Those you love, at a distance

I remember this strange phenomenon. When I was a young mother steeped in infant care, day in and day out, my baby filled every crevice of my world, my thoughts, my preoccupations, my field of vision. Then someone offered to hold my child. They walked off a little distance, and I had a moment to look away. Turning back, I was startled to see how tiny she was, over there, away from me. How is it possible that this enormous presence is so insignificant in size?
 
I think of that sometimes when I’m off adventuring with my husband. Not uncommonly, he finds his way to highpoints and vistas not exactly on the main path, so he appears to me as a tiny silhouette against a cavernous expanse of world, this effervescent man who has so prominently filled my universe for over 40 years.
 
I admit it does give me pause. Seeing that my everything can quickly become an imperceivable speck is disconcerting, but it’s also a reality check. We are, each of us, almost nothing, really. It is a wondrous marvel that we are here at all, both feeling the immensity of our individual life experiences and occasionally catching a fleeting glimpse of eternity. It’s complicated, isn’t it? I want to cling to my life's treasures, and I want to fling my arms out and set everything free at the same time.
 
When I see Jonathan as a tiny silhouette on the horizon, I feel a surge of…love? urgency? protectiveness? freedom? I am reminded to hold onto what is precious while it is near at hand, because eventually, we will all dissolve into the cavernous expanse of this extraordinary world. I will hold Jonathan’s hand and listen to his heartbeat, and I will celebrate when I chance to see him, far away, reaching out to touch the infinite sky.