The Kingdom of Heaven belongs to such as these...

(This chapter is based on an idea that my sister shared with me. She has a wonderful child-like enthusiasm, and naturally wanted to look at the world of our story from the little boys' perspective. Which I have attempted to put into words. First we hear Laura's voice again - followed by the child's.

Please keep those fresh ideas, stories and input coming. This page truly has no boundaries!) 

Like a weaned child rests against his mother, my soul is like a weaned child within me.

 ~ Psalm 131:2 ~

Motherhood not only surprised me. It was a personal cataclysm. At the time of actual birth, there was a brief moment when it felt as if a chink had appeared in Heaven. God's presence still clung to the baby who had entered my world. There was an other-worldliness in the eyes of the strange yet familiar infant in my arms. I fell into a dead sleep and woke up finding the universe somehow altered. The utterly dependent, fragile being at my breast was the cause of it. He demanded all of me, all of everything around him. I thought that the prolonged labour was the peak, the storm. After which the tide would ebb into a manageable flow. I was mistaken. In the womb, there is only a small space that the foetus controls. But once that little person is released into the world - the instinct to live turns it into a little autocrat. Each time I saw the lashes lower over his keen indigo eyes, I could not help inhaling deeply with relief. Each hour was tagged, and each tag had his name on it. Feed Aron. Clean Aron. Wash Aron's things. Sing to Aron. Rock Aron. Walk with Aron. Try to gauge the cause of Aron's crying.... It became a rhythm. But it was his rhythm, not mine.

As he grew stronger, there were times when I thought I could recognise the uneven beat of his music. I tried to make it mine. It became an allegro con spirito! Hard to keep up with from the andante of my own movements. When he slowed down and I felt energetic, there were periods when we could bridge the chasm and twirl across the floor at a pace which suited both him and I for a while. He would laugh with unreserved joy and I would feel a tingle of effervescent life surge through me. Flesh from my flesh. A heartbeat which once throbbed below my own, now surging ahead on it's own.

His voracity for life was both daunting and fascinating. He forced eye contact by mere will, with an unwavering stare - even from the far end of a room. Whenever we had to leave our haven to buy supplies at the local store, other patrons would stop their browsing, surrendering to the pull of his presence. As if he were a little puppeteer controlling a web of invisible strings.

My child grew so bold, so incredibly like his absent father, that it was an exquisite pain to watch him. Sometimes I would crouch down low, to see the world as he did. To somehow be nearer to the part of him whom I ached for, but would never hold near again. What I did see and hear - looking up at our world rather than over it, was an existence larger than life. A voice which echoes with wonder and fresh discovery...

"I am the one whom Mamo calls Aron. My feet are winged, where she is earthed, slow. I fly over the forest floor, her voice far behind, urgent and deep. But the call of everything around me is stronger. The trees wave and beckon with many fluttering fingers. The tall grass around my legs tries to catch me, but I am too fast. When I was with her, it was all just a gurgling warmth, like the place where the water makes little ponds in between the heat of the rocks. But out here!

I touch a shiny armoured worm with many, many legs. It gets so mad, and then curls up into a perfect spiral. I show her, but she frowns and points at the door. The butterflies that come to sit on my hand, make her smile, and then her face looks like a flower turned to the sun. There are crafty little spiders that make holes in the soft ground between the leaves. Then it covers up this house under the ground with the thinnest of threads. Some mornings, dew drops shimmer on them in the early light, and they look just like the lovely gem that rests in the hollow below below her neck. Then the spider disappears and waits very quietly in the dark of his little hollow. Another little guy comes walking along, tiptoes over the threads and snap! - it gets grabbed from below. I guess it gets lonely down there for a spider, all on his own...

After the rains, the leaves pop up in places and when I lift them away, there is the most wonderful smell. At the bottom of the smell, strange things grow. Things that are so soft to touch, like the underside of our puppy's paws, but smoother. Some of them are pale as the moon, with little flecks on. Some dark as the acorns that she roasts in the fire. I am sad when she breaks their stems with a soft puffing sound, and slips the wide heads into the fold of her dress. "Shrooms Aron", she says. "Yum". But it is lovely to watch them sizzle in hot butter bubbles. They smell even better then, with a handful of tiny leaves, which she sprinkles over them like drifting seeds on the breeze. She lifts out a piece, blows on it from the circle of her lips and holds it in front of mine, with her head tilted and eyes holding a secret that I want to know. I taste. It is a little frightening. My mouth makes salty water, which spills over and runs down my chin. She wipes the dribbles away with a warm laugh. I close my eyes. It melts - and I want to hold this magic on my tongue forever.

Today I saw something which looks a bit like the soft furry thing I sleep with. Only - it can run. Much faster than me. It had long loopy ears, and it can bounce even higher than the ball the uncle from the shop gave me. It looked at me first. "Chase me" - it said. And I did. We raced through the trees, him stopping ever so often to see where I was. And then, just like that, he was gone. I will look for him again. But first I want to see the lovely creatures at the rock-pools once more. Some wriggle and dive deep. Some of them can run on water. And some dart and flit above it, wings the colour of her eyes on a bright day.

A while ago she told me a story of a man called Jesus, who could walk on water. But this is not possible. I tried. Many times. He could also tell the wind to go to sleep and the storms to have a rest. I'd like to ask him how he does that. Mamo said that I could surely do just that one day. Then she smiled a strange sad smile, like the forest lady, whose face the flames once licked. Big people say the forest lady will turn me into a frog. But she has a billy and a nanny goat, and a squirrel who jumps onto my back and into my hair. She lives in a wooden house with a bed in the window. In the morning, the robins wait on the sill for her to feed them. I don't believe those people. What would she do with a frog anyway? I like visiting her. She still knows how to fly.

When the sun goes to hide, my legs grow heavy and I want to feel Mamo's softness around me. My wings are drawn in, like a cat's claws. I curl up on her lap and hear her voice singing to me from the deep. This is still the sweetest place of all. She knows all my secret names and I know hers. She is home.