....They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.They come through you but not from you,And though they are with you yet they belong not to you. says Kahlil Gibran.
Nahida, my wise and best friend, gave this book to me years ago, when I was somewhere between 16-20 I think, and I really could not grasp what Gibran meant. How could my children not be my children.
At 46, however, the stark truth of what is said here strikes me. My children do not belong to me just as I do not belong to my parents. We are all free wheeling agents on this world, come here to play the role we were designed to or perhaps mess it up not making the right choices.
They were away from me for a month, miles away in India and I worried about my parents more than I worried about them. I convinced myself that it was best they were in India, while we roughed out the initial immigration part in Canada. While I was doing up their room for them, I wondered idly how they would like it, but did not suffer from pangs of misery missing them. This is how it would be I imagined, had I had them earlier and they were away in college.
But when they boarded the plane alone and in the airhostess' charge, I worried. I met them at the airport and despite all that is written above and the wise realization, my eyes filled up. Why? I ask myself this question several times in my life. Why do my eyes fill up without warning when I watch them perform on stage or when I go to PTA meetings?
That evening I sat down with my son and had several moments of quiet conversation with him. I saw he was becoming his own person. I felt a quiet happiness and pride. While I tucked my daughter in I realized that all along that I had missed them like I would miss an amputated part of my body.
They do not belong to me and yet I am in charge of them. I have to discharge this charge with responsibility. I have to let them go when they want to fly but be there to tend them if they fall midway, as long as I can.
They do not belong to me but yet they are a permanent part of me. I will hurt when they hurt. And when they rejoice, my eyes will cloud over. Because my eyes, my wise eyes, knew this secret all along.
