The Eternal Observer

My son and I were sitting quietly together last night and he turned to me suddenly and said, “we all have a god inside of us, don’t we, Mommy?”  Loving someone deeply brings such treasures — unexpected, pithy grace, bestowed with the shining eyes of a 9 year old philosopher.

Sometimes I forget about the god inside me, and I focus on the observer inside me, that being that sits at the corner of my eye, legs dangling, hat askew cynically, as it judges everything I do and say.  Sometimes I catch myself watching, creating, imagining, and I miss the god right in front of me: the child I love waiting for me to come into the present, the breath I take rushed, instead of savored, the food I eat, untasted but consumed.

Part of what makes me a writer is that little observer, but sometimes it robs me of the sacred.  Part of what makes me sacred are my children, all children, all humans, caught between the doing and the thinking, the imagining and the action.  Sometimes I secretly call my observer Prufrock, that gorgeous humane force, full of wondering hesitation.  (See the poem by TS Eliot)  I hope I will still hear the mermaids singing; I hope I can teach my children to dare to eat a peach; I hope I can balance watching with being, imagining with doing.  I treasure every reminder of the still, silent, sacred place inside me, even as I am the outsider, eternally observing, detached and disconnected.


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