That Time of Year

It's that time of year, again (already). Late spring - marked by an acceleration to the finish line, exacerbated by a late spring break.

As we ready ourselves for the season, some Kahlil Gibran:

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 do not belong 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.

Though manifest not of our physical selves, our arrows are just as much a part of us as we them. We are bows, built to bend, but not break. We flex in His hands, entrusted to do that to which He calls us. Designed to launch, yet retaining some resonance from the shot. May we trust the Archer's eye, and trust the Air to carry those arrows toward their targets.