Why Children Laugh & Angels Fly

Copyright 1994 by Peter Childress


There came into the Earth, one gloomy and dreary day, an imaginary Angel of serious mien and heavy heart. She was sad, for when she had discovered that she was an Angel, she had also discovered that she couldn't fly, and so she had to walk. Naturally, one can only walk if there is something to walk upon, so our imaginary Angel slid down a rather pale and raspy rainbow and landed on the Earth, where there is plenty of solid stuff to walk around on.

The poor angel wanted very much to fly, but because she couldn't, she felt very gloomy and sorry for herself. So she walked. She walked up hills and down hills, and around curves in the road. She walked through fields and forests, and swamps and plains and deserts. The longer she walked, the gloomier she got, until she felt very sorry for herself, indeed. But the Angel was determined, so she kept on walking, through sunshine and fog, through rain and snow, and through the ever deepening gloom of her own imaginary mind, until all at once she saw a city in the distance. And there, above The City, she saw some pigeons flying carefree over the towers and gabled roofs.

"Flying things!” she exclaimed to herself. "Those are flying things. Maybe they can teach me how to fly, too!", and she hurried towards the far-off city as fast as her tired and aching feet could carry her, her eyes never leaving those wonderful flying things.

Upon coming to the gates of The City, she dusted herself off and preened the feathers of her rainbow-colored wings, for although she might not have the best attitude in Heaven or Earth, she was, after all, an Angel, and Angels are known for their well-bred manners and personal grooming.

After satisfying herself that she looked presentable, she walked through The City's gates, into a hustle and bustle of hurried and harried city dwellers, each of whom were leaning forward, as if against a great wind, and walking as fast as they could.

Thus it was, that the first thing she discovered about city dwellers was that if you aren't any of their busy-ness, they don't even notice that you exist. And, of course, as everyone knows, Angels that can't fly, like beggars and poor people, are none of anyone's busy-ness, so no one saw her at all.

"Oh, excuse me!” she said, as someone bumped her elbow, but the man was in a great hurry and didn't even appear to notice her presence. "Pardon me!” she said, as someone else jostled her shoulder and continued on, ignoring her completely. "Sorry!” she said, as men and women scurried about, knocking her wings and stepping on her already sore feet. "Excuse me, sir! Pardon me, ma'am!” she said, as people, quite oblivious to her, kept bumping into her despite her agile efforts to dodge the steady stream of humanity rushing all around her.

Finally, between a zig and a zag, she slipped and landed with an unceremonious bump on the sidewalk, red-faced, feathers bedraggled, and on the verge of tears.

"Oh, damn!” she cried in frustration and anger, at which utterance (quite unbecoming and Angel) there was a loud PINNNG! and an iridescent feather popped out of one of her wings to land on the sidewalk beside her. That was the last straw, and she burst into tears of frustration, feeling even sorrier for herself than ever.

"Excuse me, ma'am," inquired a small voice near her ear, "is this your feather?" The Angel looked up, surprised that anyone in The City could see her, much less care to speak. Before her was a sad-faced little boy, not much more than five years old.

"Is this your feather?” he repeated patiently. "W-why, yes, it is,", said the Angel, sniffing a little, as the boy held out the multi-hued feather in a grimy little hand. "I lost it when I said a four-letter word.” she continued rather sheepishly, more than a little embarrassed.

"It's a good thing you didn't say the F-Word!” said the little boy conspiratorially, with a self-conscious emphasis on the last three syllables, "Or you might have made your wings bald. You're an imaginary Angel, aren't you?” He was now staring at her with eyes wide in awe.

"Yes, I guess I am, sort of," replied the Angel, a little flustered at the child's directness, "that is, I am an Angel, but I don't really think I'm any more imaginary than anyone else." Then regaining some of her composure, the Angel asked "How is it that you can see me when no one else can?"

"That's easy," replied the urchin, "I'm an imaginary playmate. At least, that's what my friends tell me their parents tell them when they tell them not to play with me any more. But then when I tell them to tell them that I imagine them as easily as they imagine me, and that they could imagine anyone as easily as they imagine themselves, doesn't that prove that we're all imaginary anyway, and so what if we are as long as we're all having fun?"

Somewhere among all those "tells" and "thems" the Angel got lost, but not wanting to admit her confusion or disappoint the only person who had acknowledged her presence so far, she mumbled a lame "Imagine that!", and picked herself up to stand in the protection of a nearby doorway.

Then, remembering why she had come into The City in the first place, she asked her imaginary little friend what those funny flying things were, and where she could find them.

"Oh, those are called 'pigeons'," replied the boy, "and there's a bunch of them in the park on top of the hill. My imaginary friends like to chase them around, now that they can't play with me any more." With this admission the sad-faced little boy's face became even sadder, but brightened when the Angel asked if he would take her to the park so she could see the pigeons for herself.

So off they went, down crooked streets and dark alleyways, over fences and through back yards, until all of a sudden they found themselves on top of a large hill, at the entrance to one of The City's many parks.

There, among trees and grass and statues, was a flock of pigeons being chased by a pack of glum-faced children. The children were glum-faced because they could no more laugh than the Angel could fly. The imaginary little urchin said the children couldn't laugh because their parents never laughed, being so caught up in the busy-ness of The City, and the Angel, shuddering in remembrance of the crowds downtown, could find no fault in that speculation.

While the Angel was standing in one corner of the park taking all this in, the little imaginary playmate went running to join his former friends, the Angel's lost feather still clutched in his hand.

The Angel stared at the pigeons in flight, trying to understand how they could fly and swoop through the air with such natural ease until, with a long and heavy sigh, she looked around for a place to sit down, for her feet were very sore by now.

In the middle of the park there was a fountain surrounded by several benches. Seated on one of the benches was a smiling old man who was watching the Angel with amused and unabashed curiosity. The Angel wondered why the old man could see her, when no one else in The City could, except, of course, for the imaginary little urchin, who was now running around tickling the glum-faced children with his Angel feather, trying to get their attention. There was a distant squeal of laughter, as he apparently succeeded in tickling one of the kids who were chasing the pigeons around the park.

"Well," thought the Angel, gloomier than ever that she couldn't figure out why pigeons, much less Angels, fly, "at least someone is having fun. I may as well sit by that strange old man since he can see me and nobody else seems to care. Besides," she thought, "he looks like he's been here a long time, so maybe he can tell me why pigeons fly." So she walked over to the center of the park where the old man was still sitting and smiling at the Angel.

"Well, halloo!” said the old man as the Angel approached, "And how are we this fine and beautiful day?"

"H-hello," stammered the Angel, hesitating for a moment. "May I sit down here with you for a while? I've been walking for a long time."

"I should say you have!” said the old man, with a knowing twinkle in his eye. Then, with an airy gesture of his hand, as if he were conducting a symphony orchestra, he said "My name is G.K. Chesterton, and I'm a long dead poet. Although I must admit that I feel livelier in my death than I ever did in my life, and now sometimes wonder if what we call life is merely a long process of dying, or if death may actually be a higher form of life. But please forgive my rambling on. Have a seat, and we'll talk about the philosophical questions of the age, such as why poets are never understood, and how many Angels can dance on the head of a pin."

"Thank you, sir.” said the Angel, and she sat down wearily.

"So," said the poet, "you're an Angel." It was more of a statement than a question.

"Why, yes, I Am.", said the Angel. There was another squeal of laughter from one of the children as the imaginary urchin struck again. "And you're a poet."

G.K Chesterton merely smiled and nodded, not saying anything further in reply. There was a long silence while the Angel rubbed her sore feet, wondering if she would ever learn how to fly.

"If you're really a poet," said the Angel after a while, "then why don't you tell me something poetic?"

G.K. was amused by this, and thinking for but a moment, said "Very well, I will!"

"I will po' you a cup of tea
if you will et a cookie with me,
and then before you even know it
in the first two lines you'll
find a po'-et."

"Pretty bad," frowned the Angel.

"Pretty sad," nodded the poet, and he burst into a fit of giggles.

"Okay," G.K said to the Angel, "when I was alive, I was really a novelist, but I always wanted to be a poet. Tell me something: why are poets are so little understood?"

"I'm not sure I know first hand," replied the Angel, "but maybe I can ask my imaginary creator."

"Your imaginary creator?” asked G.K., "You mean God?"

"No," said the Angel, "not exactly, although sometimes I think he thinks he is. I mean the poor -but honest- writer that put me into this mess in the first place, Peter Whozit".

"Oh.", said G.K., slightly perplexed at her offbeat brand of metaphysics.

And with that, the Angel closed her eyes in meditation. After opening her eyes a few minutes later, the Angel said "Okay, Uncle Petey says its like this:"

"Every poet's constant curse,
as all his readers can see,
is that he locks his message in a verse
and throws away the key."

"Hhmph!" humphed G.K., "No wonder he's poor (but honest!), writing stuff like that."

"If you think that's bad," chortled the Angel, "you should see the mushy love poems he writes to his girlfriend."

PINNNG! went another feather, PING! PING! PING! PING! PING! Pretty soon the Angel was sitting in a pile of rainbow-colored feathers examining the bald patches beginning to appear on her wings, and deciding that she would not make any more smart remarks about an imaginary creator with such a lousy sense of humor.

Both poet and Angel then sat a while in silence, watching a fat pigeon waddle across the sidewalk and fly away in the nick of time to avoid being ambushed by another glum-faced child. In the distance there was more laughter, as the imaginary playmate scored again.

"So, baldy," said the poet, turning again to the Angel, "why is it you're walking around on Earth, instead of flying around in Heaven and playing your harp, or whatever it is you guys do up there?"

The Angel shot the poet a dirty look, thinking a rude thought, and PING! went another feather. "Oh, damn!” exclaimed the Angel -PING! went a feather- "Damn, damn, damn!" -PING! PING! PING! as more feathers flew everywhere. The Angel gritted her teeth and sat very still on the bench, not daring to say anything aloud, but silently fuming. PINNNG! went another feather, until with a little sob, the Angel slumped on the bench, feeling thoroughly depressed and almost in tears again.

There was yet another long silence while the Angel frowned, and the poet smiled, and the glum-faced children chased the pigeons that flew around the park.

"I don't know." sighed the Angel.

"What?” said the poet.

"I said," said the Angel, dejectedly, "I don't know why I can't fly. That's why I'm here, because I can't fly and so I have to walk, and there's nothing to walk on in Heaven, so I came to Earth, where there's plenty of stuff to walk around on."

"You mean," said the poet, gleeful incredulity on his face, "that you really don't know why Angels fly?"

"Yes," said the Angel, "I mean, no, I don't know why Angels fly."

"Is that all that's wrong?” said G.K., and he laughed uproariously, slapping his thigh. "Why, I told everyone years ago why Angels fly. I thought everybody knew by now!", and he laughed some more.

The Angel was stunned! At last, her prayers were about to be answered. But before she could reply, the little imaginary playmate came running up to her with a wide grin on his face, out of breath.

"Can I please have some more feathers for my friends?” he asked, his formerly sad face now wreathed in joy. "I've been tickling some of my playmates with the feather you lost downtown, and now they're playing with me again, and we all want some more Angel feathers so all of us can go and tickle the other kids, and..." He broke off abruptly, his mouth forming a surprised "O", eyes wide and full of concern.

"Oh, gee!” he exclaimed, staring at the bald patches on the Angel's wings and the pile of feathers surrounding her. Then, in a whisper full of love and concern, he asked "Did you get caught saying The F-Word?”

The Angel looked at the little imaginary urchin, and then at the poet, who was giggling to himself again. She turned back to the imaginary child, her heart overflowing with love for his innocent concern, and her mind bubbling over with happiness at the thought of finally learning how to fly.

Tears of joy came into her eyes, and without a word she gathered up the iridescent, shimmering feathers lying about her, and with both hands gently presented them to the child, kissing him lovingly on his forehead.

"No," she said, "I didn't say The F-Word, and you had better not say it either! Here. Take these feathers and give them to your friends with my love."

The imaginary little kid took the feathers from her in his two little fists, and with a whoop of delight, went running off to join his playmates. The Angel beamed, sent a blessing to follow him, and then turned back to the poet, who had been waiting patiently during the entire exchange.

"Tell me!” exclaimed the Angel, her eyes now bright and wings quivering with anticipation, "Please tell me why Angels fly!"

"Well," winked the poet, obviously enjoying himself immensely, "Angels fly because they take themselves lightly."

The Angel just stared at him for a moment. "Angels fly because they take themselves lightly?” she whispered to herself, "Angels fly because they take themselves lightly." Comprehension dawned across her face like the sun coming up over the sea, and she smiled, hesitantly at first, then wider and broader as the full impact of the poet's words sank in.

"Angels fly because they take themselves lightly.” she said out loud. "Angels fly because they take themselves lightly!” she shouted to the children, but the children ignored her because they were busy running and laughing and chasing each other with Angel feathers.

The Angel, herself, was laughing now, no longer gloomy and serious as she was when she had first come to Earth, and as her new-found joy filled her with light-hearted expectation, she found herself gently floating over the park bench, the poet still watching her and smiling.

"Hey, baldy," called out the poet as she rose above the park and the trees and the running, laughing children, "you forgot to tell me. Just how many Angels CAN dance on the head of a pin?"

The Angel called back to him, her voice echoing the joy of the children, now no longer glum-faced, and she said "As many as want to, G.K. As many as want to!" And with that, she flew away into the light of the waning day.

The poet chuckled softly to himself, and shaking his head in amusement as he arose from the bench, he slowly ambled off into The City's crooked streets and bright alleyways, while the laughing children chased fat pigeons in the park.