можно перевод(( As a child, my son possessed an intuitive awareness of his world. While waiting in line for a movie one day long ago, he wandered away. Begging us upon his return to follow, we were led to a wall where clung a dead butterfly, barely unfolded from its cocoon. Its fragile yet brilliantly colored wings offered a fleeting glimpse of the majestic animal it would have become had it lived. This mysterious object was little more than an inexplicable curiosity to my child who at that time was hardly “aware” of his own existence. Yet somehow this butterfly, who so valiantly struggled for life to the very moment of its death, touched in my son an existential chord; an appreciation for the gossamer thinness that divides life and death.Children are natural existentialists. Attuned to their bodies, ever in touch with awe and brimming with truth, they live in the moment; their bodies are their homes. For them, home is not a place but a timelessness grounded in the ‘now.’ And in the endlessness of that ‘now,’ the complexities of what lies ahead—relationships, achievements, meaning, and even death—are insignificant.
Similarly, as we age we begin to acquire a greater appreciation for the moment. By virtue perhaps of having survived life’s vicissitudes—birth, death, love, loss—we too appreciate time and timelessness. Having travelled the decades, we have come to understand at the deepest level that home is neither where one came from nor where one is going; it exists only in the precious and fleeting ‘now’.