Loving Touch

(5-minute read) – Morning sunlight advanced tentatively under the curtains as the dark room gave up the cover of night.

The shadows over his eyes must have retreated too. If he were conscious of it he would have seen the light illuminating his eyeballs through the thin flesh of his closed eyelids. But, although he was not asleep, he had no clue of the changing light.

An eternal moment had possessed him.  Neither night and day, nor dark and light existed.

Time had passed since he’d closed his eyes to meditate. In fact the minutes on his bedside clock had gone from fifteen to forty-five. He did not know. Time elapsed in the world, but not for him. He’d slipped away from the world for a while.

Something touching his hand brought him back to time. He became conscious of the light and the bedside clock ticking senselessly. Then something was pushing down on his lap and against his stomach. It took a second or two for him to realise what it was.

It was his youngest. A six year old boy.

The boy had propped a pillow on his lap and was positioning himself to get comfortable on it. The little face pushed into his stomach and a small hand clasped his left index finger.

He loved it when his children joined him for meditation. His eldest did it years ago. She was gentler in her settling in. The boy had always been rougher. But he’d get comfortable and sit reasonably still eventually. Eventually . . .

Irritation reared its head for a second as the boy battled to settle. His meditations were seldom not disturbed in one way or another. If it wasn’t one of the children, it was the dogs, or just the untimely noises of life in a family home. His irritated-Dad persona almost grabbed the boy’s golf-ball sized shoulders and shoved him into place.

But he took a deep breath and managed to let go of the irritation – something he had grown capable of doing with varying success after a thousand and one disturbances. He smiled to himself as the little hand used his finger for leverage. He felt the warmth of the boy’s palm and short fingers curling around his like wriggling constrictors.

Seconds ticked by on the clock and in his head too now as the ‘present moment’ slipped away to a self-help cliché. With another deep breath, he slowly opened his eyes for the light to enter. The yellowish morning sunlight under the curtains had reached out all over his room.

The short fingers squeezed and fidgeted again and drew his attention. Calm now, he slowly pitched his head to look down at them.

His man-sized hand relaxed on his lap. The back of it had blue blood vessels and black hair. The fingers were long and thick. Deep pores and loose skin of a hand pushing fifty stood in contrast to the chubby, smooth appearance of the miniature version hanging off it.

In his contemplative state, a surreal sensation came over him. He closed his eyes again. Time stood still in a mind shift. He was detached from the hands he’d just examined – like the hand he knew so well wasn’t his. Yet it was also more so than ever before.

A man-sized hand dangled above him in the shifted mind. It was darker and hairier. A chubby miniature version, which he thought was his, hung off it. He tried to focused on a face hovering beyond the hands. It was blurry like a dream, but he recognised the face. It was more familiar than features. Contentment and security were associated with this face, and those feelings came over him. Deep-set, dark eyes smiled and a thick index finger went to a moustached mouth, gesturing down at him to be quiet.

The place was quiet with only a single monotonous male voice in the distance.

As he sat in his room with eyes closed, the rest of the quiet place came back to him. It dawned on him where his mind was frolicking. He was in a church as a child – maybe five or six years old. His skinny bum was perched on one of the steps people kneel on between rows of benches. His back pushed up against the back of the next bench.

The man-sized hand dangling above was his father’s. It was his father’s face.

His father sat slouched forward over him. His little hand held onto one of his father’s dangling fingers.

He recalled the sense of security and even awe as that face and shoulders loomed over him. He recalled the obedience, the willingness to please, as a big forefinger beckoned him to be quiet.

The memory was unusually vivid. But only for a moment. Then the magic was gone and it seemed like any other childhood memory. Except for one thing: this memory left him with strong emotions.

It left him feeling sad – sad that he had almost grabbed his son in irritation moments before. Sad that time had passed so quickly and the little boy in church, eager to please his father, had become the father easily irritated.

Yet, the momentary memory had left him peaceful and content too. He felt a connection between himself and the son on his lap. He felt a connection to his father. And through him, he felt a connection between his son and his father.

The connection was not merely the scientific understanding of a biological continuity through inherited genes. It did not exclude this. But it was more: there was an inexplicable, timeless and mystical aspect. His mind had shifted, not in time, but to another dimension of the present moment. And it was blissful.

He felt a sense of openness and trust in the contemplative moments that followed the memory. The connection was more than just between fathers and sons, mothers and children. It was more expansive than family or tribe. It was universal.

In a present moment that morning he experienced truth – a universal connection to oneness. There was no rational understanding, no logical explanation. Just an experience that would stay with him beyond time.