Gibran, a Cat and Dentistry

 

"Sophie only lost one tooth," my husband calls from the couch into the bedroom. He's reading my daughter's Facebook page. She's in Boston. We're in Southern France. Sophie is my daughter's black cat.

I'm still in bed, reading before starting the day. In the novel, the writer mentions Kahil Gibran's poem on children (see below for the whole poem). It starts with the lines:  

Your children are not your children.
     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.

When my daughter was born, I had the poem framed and put it on her nursery wall as a reminder of how to raise her. Now that my daughter is in her 50s, I consider myself beyond lucky that we have such a great relationship with close contacts because we want to despite the Atlantic between us.

I have so many memories from her head peeking over the bumper guard in her crib to seeing her walk through the arrivals at Toulouse for a three-week stay last May.

With one exception for which I apologized, I think I've lived up to the poem's advice. That doesn't mean as a parent not guiding, setting limits, teaching and doing all the things that parents should do. But I tried to do them without quelling her own independence. 

Quelling might have been impossible. I only half joke that she was so independent, she walked out of the womb. It was more than that. Once she could hold her own bottle, I was no longer allowed to, once she could walk by herself, guiding fingers were spurned. It was more than ten different colors of finger polish or her taking German instead of French as I wanted.

Each September we set her rules together, including bedtimes, homework, safety, health and chores. Anything else was fair game, but since she had a say in her limits, the acceptance was high.

I didn't agree with all her decisions and still don't, but she always has my support on how she is to live her life. I celebrate her successes and commiserate when things don't work out as she wanted. Both are in the line of normal life. 

She does the same for me. There are times when I share information about my life that prompts her to say, "Mootheeer, Mootheeer, Mootheeer" at whatever I'm planning yet she offers me the same support, celebration or commiseration that I give her, whatever is called for.

Whenever a good memory among the thousands and thousands pops up, I feel blessed that this woman who doesn't belong to me came into my life. The arrow flew but is also stable. It rests in my quiver from time to time, but always nestles in my soul, a separate being but there nevertheless. 

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Your children are not your children.
     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.

     You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
     For they have their own thoughts.
     You may house their bodies but not their souls,
     For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
     You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
     For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
     You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
     The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
     Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
     For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.