Passage from one stage, place, stage, or subject to another—so states dictionary definition—words that describe movement, but that say nothing of substance and depth of human feeling. Nothing of nights spent tossing and turning, when craving sleep we lie awake, fighting our personal demons and feelings of failure. Or, terror resulting in knotted stomachs, shallow breathing, and desire to remain in our comfort zone or to run far away. Neither does it tell of moments of quiet contemplation, contentment, and joy, feelings of accomplishment, even ecstasy and delight change can offer. Transitions, be they small or large are rarely finite. With revisionist minds, we place timeframes around experience. Perhaps we use a ritual such as a birth, wedding, illness, death, birthday, graduation, or a new newspaper editor to define these significant phases. I think, these transitions, life's ever in process changes, most often have ragged edges that bleed beyond our neatly bound boxes, starting before we are aware and morphing into next process we call change.

Sometimes change is thrust upon us. Sometimes, it is cultivated by choice. But, almost always, it requires courage. Courage, I think, necessitates accepting journey as a challenging adventure that will pull some new knowledge, fresh wonderment, or innovative direction from us. We human beings, such creatures of habit, so rarely stay put. Much as boomerang in Kubric's 2001 was tossed into beyond; we too, often fling ourselves into unknown.

In last few days, be it on a TV interview, a call in program, at a meeting or a consultation, people ask variations of following questions. “What do we tell our children about bombing? Shall we keep it a secret? Shall we wait with little ones until they ask? After all they don’t know difference, anyway.” They say. “At what age can they comprehend what has happened? Won’t it scare them to talk to them?”

Adults often forget that children have ears. They make mistake of believing that if a child isn’t told about an event, he or she won’t know what you don’t want him or her to know. Remember your own youth. Didn’t you learn almost everything your parents didn’t want you to? Children pick up secrets like sponges. And, if you don’t tell them your version, they will fill in blanks with mixed-up stories of their own.

Very young children don’t know difference between reality and fantasy. One burning building looks like another, one they have seen in movies or on television or even a cartoon. But, depending upon how it is presented to them, children of about three can begin to differentiate fact from fiction.