“Your children are not your children. They are the sons and the daughters of Life’s longing for itself.” – Khalil Gibran
Ok, here’s what’s going on for me right now.
My Fellow Man has been out of town for almost two weeks, tending to one of his “outside” jobs as Faculty with the American Viniyoga Institute’s Yoga Teacher Training. It’s good stuff and I’m glad he does it. Am I jealous? Probably. Sometimes. Yes. And no.
Because here I am, home alone with the kids. Which is to say, not alone at all. We’ve had some really sweet times these past couple weeks with just the three of us, and we’ve been pretty wretched a few times too. I had planned to do all kinds of projects, inside and outside, but reality was that it was enough to just keep us fed and do some schoolwork and stay in the flow of life-in-general around here. Besides, I’m in high demand as the only grown-up in the house and it has been unusual for me to be able to think three consecutive thoughts of my own in a row.
I have had a help when help was needed, for which I am EXTREMELY grateful. And I have also had a LOT of time with my children. Not that I don’t usually, but there’s just something different about being “on our own”. I found that I had to keep my senses opened just a little wider, knowing that I was the only parent here. (This is to say that I have incredible respect and admiration for all of you single parents out there – you are amazing.)
Children wake with the Living World already electrified behind their eyes. They don’t need a cup of coffee, or tea, or yoga to bring them into the present day. They never left. They have always just arrived.
In my children, I see manifest all of my hope and fear for the future. I would like to say I have only hope, but it would be a lie.
My children, these blood relatives who emerged from my body, are more like me than anyone I have ever met. I see my own movements, facial expressions, emotions and thoughts flicker through them. Watching them, I remember moments of my own childhood so vividly. It is delightful, and terrifying. At the same time, in some divine conundrum, they are completely mysterious to me and I have to make an effort, often a tremendous effort, to get to know them, again and again, as they change and grow.
So many white hairs, lines on my face, dark circles under my eyes. I did not have those before I had children. I did not know, so viscerally, what is was like to love someone more than life itself. I did not know what it meant to worry. I did not know how deep or far the boundaries of my intimate heart could stretch. They have caused me more work, internally and externally, than I ever could have imagined. And I love them, I want them, more than I ever loved or wanted anything else.
They are human, and they are magic. They are always different, a fleeting phenomenon, a constant opportunity.