Meditation: Whose Child Is This?
Copyrighted by Lorna Tedder. Originally published in Love in the Third Degree.
Most of the meditation is behind me and I canâ€™t remember it. Iâ€™ve lost the hold on it. Itâ€™s gone, yet I remember certain people passing in and out of this one. Certain ones are often in my meditations, and I donâ€™t understand why. Some of them were never close friends, yet they often arrive as an ensemble.
Theyâ€™ve gone now, though the memory lingers enough that I know that they were just here. But someone has stayed behind, somehow connected with this couple from my past and a man who is with them. She is someone Iâ€™ve never met before.
She appears to me as a child of maybe two, with curly blonde locks, but she speaks as an insightful adult. We have long conversations as we walk along the shore of a wide lake in the foggy forest. She doesnâ€™t require me to stay but I insist on keeping her company.
Her parents have sent her to sleep on this womb-like lake tonight, like Moses in a basket-raft. She is cast out onto the lake alone, with the thought that she will be there in the morning, but I know she wonâ€™t be.
In the twilight, I climb onto raft beside her and wrap her in blankets and snuggle against her as we talk of many things. The raft is small and I cannot swim, so I must be very careful not to lose my balance as I keep her company. Iâ€™m somehow on the raft with her and yet Iâ€™m dry, and curled sideways because there is so little room on this raft and if I fall asleep, Iâ€™ll likely tumble into the water. But I donâ€™t want her alone on this night.
I can see the outline of the lake and the moonbeams tangled in the trees on the shore as we float gently. She tells me that her parents will expect to find her there in the morning.
I know they wonâ€™t. Together, we float farther out to sea, and I know that in the morning, her parents will wonder where she is and sheâ€™ll be far away on a more distant shore.