There is a point where in the mystery of existence contradictions meet; where movement is not all movement and stillness is not all stillness; where the idea and the form, the within and the without, are united; where infinite becomes finite, yet not. — Rabindranath Tagore
And then there is the point where small children pause by still lakes, and you forget the moments during which they were all movement – all batshit, manic movement – and although this does not resolve all the contradictions of existence, it makes you forget all the contradictions of parenthood, with all of its withins and withouts, and all the fears and anxieties about parenthood’s finitude and infinitude, and that is enough. Or close enough.
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