Susan's Thursday morning note March 13, 2014 Poetry on raising children, singing to children, letting kids leave home
Good morning! Perfect cup of filler with a little coffee added in. The man in the yellow hat…in my background. Glasses so smeared from banana fingers 10 minutes ago I can hardly see my print…the angel of dawn handed me another gift of a few beautiful moments already entering my day. I read some poems this week that have stayed in my mind waiting for me to write out for you. On our influence in the lives of children (regardless of our age, if they are are own children, or those we have the privilege of smiling at and loving). I often find myself strengthened by hearing a song in my mind from one of my parents. Lyrics in my mind that change the way I handle a situation. One poem below from a mother to her child is hoping the words in her songs will carry her child through situations in life as they replay in their minds. I hope these poems enter the sanctuary of your soul as they have mine…words to have in the back of our minds as we make our decision…as the winds of time continue to go so quickly by…the eternal perspective again in everything – this time in the eternal perspective of the songs…
Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself. They come through you but are 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. Kahlil Gibran
My Song by Rabindranath Tagore (1913 Nobel Prize Winner for literature from India) This song of mine will wind its music around you, my child, like the fond arms of love. This song of mine will touch your forehead like a kiss of blessing. When you are alone it will sit by your side and whisper in your ear, when you are in the crowd it will fence you about with aloofness. My song will be like a pair of wings to your dreams, it will transport your heart to the verge of the unknown. It will be like a faithful star overhead when dark night is over your road. My song will sit in the pupils of your eyes, and will carry your sight into the heart of things. And when my voice is silent in death, my song will speak in your living heart.
At Singing Time by Anne P.L. Field I have a little daughter Who’s scarcely half-past three And in the twilight hour She climbs upon my knee And snuggles down within my arm With “Mother, sing to me!” I sing about the squirrels That frolic in the wood, And two furry kittens - One naughty and one good And then some tender lullabies - Just as a mother should. The light grows faint, and fainter; The sandman guards the door; My baby’s boat drifts slowly Upon the slumber shore - But if the singing stops, she cries, “O Mother, sing some more!” I’m sure no prima-donna Adored from East to West, Feel half the satisfaction Or is so truly blest As I, when singing to my child Held closely to my breast. Not all the fame and glory Of divas can compare With that deep thrill of pleasure Which is my humble share, For precious are the laurel-wreaths That singing-mothers wear!
To end on there is one more poem I read by Rabindranath Tagore (above) on a child growing and leaving. A beautiful analogy of those of us who raise our children being the mountain as the river runs down and away…I find the analogy beautiful.
The Gift by Rabinranath Tagore I want to give you something my child, for we are drifting in the stream of the world. Our lives will be carried apart, and our love forgotten. But I am not so foolish as to hope that I could buy your heart with gifts. Young is your life, your path long, and you drink the love we bring you at one draught and turn and run away from us. You have your play and your playmates. What harm is there if you have no time or thought for us? We, indeed, have leisure enough in old age to count the days that are past, to cherish in our hearts what our hands have lost forever. The river runs swift with a song, breaking through all barriers. But the mountain stays and remembers, and follows her with his love.
Thank you for letting me again enter your Thursday. So many books sitting to be read for all of us on my bedside. So little time. The beauty of each moment. Regardless of what hurts. So much beauty from our creator. In my view right now a little bird swept by the window. A little gift of his song. No strong breeze this morning. Another gift. A stuffed penguin with a matching shirt of his parent hauling him around by the wing to watch the man in the yellow hat and now have his own little water bowl for painting. Another small gift. A friend’s thoughts I know are out there. Unspoken, unwritten, but known. Another gift. So many intangible gifts. So many hurts. All interwoven in this gift of the day. How thankful I am for this angel. Our angel of dawn. I believe she is working all day underground helping our tulips get ready to show their spring arrival. Tonight we get the opportunity to write our epitaph on the moments we lived today…will we have moments and thoughts worthy of inscription? Words worthy of the gift? Have a beautiful day…regardless of hurts. Everywhere we glance, to the heavens, to the ground, or to the eyes of those we meet, all are gifts created for us. Beautiful gifts. Susan
Latin for this week: canto – to sing sono – to make a noise, sing, celebrate Verbis defectis musica incipit – music springs from failing words