Photos of my children are clustered in several areas of my home. When I see my little ones now adults, I travel back through the years. I look deep into the face of the child caught in the photograph and know what awaits him or her. Time becomes fluid, floating between decades; the present melds with the past, and a collage of stories emerges. I see my child, I see the adult he or she has become, and I see myself.
I tried to shelter my children from unhappiness, but life had different plans for them. I realize now that tragedy spares no one; it just courts each of us differently. One way or another, it finds a path into our hearts, and there we do battle with the intruder. Armed with childhood imaginings and with trust in tomorrow's benevolences, we crusade for truth, for meaning, for love--not knowing that sorrow is often the gateway to that which we seek.
When it is time, we walk the corridors of our heart, retrieving the shattered threads of one-believed dreams. Perhaps, long after tears have dried and hope has faded, we find what was always there but not seen--and then our desolation gives rise to a new spring.
I tried to shelter my children from unhappiness, but life had different plans for them. I realize now that tragedy spares no one; it just courts each of us differently. One way or another, it finds a path into our hearts, and there we do battle with the intruder. Armed with childhood imaginings and with trust in tomorrow's benevolences, we crusade for truth, for meaning, for love--not knowing that sorrow is often the gateway to that which we seek.
When it is time, we walk the corridors of our heart, retrieving the shattered threads of one-believed dreams. Perhaps, long after tears have dried and hope has faded, we find what was always there but not seen--and then our desolation gives rise to a new spring.
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