi meja yang melilit kakinya. Tak ada kulkas, dispenser, kabel-kabel. Lihatlah wajah itu, teman-teman, seperti wajah kupu-kupu yang baru beroleh sayapnya.

Spread your wings. Fly, dear Dipa. Fly.


4 Comments »

helmy says:

you are back dear..

Kids love to fly, free as a bird.. no boundaries..
But strange, they never break the rules..
It’s opposite with the adults, they have so many rules..but always tend to break it..

Isn’t ironic..

Glad to see Dipa grows up..he’s no longer a baby..he is a boy :)

» Comment by helmy — May 6, 2008 @ 10:32 am

Herry says:

love this post! :)

» Comment by Herry — May 8, 2008 @ 9:26 pm

Herry says:

Have I mentioned that I love this post?

;-)

» Comment by Herry — May 8, 2008 @ 9:27 pm

watung says:

Her, thanks. Barusan nemu puisi ini (bagus!):

Authorship
Rabindranath Tagore

You say that father write a lot of books, but what he write I don’t understand.
He was reading to you all the evening, but could you really make out what he meant?
What nice stories, mother, you can tell us! Why can’t father write like that, I wonder?
Did he never hear from his own mother stories of giants and fairies and princesses?
Has he forgotten them all?

Often when he gets late for his bath you have to and call him an hundred times.
You wait and keep his dishes warm for him, but he goes on writing and forgets.
Father always plays at making books.
If ever I go to play in father’s room, you come and call me, “What a naughty child!”
If I make the slightest noise you say, “Don’t you see that father’s at his work?”
What’s the fun of always writing and writing?

When I take up father’s pen or pencil and write upon his book just as he does,-a,b,c,d,e,f,g,h,i,-why do you get cross with me then, mother?
You never say a word when father writes.
When my father wastes such heaps of paper, mother, you don’t seem to mind at all.
But if I take only one sheet to take a boat with, you say, “Child, how troublesome you are!”
What do you think of father’s spoiling sheets and sheets of paper with black marks all over both sides?

» Comment by watung — May 9, 2008 @ 4:59 pm

 

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