And the beat goes on

And the beat goes on

A baby’s temperament, it is suspected, can be influenced and imprinted by the rhythm of his mother’s heartbeat, in utero. The infant comes to rely on her rhythm, until he establishes one of his own.

For nine months mama is the go-between, toning down and making the amplifications of the world digestible for the unborn child. Her skin, her blood, the blood of her foremothers, serving as ambassadors to the fetus until the moment he will migrate outside the womb.

But something happens, as things always do. Buffering becomes increasingly challenging. Honor and reverence to the mother with child is muted by an ungrateful world. A world all too consumed with exploiting and valorizing its chaos, minimizes the significance of this nine-month gestational masterpiece.

Rallying its exponentially fast pace determination, humanity eludes and confuses mother and child. Mama’s rhythm and grooves, perfected over centuries, can no longer keep up with the pace and tempo of the world.

Inevitably a price must be paid for this gross oversight. Our children and grandchildren will most likely be the debtors.  Progressive technology (iPads, web, cell phones, etc.), the surrogate mother, might pacify our ever-motionless children, but for how long.

What does temperament and rhythm have to do with how our children experience the world, you ask – probably a heck of a lot more than we’re preparing for. Instead, what we have are diagnoses explaining, rather than correcting, the child’s inability to morph a creative cadence of his own, one that will assist him in navigating life’s journey.

This rant was unexpected, even to myself. Thanks for bearing with me, if you did. It stemmed from a recurring phenomena I’ve been experiencing with my grandson. During my attempts to broaden a three and a half octave singing range to four, I notice every time I am able to hold a high note, harmoniously, Vincent snuggles somewhere between my heart and throat. Abandoning whatever he`s doing, he beelines to granny, and drops into a magical space of symphonic reverie.

He’s not simply listening. He appears to be embodying the rhythm and vibration emanating from my body, while I sing. An organic synergy takes place as we become soulfully conjoined.  Maybe it’s the simple act of hugging and being close that makes these moments significant.

Could hugging be about the emergence of harmony and collective rhythm? By joining our soul’s rhythm and blues to one another’s can we create a new world symphony of meaning and temperament? And can this act of bonding and harmonizing conceivably craft corrective measures for what can get short-changed in utero?

I don’t know. I just have a sense that if we earnestly and wholeheartedly hug more often and let our youngin snuggle up into our heart and throat chakras, we might just recalibrate society’s fast-paced tempo, balancing its discord into an opus of possibilities. And sing! Sing out loud. Sing like we want to connect with one another. That’s a good idea too.

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