Restart

 Herself speaks.

I did not mean to stop writing. 

Things got busy, and there was Stuff, and there were Feelings about Stuff, and not enough time to process the Feelings, and... now here we are.  

One of the blessings and curses, I have found, about using antidepressants, is that now there are more Feelings present, and they are felt. The days of numbness of grief and obligation are (relatively) in the rear view window -- but that means that time must now be taken to process feelings as they appear. And they are everywhere: sitting at the table or on the couch, looking back at me from the mirror, riding alongside in the car (they especially seem to love car rides). It gets very crowded. I am having difficulty naming them all, figuring out where they came from and why they are there, and finding the right space for them to occupy. Processing them? Who has the time? 

Apparently, not me. I need to make the time, though. Which is why I am here now: one of the best ways to process, for me, is to write -- and so I need to resume, for my good and for the good of all the Feelings that are wandering around bumping in to one another. 

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Let's look back to when we got lost and nearly dropped off the face of the earth, and start there. 

I believe it was in February when the pace of life picked up; and then March happened. I had one false start attempt to try again toward the end of March, without success. It's true that February was significantly occupied by the Orange Project, and there really is not a lot more to say about that.  So let's look at March. 

March always begins with Offspring the Second's birthday, followed in short succession by Beloved Husband's birthday.  Since this year was a milestone for Beloved Husband (sixty!), we worked on trying to get all of the Offspring back here to this desert land for the occasion.  We did not manage to have everyone here at the same time -- Offspring the First already had unchangeable plans -- but Offspring the Second came back home, for the first time in years, and we celebrated his birthday along with Beloved Husband's. Let's talk about Offspring the Second's homecoming.

 And this is why I stopped writing: I am not sure I can write about his homecoming. I'll try, though.

My heart was so full, to see him. This independent, self-confident, fully-fledged person who I raised and saw grow up, now a fantastic adult with a life of his own, with his own plans and friends and job and sphere of activities that are a mystery to me. He is the same as ever -- witty, smart, thoughtful, kind -- and yet wiser and happier than ever before. I am not really part of his life, and although I know that's ultimately the goal of every parent -- to no longer be needed -- it's heartbreaking in a way to know that he exists elsewhere and I cannot see his marvelous self more often, to enjoy the way he is and to vicariously experience his success in life. Yet this is how it should be: he has made his own life, and I am glad for it, because he seems happy. Who could ask for anything more? 

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The visceral love for children is an extremely painful experience, because it needs to be contained: it must not oppress the children or be wielded like a weapon.  Children must be set free into the world, unburdened by any expectations from us, or obligations to us. Be free, my children. Go forth and prosper.

My only remaining goal is that I, like my lovely Daddy before me, can somehow, quietly and in the background, make their lives easier for them. And to let them know that I am always here for them. 

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.

-Kahlil Gibran, On Children, from The Prophet