my mom taught me the therapeutic power of cleaning. open all the windows. throw out the old. wipe down the entire house. burn some incense. roast some coffee. then rest. that way the tears from last night don’t feel as heavy.
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.
Lately I feel like everything is so wrong. I’m trying to be a good person and take the high road and I feel like it’s only biting me in the ass.
I find it metaphorically resonant that a pregnant woman looks like she’s just sitting on a couch, but she’s actually exhausting herself constructing a human being. The laborious process of growing a human is analogous to how a woman’s work is seen. It’s hard to recognize, because a man’s work has such extravagant evidence – skyscrapers, for instance – while a woman’s work just makes the world quietly turn.