a moment

G-man crawls on my lap as we both look to B-boy to see if he’ll notice.  (He’s not sharing his mama so well.)  But B-boy is busy climbing to the top of the dining table and the kitchen counter in search of ice cream bowls to lick.  He sings the best rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle.  Ever.  He zooms in to put a soft hand on my face, utters a lilting Mama, and gives me a quick but intense twinkling gaze that says I love you.  E-man, mesmerized by the vastness of the universe and in love with the idea that we are just floating in space around a star, delights in the work of  astronauts as they repair Hubble on the Nova special we are watching.  He is sad at the idea that Hubble may die, never to be touched by human hands again, and then enlivens at the thought that he could be the astronaut that returns to space one day to repair a magnificent telescope — all thoughts that seem so grand, but so perfect, for this almost-eight-year-old boy.  G-man, the boy who seems so clear about his path to become a fire fighter, declares he will never be an astronaut because it isn’t safe.  His whole heart believes in safety, kindness and goodwill.  And I, in this perfect ordinary moment, have the most profound connection to the fact that there are no boundaries between any of us.  That we four sitting there watching  a Nova special are not actually four separate beings, but just part of the Great Mysterious soup along with everyone and everything else.   And at that moment everything is perfectly clear.  We are.  Love is.


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