How many people could look into the eyes of an infant and not see innocence? Conversely, how many look into our adult eyes through our adult eyes and see something less than whole and holy? I am raising my hand as acknowledgement of both of those experiences. I have been poring through boxes upon boxes of stuff that I brought back from my parent’s South Florida condo since my mom died and  coming up with treasures, some in the form of old photos. This cutie pie is yours truly, circa 1959.  At about 6 months old, I was a happy camper, delighted with life, exploring the world around me. Well  loved, secure, surrounded by adoring parents, aunts, uncles, cousins and grandmothers, I hadn’t a care in the world. I didn’t yet know that my beloved maternal grandmother would die less than 4 years later, this 3rd parent who showered love and attention, fixing my hair in Shirley Temple curls. I called her Giggie, since I couldn’t pronounce anything even close to grandma or grandmom and the name stuck. She was one of the anchors of our family; a safe haven who my parents alway said had a money tree in the back yard since she also seemed to have what she and we needed in any eventuality. When my parents married, my dad moved into the house my mother was raised in and a year and a half after I was born, we all crossed the river from Philadelphia to Willingboro, NJ and moved into that new home where I lived until I was 18. Sadly, my grandmother had a stroke and passed a month or so after my 4th birthday. I sense that so much internalization of grief took place around that pivotal event, since shortly after that I was diagnosed with asthma. There are those who see a connection between grief and asthma and it makes sense to me. I felt sometimes as if my own life was ebbing away in the midst of asthma attacks.

As I am doing a great deal of work, healing those sometimes fragmented parts of myself; the one who knows that ultimately all is well and love still enfolds me and the one who doubts that I will ever feel whole, I am called on to recognize my infinite innocence. If only I was certain of the first, casting out the second. That darn spiritual amnesia keeps kickin’ up dust. It’s then that I look into the trusting eyes of that little one and swear to protect her with all I’ve got, since she is the me yet to be. She is, in effect, my ancestor and I am her progeny.

I encourage you to find a photo of yourself at an age where you could truly feel your innocence and have a dialogue with that little one.

http://youtu.be/2rALVgdoMHk Return to Innocence by Enigma