Excerpted from my book of non-fiction essays: "Feathers in the Dust".
\INFANT ATTACHMENTS
by John Herlihy
In my infancy and youth, I remember an innocent and natural attachment to the Divine Presence that even today I can only recreate with studied concentration and through the discipline and effort of spiritual devotions. An amazing characteristic of childhood is indeed its sweet and uncomplicated naiveté that reaches out and instinctively remembers the divine source from whence it came. “The infant sensibility, great birthright of our being, was in me augmented and sustained. Later I was left alone seeking the visible world, nor knowing why. The props of my affections were removed, and yet the building stood, as if sustained by its own spirit.“ (Wordsworth, Selected Writing and Poems)
This is before the child can learn to consciously separate itself from God and become attached to the world. People commonly refer to childhood as the time of innocence, a time still close enough to the remembrance of the paradise lost. The innocent young soul has yet to abandon its newly lost connections with eternity, and the ambiance of the paradise and the desire to partake of its plenitude and benevolence is still instinctive and fresh. Indeed, this is what we see when we gaze upon the countenance of the infant baby. It is only later that we learn not only to shed the angelic innocence of infancy; but to take on the world with a vengeance that complements the world’s enticements.
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
The soul that rises with us, our life’s star
Hath had elsewhere its setting and cometh from afar.
Not in entire forgetfulness and not in utter nakedness
But trailing clouds of glory do we come from God,
Who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Infant children seem to live as if they belong no matter where they are; they have no need to be anywhere else. They look out unconcernedly at the world around them as if they have claimed ownership and already taken possession of it, reminding us of Wordsworth well know comment: “The child is father to the man.” Of course they fuss when they are uncomfortable or cry when they are hungry since the world they are beginning to experience is not the paradise they remember, but, by and large, they behave in that primitive infant condition with nobility and contentment, as if they have brought from their mother’s womb a knowledge of their own unity, as if the sea itself flowed in its veins and a crown of stars rested fittingly on its head, as if the mystery of God’s crea-tive hand was still near at hand, and the infant was still one with the Spirit of God.
In the detached gaze of an infant child, the wisdom of the world is wiped clean. Watching a child at rest and free of care makes a person realize that it is not what we see, but the way we see a thing that marks the difference between a pure, virgin mentality and the corrupted, over-worldly veneer that takes hold of the adult mind, trapped within a labyrinth of its own human weaknesses and foibles, and weighted down by the experience of the world. In fact, what does the child see but the same world as we do; but in a manner infinitely different, in which everything is at first new and strange, rare and delightful, and inexpressibly beautiful.
On the subject of the princely state of infancy, when images of fire-flies and faeries float freely through their uncorrupted minds like butterflies in search of nectar, when the waking state actually resembles a dream come true in that everything is still fresh, distinctive and pure, and when the imagination roams freely through the images of the world and become what a child imagines them to be without any cloud or encumbrance, I recall an intimate moment of encounter with my two year old grandchild that I shall never forget, a moment that seemed as if God Himself had reached down into the infant child’s tender little heart to reach out and touch me with His compassion and love through the medium of the child. That is what struck me at the time and that is what I remember. The baby Raouf has already moved on to another time; the moment has passed and he will change and grow to be a man, but to me he will always be a reflection of God reaching down to touch my heart with the love of an infant child and to whisper of His mysteries through this poignant human encounter.
I had traveled many miles to Pakistan to visit my adopted son and ggrandchildren whom I had not seen in many months. When I arrived in the village where they lived, the place was in various stages of shutting down for the night as we approached it in the winter fog. It was dark enough as we made our way through the main street of the village. People were making their way through the darkness on foot or on motorcycles slicing through the darkness with their headlights and noisy clatter. Suddenly, we had arrived and I was unceremoniously shoved down the dusty path and around the corner between stately poplar trees. I heard the chatter and singing of children and then saw them standing in a cluster in silhouette against a hanging lamp in front of the door of the house where they lived. When they saw me, they came running forward and threw flower petals over my head and shoulders. Each of them greeted me respectfully and extended their pudgy little fingers for the traditional handshake.
Raouf, the baby now fast approaching two years old, sat contentedly in the arms of his father. Raouf sat there as if he owned this niche and had every right to be there, his little legs dangling barefooted from the shelf of his father’s strong arm in careless abandon. Raouf’s father walked over through the darkness of the night and immediately handed the baby over to me. It has been three months since Raouf sat contentedly in my arms. Once there, he could have stayed there for all eternity. Whenever I motioned to put him down, he protested mightily. However, some time had passed and at that age, I wondered whether Raouf would remember this aging bag of bones that he had once clung to and cherished as his beloved grandfather.
I had been told that in order to perpetuate my memory, they would show Raouf my photograph and he would proceed to march around the house showing everyone and pointing to his grampa, the first and only word that he could yet articulate, uttering the sound like some secret, lost revelation newly discovered. In my mind as I had prepared for the trip, and now as I stood there at the true moment of my arrival, I wondered if he would remember me. I had lived a long and interesting life and accomplished many different things; but the recognition of the baby Raouf and his sweet remembrance had suddenly taken on vital importance to me, the only moment worth waiting for and that needed to come true . Worlds could turn on their orbit and eternities pass us by, but if this beloved infant didn’t remember me, it would lay waste my new world and shatter the fragile expectation we having of loving and being loved in return. There is something primordial and unique in the outpouring love of an infant baby. There are no conditions or self-conscious attachments associated with this raw emotion; it emerges from the noble presence of the child with its own spontaneous, primitive, and unconditioned truth. It seems to ask nothing in return and in so doing opens a world of love and emotion that pour out willingly from soul to soul like flood water spilling over a dam. Infants recognize true love in others and give it back freely in return; otherwise, they may not have anything to do with you.
Judging from the size of his eyes and the hint of his smile, Raouf was clearly caught up in the excitement of the moment as he was passed into my arms before he had time to think about it or protest. As he settled his chubby frame into the crook of my arm where he had spent so many weekends during what seemed now like the ancient history of our time, he wasn’t sure he was having any of this, momentarily confused by the excitement of the moment and the shouts of the other children. I could see in his eyes and attitude that he wasn’t sure who I was at first and was going to take his time making up his mind. He sat there in my arms eye to eye and face to face and began to scrutinize precisely the true person he was seeing before him. I have always marveled at the child’s ability to be fully in the moment without the contrived context and excess baggage that adults usually carry around with them, and this moment was no exception. Raouf took me in with all the instinctive powers available to him as an infant presence, like some regal prince surveying one of his subjects. At first, he seemed to roam the topography of my face for some familiar landmarks, and for a second he raised his pudgy little fist and touched my beard, as though feeling its texture for hints of the identity of this strange person causing so much excitement; then not getting a satisfying reply from this brief survey of touch, I saw the child look straight into my eyes and I stared back, his head seemingly surrounded by a halo in a mist of light.
This was no casual glance; I could feel him probing deeply into the well of my being for a signal that would awaken his memories, as though he were searching through the forest for a glimpse at a passing deer or scanning the horizon of a great ocean for signs of land. For a moment, his gaze was so penetrating and direct, I felt as if I were suspended in mid-air without any ground under my feet, held aloft by the scrutiny of his pure, uncluttered gaze; my heart had become merely a string that was being pulled taut so that I could actually feel pain. Then, without further ado, this boy wonder made up his mind, gave me the most beatific smile imaginable, and uttered distinctly the word grampa, as though he were intoning notes from a piece of musical script and grampa again and again, setting up echoes in my heart of a distant bell whose reverberation ran through my being like the sounding notes of some grand adagio, and I was thinking that we had just journeyed together to the world’s edge and had come back with smiles on our faces. We all made our way into the house together; but my eyes were glistening and wet as I carried this contented child in my arms through the front door.
This is a story of pure love. I enjoyed it thoroughly!! I remember one time when my daughter first began speaking, she told me, "You are my mommy and I used to be your mommy." and went on playing. Where did that come from? Excellent story!!!
An endearing and very detailed remembrance of the time you traveled a great distance to see your grandson after his birth 10 months before.
In your preface to the actual encounter, you write a great deal about the behavior and essence of young children. My additional observation is that mammals, nearly without exception, have infants that are universally acceptable to interspecies bonding. This innocence is very endearing and may be a way of surviving for youngsters, still unable to fend for themselves without adult education, to find surrogate parents when they have lost theirs.
A most beautifully written and exquisitely articulated piece. I've experienced what you write about through my grand nephew, who took me in with all his instinctive powers at the age of 6 mos. Whenever we'd resume our bond during his summer travels with is parents to my state, his eyes would probe mine and he'd envelop me in his radiant smile. Now 5 yrs. old, we video chat and have strengthened our bond. There is nothing like it!
It's almost Christmas. Lynn Basil is writing her last book about a secret entrance into the magical doll land of Sha Bebe that she loves so much. Bagannos have taken over the world! Lynn finally meets her dolls in real life. Can she write in a Secret
