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.
Dang Kahlil Gibran being right about everything. At least in this poem. My little love is being sent forth, as it were, today for her first long spell at her drop-off preschool/daycare place. And I mostly know she will be fine, but let's just say I didn't sleep all that well last night.
I am trying to believe this poem today, and also remembering this clip my friend sent me on Facebook last night.