This morning, as I made coffee for Damien and myself, I thought of how my mind worked as a child. I’ve realized that the soul of me has never changed. What I mean is that the pure essence of who I am, without the trappings of ego, has never changed. This is why the pure joy I felt as a child still feels the same as it does now.

We create as children in a way that we tend to forget as we grow older. The worries and responsibilities pile on top of what we are, what we are meant to be: that which creates, that which God manifests this creation through.

I’ve heard it said that when we are born, our souls are connected to God and the earth like a straw, and God’s love moves through us with ease; that is the child’s wonder at everything, the pure giddiness and joy. Eventually that straw gets mucked up with worry, guilt, judgment, and anger until our connection to God is cut off, sometimes completely. Our memory of what it’s like to live as a spiritual creature creating a material world is forgotten.

As I poured coffee and fed the cats and fish, memories of childhood flooded back to me, and I realized how many things I thought of as a child had actually manifested. I laughed as I remembered dreaming of a boy from space who would land on earth. In my tiny single bed before I fell asleep, I would envision taking him around the world, introducing him to different foods and my favorite places.

Yeah. That’s what I got.

As a twelve-year-old, I was bound and determined to live in New York, work in a fancy building, go see any movie I wanted to see. I’d sit on our front porch, reading the film reviews in the New Yorker, and in my mind, I was in the theaters, seeing the films. Later I did exactly that; I worked in one of the most beautiful buildings in Soho and saw every single movie I had read about all those years ago.

This morning, sitting in bed, sipping our coffees, I asked Damien if he remembered any of his childhood dreams and whether or not they had come to pass.

His answer was brilliant. Being born with dark brown hair, he longed for the jet-black color of his parent’s hair. I looked closely: not even a trace of brown, and he’s never been near hair dye (except for the time he got some silver streaks).

He then said the first time he saw Bruce Willis he thought his receding hairline was exceedingly handsome and wished it for himself. As a child of eight or so, to wish upon yourself a receding hairline is so . . . well, so very Damien. Have a look at a photo of him sometime.

As I continue to do spiritual work, I’m feeling lighter, and more childlike. I find more joy and giddiness, a moving away from the judgment that has had me mired in the mundane for years and years. We’re all so careless with ourselves, allowing hate to overtake us, even when we don’t understand that it’s happening. It starts very, very early. Think back to when we first start casting blame, or attacking because someone has taken what we deem as ours, or talking about the kids who are different from us, or bullying others. It starts when we are young, and charts a corrosive, destructive path that leads to broken lives, pain, and fear.

There’s always time to put it all right again. The shift can come in an instant, the moment we decide to change our thoughts, watch what we say, and stay at it until we cleanse that conduit that connects us to God.