006_Baby steps
Let’s take another look at what’s happening when we think about (想) the tree.
A perception of the tree passes through the lens of the mind’s eye. Certain tree attributes match attributes retained in memory from previous encounters with trees. If these matches make the heart sufficiently happy, the heart will prompt further engagement with the tree. If not, the heart will break off the engagement.
This unscientific description will be inducing more hair-tearing by experts in entirely new fields. But in Canjeez terms, at least, the basic point is that a harmonious correspondence (相) between the tree (木) and the mind’s eye (目) will make the heart (心) sing.
Even so, I find it hard to stop thinking about all the signals bouncing back and forth between tree, eye, heart, tree+eye, heart and eye, tree+eye and heart...
In the middle of what’s supposed to be a relaxing afternoon walk with the family, I’m getting lost in these increasingly perplexing thoughts when suddenly my daughter says, “Look at the moon.”
I follow her gaze, and there it is, low in the eastern sky: a pristine full moon.
“Yes, beautiful,” I reply.
A simple act of communication. But one that is impossible for every other species on the planet. How do we do it?
For this, I need someone in the audience to play the part of a grown-up...and you seem perfect for the role!
Would you mind stepping into this post for a few moments? Thank you! (Shoes off, please. This is Japan.)
Here’s the set-up. You’re my mother or father (you choose), and I’m your six-month-old baby. Just act naturally.
Ready and…action!
I’m sitting on your hip. You’re supporting me with one arm. Your other arm is free.
We’re outside on a warm evening. It’s after dark. My attention has been drawn to a tiny shiny bright white disc up in the sky. You notice that I’m looking at something. You follow my gaze and see what it is.
Raising your free arm, you point and say, “Moon.”
“Yes, beautiful,” I reply.
No, of course I don’t. I’m six months old. What I actually do is ignore you. I have no idea what’s going on. I’m a baby.
“Moon,” you say again. My head bobbles, my mouth opens and…
“Yes, I heard you the first time,” is not what I say. I don’t know that I’m hearing anything I’m expected to attend to. Suspended from my lip is a dribble of drool. Your free hand stops pointing at the moon and urgently reaches for a tissue. As you readjust, the exposed skin of your other arm detects a certain unmistakable dampness…
But I’m your baby. And I go everywhere with you. So it’s not long before we’re doing pretty much the same thing again. And again.
Flash-forward several months.
“Look at the moon,” you say one evening, almost to yourself—although here I am sitting in my customary spot on your hip. From that everyday perch I’ve had a chance to reflect on one or two things, and now it’s show time. Here goes…
Feeling both surprise and happiness you see that even though you’re not pointing at the moon, my head has bobbled around to look at it.
A little more time passes. One day, I notice the moon again, and before you’ve had a chance to utter a word I clearly and confidently say, “Oo.”
“Yes!” you concur enthusiastically. “Moon!”
And so it begins. In no time at all (a few years, actually), I’ll be saying “Look at the moon.” And you’ll be replying, “Yes, beautiful.”
Aaaaaand cut!
Outstanding performance! Please step this way to return to your side of the screen. Thank you.
That, then, was a very rough outline of how we acquire language. (Developmental linguists, you can stop tearing your hair out now.) In my next post, I’ll summarise the process using Canjeez. How many do you think it will take?
The answer is three.