Thanks to Satyam, I take an inner journey to a conversation with a younger —very young— version of myself. She is round faced, wide-eyed, in overalls and a striped shirt, her hair short-short. She’s five. And delighted by the world.
She shows me how she plays with the leaves of grass and the butterflies and the sunbeams. She puts out her hand to touch them, and I can see how the edges blur; her hand is no longer a hand; it is moving, colored lines —shifting faster than my eye can follow.
My heart, though, can follow; it perceives the reverberations.
This is clearly so easy for her, so natural. She is impatient with me when I say I don’t know how to do that. Her expression tells me: she thinks I am wilfully withholding this from her.
I bring her close to my adult self, she folds into my center. And suddenly, I can feel my edges blur, and I am the horizon of the land that is home to my soul.