Smaller Me

I didn't think there were any pictures of my infant self in existence anywhere, and I was stunned to find these two photos tucked into the back of a battered hardcover copy of Katharine Butler Hathaway's "Little Locksmith" yesterday afternoon. The book had been a childhood favorite, and I removed it from my mother's house many months ago, thinking to read it again this winter and reacquaint myself with the life of someone I have always admired greatly.

My feelings on finding the two photos yesterday were tumultuous and difficult to describe — for some time, I sat looking at the two cracked and timeworn images with my mouth open, then I cried for hours and went through a whole box of tissues.

What shall we say about this wee person of almost sixty years ago? She is happy, bright eyed and brimming with curiosity. The world is full of wonders just waiting for her to explore them — she is already looking forward to great explorations and splendid adventures, and those little bare feet of hers are ready to set off on the journey.

If this little person had been my daughter (rather than myself), I would have held her close, and I would have loved her fiercely. I would have protected her and kept her safe from all harm. Hand in hand, we would have explored puddles, tide pools, estuaries and beaver ponds — we would have watched birds, cicadas and butterflies — we would have rambled through fields, hedgerows, trees and old stones — we would have painted everything we were discovering with our bamboo brushes and made art. Together, we would have explored Herself (the Old Wild Mother), and we would have plumbed the mysteries of the turning seasons, the stars and the moons — we would have danced ecstatically.