"You can speak to your children of life,
but your words are not life itself.
You can show them what you see,
but your showing and their seeing
are forever different things.
You cannot speak to them of Divinity Itself.
But you can share with them
the millions of manifestations of this Reality
arrayed before them every moment.
Since these manifestations have their origin
in the Tao,
the visible will reveal the invisible to them."
Don't mistake your desire to talk for their
readiness to listen.
Far more important are the wordless truths they
learn from you.
If you take delight in the ordinary wonders of
life,
they will feel the depth of your pleasure
and learn to experience joy.
If you walk with them in the darkness of life's
mysteries
you will open the gate to understanding.
They will learn to see in the darkness
and not be afraid.
Go for a slow and mindful walk.
Show them every little thing that catches your
eye.
Notice every little thing that catches theirs.
Don't look for lessons or seek to teach great
things.
Just notice.
The lesson will teach itself."
In my Mothers' Day card this year, my mom included some words of encouragement for me about parenting my daughter: "You are so gentle, loving, relaxed, and caring with her." At first I found this hard to believe, although in my daughter's earliest earthly days, when she would visit, my mom (who breastfed twins!) would marvel at my own breastfeeding, "You're so relaxed!" It's true, I enjoy it, as I enjoy most other aspects of being a parent--but as with most other things I do, I have a strong urge to get it right. Caring for my baby was no different; each step in the process--changing, feeding, burping, dressing, bathing--felt like the steps of a homework assignment or, worse, a math problem!
Now that my baby is growing into an exuberant toddler, I've backed off a bit, learning as I do so to live vicariously through her explorations. I, too, would love to rip up books, chew lint, scream for food, stand, stretch, step and fall with abandon--even as I struggle through the cognitive dissonance of feeling guilty that I "let" her do these things. I know she is learning, and I think the best thing I can do for her is let her know I'm learning, too. I love her so much!
but your words are not life itself.
You can show them what you see,
but your showing and their seeing
are forever different things.
You cannot speak to them of Divinity Itself.
But you can share with them
the millions of manifestations of this Reality
arrayed before them every moment.
Since these manifestations have their origin
in the Tao,
the visible will reveal the invisible to them."
Don't mistake your desire to talk for their
readiness to listen.
Far more important are the wordless truths they
learn from you.
If you take delight in the ordinary wonders of
life,
they will feel the depth of your pleasure
and learn to experience joy.
If you walk with them in the darkness of life's
mysteries
you will open the gate to understanding.
They will learn to see in the darkness
and not be afraid.
Go for a slow and mindful walk.
Show them every little thing that catches your
eye.
Notice every little thing that catches theirs.
Don't look for lessons or seek to teach great
things.
Just notice.
The lesson will teach itself."
In my Mothers' Day card this year, my mom included some words of encouragement for me about parenting my daughter: "You are so gentle, loving, relaxed, and caring with her." At first I found this hard to believe, although in my daughter's earliest earthly days, when she would visit, my mom (who breastfed twins!) would marvel at my own breastfeeding, "You're so relaxed!" It's true, I enjoy it, as I enjoy most other aspects of being a parent--but as with most other things I do, I have a strong urge to get it right. Caring for my baby was no different; each step in the process--changing, feeding, burping, dressing, bathing--felt like the steps of a homework assignment or, worse, a math problem!
Now that my baby is growing into an exuberant toddler, I've backed off a bit, learning as I do so to live vicariously through her explorations. I, too, would love to rip up books, chew lint, scream for food, stand, stretch, step and fall with abandon--even as I struggle through the cognitive dissonance of feeling guilty that I "let" her do these things. I know she is learning, and I think the best thing I can do for her is let her know I'm learning, too. I love her so much!
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