In an ungaurded moment I looked down:
And saw my reflection clearly framed in the crystal roundness of a baby's eyes.
I looked at that mirror image and noted that the only object higher than me in that frame was the ceiling.
Then I looked at those eyes. Large, beautiful, round, perfect, guileless—trusting. No film or hardness there for blocking people out. No tendency there to avert in guilt or secrets. No constant flickering to take in the next exciting sight or to ascertain surroundings and possible threats, whether real or merely whispers in the mind.
They just gazed upward. Wide and beautiful and clear. Up. At me. Me, with all my foils and faults and selfish whims. None of them I saw in my reflection there.
I felt a moment's thrill at that, awed that someone would regard me so.
I wondered how long it had been since I had trained my eyes that way (or at all). Upward into the face of someone I knew not but to trust. Completely. Gazing, without distraction, upward. For minutes at a time. Fearing no threat because I did not know what "threat" was. Because I was so innocent, so free of offense, that fear of violation, reciprocation, invasion, betrayal, exposed weakness, fear itself, was completely alien to me. Because I sensed the innate goodness in the face above me, despite all else.
When is it people lose the ability to look with such steady and unshielded trust at each other? For even moments at a time?
We give not even God that honor.
It's at the base of much of the world's problems, I think, this ability lost through infraction. Yet if we could send the entire world through the transport of an infant's perspective, we would find perfect balance—and harmony—on the other side.
I thought about that. Looked down again. Marveled.
And was humbled and grateful at what I saw still reflected in those eyes.