I found this photo recently. I’ve just finished making my Dad a coffee-table photo book about his life for his 60th birthday (actually it’s mostly about his six kids because that’s what he took pictures of for most of his life) using Blurb.com. Which is another story. For another day.
Anyway, I found this picture in the process and I stared at it for a while. It’s me. But I’m little. And such different things were going through my little head. At least I think there were. I’m not sure if it’s narcissistic, but it’s very comforting to stare into the eyes of the kid you were. The exterior is so different, but somehow you can still see the essence of you in the eyes.
A nice reminder of the impermanence of exterior me, or little “i”, and the constant that is the you underneath, or big “i”.
On another note, what WAS I about to do with that sausage???
