Between mediating fights and picking up sweaters and doing dishes Rainbow had more than her desire of alone time. Supine, tears welled in her the corner of her eyes as she stared at the ceiling, which was about as responsive to her needs as I was. One tear ducts seems over-productive because of her cold. Picking her up I nestled her into my face, feeling the transfer of life and simple amazing power of another's elevating touch. A confirmation that together we'll be ok. I wouldn't be surprised if something physically changed within us when we feel the touch of another. At least there is a spiritual transformation just as when the spirit leaves the body the mass weight is changed. How woven are our spirits and our bodies. And in a baby, they are so connected still. They don't know how to compartmentalize these strong parts and they shouldn't be. To develop ourselves the way we are intended we need all our parts and passions in a balanced unison. We see a baby and are drawn in because they are so amazing. Feeling her soft warm chubby cheeks I can't think of anything more wonderful or soft. The warmth of the sun on my face and the smooth feel of nearly perfect grains of sand beneath my feet is as close to the feeling of heavenly ascension. A feeling that we feel so rarely, like a precious gem. The wonder a newborn baby attracts to draw in strangers doors are opened and brick overcoat's of resistance are put aside. The baby mediates and reminds us of the intricate and gentle details of our Creator. We feel drawn to the baby and feel affirmation that as children of God, we ought to accept that draw we have toward one another. Personally wonderous to feel the trust and gift I have been given as a co-creator. I take a few moments to sit with Rainbow as I wait for the other kids to complete their orders of cleaning their bedrooms. In awe, I watch Rainbow. In my lap she sits reaching for my magazine. I turn her around so I can see the details of her face and to watch her think. She reaches her hands, like little stars and fingers my pinky. She keeps grasping at my finger, touching it again and again. Each time she touches with a different pressure, a different stroke, like a delicate paintbrush painting the smallest of details, the mast of a boat, the light in a child's eye. Her touch is special for what it is not: strong, deliberate or well-thought out. Her curiosity is fresh and completely optimistic. The painter may choose not to paint the light in the child's eye-instead, he manipulates the white paper by painting around it, leaving only that sparkle alone. But his choice was considered, her Godly inspiration comes like water cascading from a spring into every choice she makes. The wisdom of allowing nature to reveal its beauty with subtlety. She never seems to tire of something so simple. Her eyebrows furrow and change. Maybe she is trying to spell a message with her eyebrows. I love how she causes me to wonder what she wonders about.