Beyond me is the mystery and the glory, says the Northern mother: let me have no self, let me only seek that which is all-pure, all-wonderful.

But the Southern mother says: This is mine, this is mine, this is my child, my wonder, my master, my lord, my scourge, my own.
From the cardiac plexus the child goes forth in bliss.

It seeks the revelation of the unknown.

It wonderingly seeks the mother.

It opens its small hands and spreads its small fingers to touch her.