Can I remember when

Talking, after my walk through the dark streams of the submerged with the imprint of unworthy, to my twin soul artist friend about this journey, the black web of thought unravels and becomes a pattern more coherent, and I remember, even as I explain that I cannot remember a time before this whispering chorus, that I can.

Utterly abstract, visual, sensory, hard to put into words without those words constructing more than was before words were formed. I've seen the photos of course, of a less-than-two-year-old crouching with her mother to reach her fingers into the mirrored glass of a pond in a park. But I do remember shadows of disjointed detail, how the edges of the water met the leaves of the lily, how the light fell, the sky and the trees were reflected in the glass, my fingers met the water, and more, a sense of being, of empty and observant, open and drinking in, unquestioning, un-interpreted fragments of vision, touch, sound. No inner twist, no nagging doubt, just there, experiencing the world, the beauty, the wonder, with every right, knowing my place in it.

This is what to come back to.