“You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.”

~ Khalil Gibran

You are an angel.

I am only the grinch in comparison to your light.

You shine upon the world with easy smiles and sunny eyes. You open closed chests with your open-hearted chances for all.

You welcome friendship, regardless of position, class or race.

You equally want boys and girls and men and women.

You don’t care about things like gender or sexuality—you know that these traits are merely wrappings over the real gift.

You seek joy and light but you also welcome anger and frustration—when life upsets you, you shout at the sky and shake your firm fists at the sun.

Your hair glimmers auburn in warm daylight; your eyes grow weary and sleepy when gold overhead goes down. Rubbing these blue-pooled eyes, you cocoon into night with chubby hands placed loosely by your sides.

I take off your seashell pink glasses (I say seashell because the metal is iridescent; reminding me of ocean-swathed entities).

Suddenly—out of nowhere—you come alive again—your “500th wind” as your aunt calls it—and regain an unsurpassed energy before you finally close to slumber.

In this dusk, you open to your dreams.

I wonder ceaselessly what churns your soul—what moves you while your eyelids twitch, and your heart slowly and steadily pulses to your circadian rhythm.

Is it any wonder that Jesus, whose birth the world celebrates, loved children?

“And he said: Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” Matthew 18:3

I don’t practice Christianity.

It’s not that I don’t value and appreciate this religion, it’s that I do, wholeheartedly—but that I admire other religions too.

And sometimes I wonder how you’ll lose yourself when you are older; how you’ll change and slowly forget this effortless innocence. More, I wonder when you’ll begin to feel guilty or abominable for questioning your cheerfulness; and for the general cautioning against your assertive temper.

I scolded you today.

We abruptly left the bookstore where we played contentedly because you treated me unkindly; further, because you showed errant passion towards me and displeasure for things not going exactly as you pleased.

I swiftly and curtly swept you up into my arms and out, making our exit.

I don’t regret it.

I know that part of growing up into a joyful individual means learning that life doesn’t always happen according to ideal wishes and plans, especially when they improperly affect others.

And yet.

And yet, a definite part of me wants to nourish your charge, your exuberance—the way that your personality so buoyantly recuperates from unpleasantness.

But I am required to shape you.

I don’t want to; not really—instead, you shape me.

You show me, daily, what the meaning of life is and, just as importantly, that daily chores and simple tasks are the sustenance behind this profound—and reaching—intelligence.

And you are the nourishment of my heart.

You are the bread and butter of my spirit’s survival.

Without you—regardless of how life parts us—I would never have learned the depth of my ability to love.

I love you in a way that no words exist to capably show you.

You are an angel.

I am only the grinch in comparison to your light.

“And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, ‘Speak to us of Children.’ And he said: ‘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.'” ~ Khalil Gibran: The Prophet

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Editor: Rachel Nussbaum

Photo: elephant journal archives