i held someone else's baby in one of those fancy canvas frontwards backpack baby carriers on a hike. the kind of carriers that I used to put my nose up to because they seem something only rich greenwashed americans buy for their baby because they are to lazy to carry their child, and too snobby to get something cheaply made. He was a sixth month old, soft headed like cheese too big for his body. He was coming in ginger blond and had big blue eyes that looked at you the same way they looked at tree branches. When my friend strapped in her nephew to my chest, she and I both knew I was nervous. While she was carrying him, hes head flopped to either side withe every stride wondering and investigating both sides of the trail. His eyes were wide and his legs kicked. Within five minutes of being strapped on to me like a tennis ball to its velcro paddle, he was head in, eyes closed, big deep breaths--the kind of breath I am constantly wishing for with nothing attached to it; an empty fish line snaking its way through clear water.  And I knew it was because he was reacting to my vibration, a chemical change in his oxygen. He was absorbing my wishes for slumped neck rest. He was connected to me, to my exhale out in the forest. We weren't there to energize, to loose weight, to clear our conscience. We were there to be lulled by the temperate and sustainable faces of trees. To be relieved of our thoughts with each plush crunch of the sod under our rubber soles. We were there for no reasons, to let go of our reasons. I had put a spell on him, and has his warm little pocket of a body throbbed with my steps I couldnt help but stare at his giant clean crown; the skin under the thin silk wheat of hair, pink white --what i imagine the beaches on the moon to look like. I held his potato head in my curved palm and I felt more like myself than I had in a long time. When i got to thinking about the last time I had felt like that, wholly myself, every molecule hammocked, I had to go way back. Nothing like that had painted me in any of my college years, none of my high-school years, not with the girlfriends I had, or lessons I have decided on. No it was something that could only happen when the thoughts weren't formed into language, before then, where you are smaller then your mind before every thing you think of can be handled by you. Thats why its hard to remember those times, because you are not aware of your surface discursive thinkings, you are settled deep in the middle of your life, where everything melts over you.   I have no real memory of these moments. But I know where they come from. I knew who they come from.