Scene of the day:
A rather tired looking woman in dark surgical scrubs carries her son across six lanes of traffic – she has to make it before the light changes and so she lumbers on. He, meanwhile, looks out over her shoulder at all the cars whizzing by.
He is waving. Waving and smiling from ear to ear! Hello! Hello! To everyone.
Across to sidewalk she sets him down and pulls his shirt smooth with abrupt jerks that do not register.
Even now, he is looking back over his shoulder, eyes wide and seeking to return.
He still smiles. His hand, down by his side, is still open in the remains of wave.
Quote of the dawn:
There are many versions of realized death short of physically dying…there are also the quiet deaths.
How about the day you realized you weren't going to be an astronaut or the queen of Sheba?
Feel the silent distance between yourself and how you felt as a child,
between yourself and those feelings of wonder and splendor and trust.
Feel your mature fondness for who you once were, and the recurrent need to protect innocence wherever you might find it.
The silence that surrounds the loss of innocence is the most serious death, and yet it is necessary for the onset of maturity.
… As our lives roll into the ordinary, when our ideals sputter and dissipate, as we wash the dishes after yet another meal, we are integrating death, a little part of us is dying so that another part can live.
Matthew Sanford, The Body’s Grace… which is not so much about dying as it is about living without separation. Which brings me to…
Song of the Day; which came on the radio right after I saw the woman and the boy:
There's a reason why when my son (who's six) is crying, he needs a hug.
It's not just that he needs my love.
He needs boundary around his experience.
He needs to know that the pain is contained and can be housed, and it won't be limiting his whole being… he gets a hug and, mmm, he drops into his body.
And when you drop into your body, paradoxically, typically pain is less.
Matthew Sanford, The Body’s Grace