I like to imagine that babies already know everything. I like to imagine that they are the wisest beings on earth. So wise, in fact, that they need not tell anyone about anything (unless, of course they’re hungry or their arms are trapped in their blankets or they have something in their eye). Knowing makes them content; experiencing God in the depths of their silence is enough.
It’s as if God can tell them every secret, give them the answer to every small and large question because their silence will keep those secrets safe for a time.
I’d tell you about Truth if I could just keep my head up, they cry.
But don’t worry fellow mortal, my mom is making me do tummy time for ten minutes a day now, so soon I can teach you the ways of the Infinite. Soon enough and then you too shall know, they coo.
But then they sleep off all of this infinite wisdom, cry out all of the compassion they feel for all of the clueless people they know. They have it all figured out until one day they say their first word, take their first steps and begin their journey back to the infinite places from which they came; forgetting all that they understood until in time they re-learn it, realize it all over again.
Truth then, is kept safely in a baby’s silence.
* "I’d tell you about Truth if I could just keep my head up", something Tarrin jokingly said when we were discussing this idea while holding Quentin (shown above), our city director's baby.
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