Conscious of Life

It’s such fun looking at old photographs of the family.  Re-remembering birthdays, family outings and such.  It is especially interesting to see photos of ourselves when we were babies, attempting to remember ourselves then.  I looked at this one picture where I was in a highchair. A hand—my mother’s hand—was holding my right arm and shoulder, keeping me upright and I was immediately back there.

I looked up, and I could see her pain, in her eyes.  I could see so much pain, in her eyes; I could see a sadness that completely surrounded her.  I wanted to hold her.  I wanted to say something that would make her feel better, but I couldn’t.  I couldn’t do it because I had no words.  I couldn’t do it because I could not even hold myself up.  I couldn’t do it because I was just an infant.  It was the face of my aunt that I could see.  It was her pain. 

Even as an infant I could connect with others and see what they were feeling.  I knew what they were feeling, and I wanted to help them feel better.

Now as, an adult, looking at the photograph of me as a baby, I am aware that there is no baby self, no adult self.  There is just the Self, which is eternal, ageless, ever present, conscious.