Midday on the train, and I gaze with wonder at a baby sitting opposite me.
He is possessed of a curiosity and joy,
at least I think it is a boy by virtue of what he is dressed in,
dark blue and green colours,
not that it matters,
his humanity preceding his gender.
Should it not always be this way?
As he stares back at me,
brown eyes wide open,
meeting my gaze, then peering through me,
I find myself suddenly breathless in his presence.
For he possesses a purity, an innocence, a love,
which at this moment I long for.
Tears come now, in my eyes not his,
the boy’s mother wondering what is wrong, as she glances at me.
What are these tears saying? Where from? Why? I ask
Was I a baby like him, in possession of such curiosity and joy?
I suspect I was not, at least much of the time,
more attuned to fear and sadness, such was my early attachment.
A young boy, maybe six years old, sits a few seats down in between his parents.
His father strokes his son’s long blonde hair,
running his fingers through its strands, and caressing his scalp,
while his mother kisses his cheek repeatedly,
puckering her lips playfully,
squeezing out squeaky, noisy kisses,
which he, the boy, relishes,
young enough not to be embarrassed by his doting mother.
How we need loving presence as children, I think,
as I continue to look at the boy,
its absence responsible for so much suffering.
Is not such presence vital? Does it not keep us alive and well?
Without it, as adults, we are lost,
developmentally flawed,
unable to calm ourselves in times of strife and need,
wild, desperate, in perpetual chaos…
How I know this.
The child who is not met with sufficient loving presence turns on himself,
even though his remedy lies in loving himself,
which he is unable to do,
the burden of shame enveloping, binding him,
until in adulthood, he is forever restless,
plagued with insomnia and a mind that goads and bullies,
convincing him he is bad, defective, flawed,
must fix himself,
until the burden is too heavy,
and he is unable to carry it anymore.
For in his mind, which is frozen in time,
still the mind of the child who suffered such a deficit of love,
he is surely unlovable, he concludes,
unable to understand that perhaps this absence is not his fault,
that he is not to blame for not being in receipt of what he so needs…
loving presence.
Perhaps it is not even the fault of his mother and father,
who like him suffered the very same absence.
Are we not endlessly repeating the woes inflicted on us?
How conditioned we are, in truth,
with those fortunate enough to be raised with loving presence,
unable to see quite how lucky and blessed they are.
Free will is little more than an illusion,
with us afforded glimpses of true freedom,
only when we accept the predetermination of our lives.
For we do not have the freedom we think we have.
I know who will calm me now, as I turn inward, away from the baby and boy,
lost in too much thought and reflection,
too much consideration of the past,
which does little more than piss on the present.
Stomach churning, chest tight, throat constricted, brow hot
I long for her now, she knows who she is,
this woman who I was able to find calm and peace with, finally
to breathe with,
to sigh with,
to cry with,
to laugh with,
to smile with,
to be with…
the great gift she gave, and still gives,
of loving presence,
and I am able to finally unburden,
to fucking breathe… fully and freely…
and no longer feel unlovable.