When she looks at me, I see my dead father, my past-life wife, my long-ago partner on another planet. She has my eyes, hazel and fire, born of a wildness that comes with indigo's wild-child. My love, my soul, my other self, my offspring, my wonderling, my child.
When a baby is born, two loves are created, one for the mother, the other for the child, both loves offspring of desire, but the predominant one a love that is at once both selfless and devotional, not unlike the worshipful who take refuge in the buddha.
As the infant grows and leaves the nest, our love transmutes to social kinship. If we are lucky, we realise that all the children are ours for the loving, all the sisters of society are our wives, all the brothers of business our husbands, every wound our own, every tear one more we have shed.
What lacking is there when we cannot grow in this form of love, a love which does not require a physical child to be manifest, but a child within that grows, is born from pain and matures with tender care and devotion. We must become the child we wish to have, the change we wish to see in our dependants, offspring, partners, friends and society. We are all these things when we become them. We must walk into the wild unseen, hold the unborn child in our heart before it becomes desire.