Wednesday, 16 February 2011


Connecting not connecting - how can it be? Dull days where the excitement of movement all around has gone. Reaching out to feel and sense the other. Where are you? And yet, this is an adult's world. The children, they look, they talk, they walk, they move, they look again, at you, always you, checking with you to see what it is supposed to be and they are in connection, no question. It is me, as the adult, as their mother too, I sometimes don't listen, don't talk, don't walk, don't move, and don't look again, at them, and see in their eyes - the truth. And the upset when I deny the truth, in the adult world a normal occurrence, in fact desirable, in a child's world a confusing act of almost - violence. Their eyes, so pure, so questioning, so sparkly still, at least the eyes of my children. The eyes of the baby, like a bright beam, awake, profound, and looking into them, just them, just looking, is almost too intense to bear. How far I have travelled from that state. Difficult to believe, to imagine, to inhabit the idea that we all have been a baby. A human being. And what a being. And what a mystery. Where have you come from? And where will you go? Somehow the answer lies in those eyes. In that gaze towards me, his mother, towards others, enchanting and captivating, seeing and experiencing it transcends all theory and all supposed knowledge of what that gaze might mean. That night, when he was born, and lay in my arms, hour after hour, unwashed, skin to skin, something was deeply touched. As if the gentlest hand of all was bringing me and him, two souls, together, joining our hands and saying "here you go you two, now you two walk together in this life, have a go at being together". At Being. At connecting. Such a gift. Not mine to possess, not mine to judge or know about. Just a gift.  And with every hour gone, something else was gained, something that can't really be spoken about or matched with words. Something otherwordly. And again and again, I call upon myself, my Self, to not forget that gift, the gift of truth perhaps. An endeavour to connect, as therein lies the truth, lies salvation, lies love. 

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