Many of the things we need
Can wait. The child cannot.
Right now is the time
his bones are being formed, his
blood is being made, and
his senses are being developed.
To him we cannot answer
Chilean poet, Gabriela Mistral

From the age of four onward, I spent ten years of Saturdays in the galleries of the Detroit Institute of Arts. The most mysterious and alluring space I found in the museum was a medieval spiral stairway. Ascending and descending the stone steps, I felt sure it was a passageway between magical realms. Without being conscious of it, this became my Axix Mundi, spiraling to the center, connecting me with secret wonders.
Gerald McDermott, Stone Spiral

My recollection of the first bird’s nest that I found all by myself has remained more deeply engraved in my memory than that of the first prize I won in grammar school for a Latin version.
A. Toussenel, Le monde des oiseaux, 1853

But the children of this land embrace the void
As lovers. The spores of their conjunction move
To people once human spaces, stepping numbly
Over ghosts of parenthood. The children of this land
Are robed as judges, their gaze rejects
All measures of the past. A gleam
Invades their dead eyes briefly, lacerates the air
But with one sole demand:
Who sold our youth?

You can make your own miniatures so easily: just use bathtub caulk, spackle, wheatena sprinkled on clear glue, broom straws, bleached chicken bones, broken jewelry, film canisters, grape stems, and above all, the oval caps from underarm deodorant.
Bebe Harrison, addressing the Chappaqua Garden Club, 2000.

Secret Spaces of Childhood
Elizabeth Goodenough, Editor
The University of Michigan Press