Source http://www.sonima.com/meditation/the-art-of-looking/
What are you looking for? I’ve been asking this question loudly and frequently lately, as my month-old daughter writhes and cries in my arms. I offer milk, a kiss, a silly song. I rub her back, bounce her on my knee. I wheel her tiny, plump body through the air. The child remains inconsolable, and I am left with no clear answer. Not even a vague answer.
To the changing table we go, where I open the thirteenth dirty diaper of the day to find that my suspicions of a poop paroxysm were regrettably accurate. As I wipe her soft skin clean, and she continues to wail, I consider the question again. What are you looking for? This, it seems, is the paradox of the human condition. We enter the world hungry, and spend most of our lives seeking missing pieces, looking for that elusive something more that will fill our emptiness and infuse our lives with meaning. Watching my mighty-lunged baby turn red with discontent, I wonder whether any such something exists. If it does, I haven’t found it. Whatever my daughter is looking for—hell, whatever I’ve been looking for—always seems to shape shift, to evaporate and disappear completely the moment I think I have it within my grasp.
My child finally quiets, and lies gurgling on her changing table for fifteen glorious minutes. I waste nearly five of those minutes wondering what to do with my two free hands before deciding to simply hover over her and enjoy these fleeting moments of bliss. Because sur…
Source http://www.sonima.com/meditation/the-art-of-looking/
What are you looking for? I’ve been asking this question loudly and frequently lately, as my month-old daughter writhes and cries in my arms. I offer milk, a kiss, a silly song. I rub her back, bounce her on my knee. I wheel her tiny, plump body through the air. The child remains inconsolable, and I am left with no clear answer. Not even a vague answer.
To the changing table we go, where I open the thirteenth dirty diaper of the day to find that my suspicions of a poop paroxysm were regrettably accurate. As I wipe her soft skin clean, and she continues to wail, I consider the question again. What are you looking for? This, it seems, is the paradox of the human condition. We enter the world hungry, and spend most of our lives seeking missing pieces, looking for that elusive something more that will fill our emptiness and infuse our lives with meaning. Watching my mighty-lunged baby turn red with discontent, I wonder whether any such something exists. If it does, I haven’t found it. Whatever my daughter is looking for—hell, whatever I’ve been looking for—always seems to shape shift, to evaporate and disappear completely the moment I think I have it within my grasp.
My child finally quiets, and lies gurgling on her changing table for fifteen glorious minutes. I waste nearly five of those minutes wondering what to do with my two free hands before deciding to simply hover over her and enjoy these fleeting moments of bliss. Because sur…
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