Tonight I go to tuck Ezra (7.5) into bed, and there’s a little handwritten note taped to his door that says: “Come in.”
I walk into his room and find him already in his bed, lying there quietly in the dark, waiting for me.
He asks, somberly: “Did you see the note?”
I say: “Yes, I did!”
He says, still serious in tone: “So that’s why you came in?”
I chuckle a little and say: “Yes, that’s why I came in.”
He asks: “Did you see the *first* note I put on my door?”
I say: “No I didn’t. What did it say?”
He responds: “It said: ‘Do not come in.’”
I say with surprise: “Oh! But then you changed it?”
He answers: “Yes.”
He asks, sadly: “If I left the first note on my door would you have just walked away and not tucked me in?”
I say: “Nah… I think I would have knocked on the door, and said: ‘Please oh please can I come in??’”
Ezra giggles, relieved. He hugs me. He says: “Good.”
I ask, sensitively: “But why did you write the note that said to not come in?”
He gets somber again, remembering: “Oh, I was just feeling some sadness and madness about the nectarine.” 😉
Puzzled, not remembering any particular nectarine issues, I say: “The nectarine?”
He sighs deeply, and says with a fair amount of annoyance: “You know. When you said that 3 nectarines was enough for one day? And I wanted to eat another one. And you said no.”
I nod in the dark, cozying up, spooning him, and say: “Oh right. Yes, that was a very sad moment when you wanted another nectarine.”
He sighs again in agreement, saying: “Yes.”
Then he squirms around in my arms, facing me, and says: “Want to sing some Sanskrit?”
I say: “Yes! What shall we sing?”
He’s quiet a moment, considering.
Then says with certainty: “Gayatri.”
So we sing the Gayatri mantra together, maybe about 10 rounds. I notice how sweetly he is singing along; really grasping all the syllables.
At the end, we sing: “Om, shanti, shanti, shanti….”
We lie there together in the nectar and beauty of how the mantra leaves us aglow.
Then I say quietly: “Do you remember why we sing ‘Om Shanti’ at the end of the mantra?”
He says: “No. Why?”
I say: “It means: ‘May all beings in all worlds come to peace.’ Then our prayer goes out to everyone, everywhere.”
He says: “Remember what I wrote in the sand today Mama? With my stick?”
I delightedly remember: “Yes! Did it say~ ‘Peace and Love to all the world’?”
He nods in the dark: “Yep.”
I say: “That was such a beautiful prayer you wrote.”
He adds, with a bit of remorse: “I bet the Mother Ocean already washed it away…”
I say: “I’m sure you’re right. Lucky Mama Ocean.”
He says: “But do you think God read my prayer before it got washed away?”
I’m quiet a moment, curious about this unusual way he is speaking of God.
I say: “I think God reads your prayers all the time, and even in the washing away they are still read.”
He nods in happy agreement.
His eyes are getting heavy. I can see the blinks of his eyelids are lengthening.
I kiss his face tenderly: “Goodnight my Love.”
“See you in the morning Mama…” he says with a sleepy voice.
I whisper: “Yes.” I lift myself up carefully from his bed.
He says: “Mama?”
I say: “Yes, Ezra?”
He says: “Goodnight Mama.”
One of the many gifts that came from my early childhood intimacy with traumatizing illness, was the way in which it opened my psychic centers to be able to “see” and “hear” energetic realities that remain elusive for most. While it took me a couple of decades to work...