She would plunge back with these people into silence, into meditation and contemplation. When she washed her clothes in the river she would feel only the flow of the water, the sun on her back. The light of the sun would fill every corner of her mind and create refractions of light and color and send messages to her senses which would dissolve into humid shining fields, purple mountains, and the rhythms of the sea and the Mexican songs.

No thoughts like the fingers of a surgeon, feeling here and there, where is the pain, where did destruction spring from, what cell has broken, where is the broken mirror that distorts the images of human life?

Chaos was rich, destructive, and protective, like the dense jungle they had traveled through. Could she return to the twilight marshes of a purely natural, inarticulate, impulsive world, feel safe there from inquiry and exposure?

But in this jungle, a pair of eyes, not her own, had followed and found her. Her mother's eyes. She had first seen the world through her mother's eyes, and seen herself through her mother's eyes. Children were like kittens, at first they did not have vision, they did not see themselves except reflected in the eyes of the parents. Lillian seen through her mother's eyes.

Her mother was a great lady. She wore immaculate dresses, was always pulling on her gloves. She had tidy hair which the wind could not disarrange, she wore veils, perfume. Lillian's outbursts of affection were always curtailed because they threatened this organization. "Don't wrinkle my dress. You will tear my veil. Don't muss my hair." And once when Lillian had buried her face in the folds of her dress and cried: "Oh, Mother, you smell so good," she had even said: "Don't behave like a savage." If this is a woman, thought Lillian, I do not want to be one. Lillian was impetuous, but this barrier had driven her into an excess, into exaggerations of her tumultuousness.

She threw her clothes about, she soiled and crumpled up her dresses. Her hair was never tidy. At the same time, she felt that this was the cause of her mother's coolness. She did not want this coldness. She thought she would rather be chaotic, and stutter and be rough but warm. When she disobeyed, when she ran amok, she felt she was rescuing her warmth and naturalness from her mother's formal hands. And at the same time she felt despair, that because she was as she was, and unable to be like HER, she would never be loved. She took to music passionately, and there too her wildness, her lack of discipline, hampered her playing. In music too there was a higher organization of experience. Yes, she knew that, she was undisciplined and wayward. Only today, traveling through Mexico, a country of warmth, of naturalness, and looking into eyes that did not criticize, did she realize she had never yet used her own eyes to look at herself.