My Son

It is normal now that to find myself forgetting to breathe, and I punish myself for not being enough. My love for him is unworthy. This is what I feel, that I am unworthy of him and this love. It is entirely overwhelming. And I must do better.

Last night I dreamt of a monk in a hermitage. The room was dark and he was bent beside the feet of an angelic glowing child, who sat next to his mother. The monk wept as he kissed the boys feet in obeisance, praying that the child never die, "Never die child, never die."

When I woke I experienced a sense of great peace wash over me, originating I believe, from the monks faith which permeated the dream and diffused beyond, from the psychic into our physical reality. The way he spoke was not of prayer in some desperate sense, as is sometimes interpreted by our cynics, but in deference to the Child and to the Mother, in utter belief that the child never truly dies. The child was his Angel, and the message, his own to hear.

I am I realise, totally in love with him, and so much so it can physically hurt. As if this love wants to break open from the chest. And then I understand the expression, for I have experienced it.

He also has a blue bum. And we are quite certain he was concieved on a Blue Moon. And that is what we call synchronicity, and of course - universal humour.