are different.

At the cardiac plexus, there in the center of the breast, we have now
a new great sun of knowledge and being. Here there is no more of self.
Here there is no longer the dark, exultant knowledge that _I am I._ A
change has come. Here I know no more of myself. Here I am not. Here I
only know the delightful revelation that you are you. The wonder is no
longer within me, my own dark, centrifugal, exultant self. The wonder
is without me. The wonder is outside me. And I can no longer exult
and know myself the dark, central sun of the universe. Now I look with
wonder, with tenderness, with joyful yearning towards that which is
outside me, beyond me, not me. Behold, that which was once negative
has now become the only positive. The other being is now the great
positive reality, I myself am as nothing. Positivity has changed
places.

If we want to see the portrayed look, then we must turn to the North,
to the fair, wondering, blue-eyed infants of the Northern masters.
They seem so frail, so innocent and wondering, touching outwards to
the mystery. They are not the same as the Southern child, nor the
opposite. Their whole life mystery is different. Instead of
consummating all things within themselves, as the dark little Southern
infants do, the Northern Jesus-children reach out delicate little
hands of wondering innocence towards delicate, flower-reverential
mothers. Compare a Botticelli Madonna, with all her wounded and
abnegating sensuality, with a Hans Memling Madonna, whose soul is pure
and only reverential. 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. And bliss,
bliss, bliss, it meets the wonder in mid-air and in mid-space it finds
the loveliness of the mother's face. It opens and shuts its little
fingers with bliss, it laughs the wonderful, selfless laugh of pure
baby-bliss, in the first ecstasy of finding all its treasure, groping
upon it and finding it in the dark. It opens wide, child-wide eyes to
see, to see. But it cannot see. It is puzzled, it wrinkles its face.
But when the mother