There is a part of me, or perhaps it is a place, that is timeless and holds wisdom beyond my years. In it, some truths are stark, clear, indisputable. Like the truth that this life that I am living is a privilege, and, but a blink of an eye in the continuum that I am. Like the truth that I am a clear drop of water in an enormous ocean that ebbs and flows.
I yearn to share this with my children, this place, this part that I know they hold as well. Their awareness of it, it seems to me, could serve as a compass on their journeys.
But when I speak of it, my daughter says, “I am not like you, mama. I am empty inside.”
And, so, this language fails us.
She feels empty, but I know that this part, this place… each of us has it.
I am at a loss.
So, I take her to a sunlit beach to listen to the lake’s waves. I take her to a denuded winter forest, to wade through fallen leaves. I show her, in our bare backyard, a black-capped chickadee with fluffed-out feathers. And, together, we look at the sky, stripped of clouds, with maple branches reaching for it.
When she says to me, “Let’s stop by the lake again, mama. Let’s walk through the leaves,” I know she understands.