My son is two months old, and his hands are just beginning to find his face. His nails grow faster than we can keep up with. Every few days, a thin red line appears across his cheek, sometimes deeper, enough to draw a bead of blood. By evening, the skin tightens. By morning, there’s a scab. Two days later, nothing. The mark dissolves back into that smooth, unbroken softness, as if the body erased its own mistake.

He does nothing. He doesn’t know he’s been hurt. He doesn’t try to heal. Still, beneath the surface, something organizes, repairs, replaces. Cells gather, rebuild, restore. They do it without instruction, without hesitation.

The yogi describes the body as a city of “little lives,” each carrying out its work with a kind of instinctive knowing. Watching my son, that idea stops being a metaphor. It becomes visible. The work is constant, precise, and silent. The teachings say that this same intelligence is not personal. It belongs to the One Life moving through all forms. In him, it moves unobstructed. There’s no tension, there’s no interference, there’s just response. The body acts, and the result is repair and renewal.

In him, this intelligence moves freely. Countless little lives, each in place, each at work, weaving flesh from pure vitality. Fresh, exact, untouched. Life, whole and unbroken, expressing itself completely.