THANKFULLY BLESSED LIST: OONA

As promised.

There, but for the grace of God, go I; as the adage goes.

I was feeling terribly down yesterday and because I refuse to totally succumb to a black mood, it got me to counting my blessings. I'll be posting this as a series as it's too long to post in one go!

1. My child.

Oona was an unexpected Christmas present.

Every time I see her antics and her four-toothed smile, I can't help but feel wonderfully, totally blessed. While maybe it's true that a child at her age can't help but love the people she's with (if they are capable of categorizing things like this at this age), babies and children in general, seem to have that infinite capacity to love.

They're so intense.

A smile, brilliant as the sun, as good as yells, I LOVE YOU! All caps, bold and underlined. With little flashing lights and a big red arrow. It's as intense when they cry, of course. But it's amazing how, when you're the focus of that smile, your whole world stops, flowers bloom and sappy as it's getting, but you can swear that angels laugh along with her.

Borrowed Pixie Angel

Sometimes I look at Oona and wonder if she's really mine.

I know she came from me, fruit of my womb...the scars I have are way too itchy to be ignored and proof that she inhabited me for 9 months (not to mention the poundage I still have to lose!). But sometimes, she's just really her own little person, if it's possible to see such self-possession in someone less than a year old.

Apart from having borne her and continuing to nourish her, I wonder if I really have any contribution at all to this little amazement.

Of course, the words of a certain poet ring true.

I suspect, many more times in the future will this prophet's words echo in my head, the last never more true than the first time, as my little girl marches steady into the fulfillment of her being with those twinkling little stars in her eyes and that mischievious sunshine of a smile.

On Children
Kahlil Gibran

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 our 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.