If you're a parent, son, or daughter, here is essential reading
Plus, it's beautiful
Are you a parent, a son, a daughter? How old are your parents, how grown are your children?
If you (like me) are soon to face an empty nest, this poem, by Kahlil Gibran, will guide your passage.
But I started reading it when our boys were little, and I think it made me a better parent. As much as Gibran has to say to empty nesters, this poem is especially transformative for the parents of young children.
And whether or not you’re a parent, you’re certainly a son or daughter. This poem’s greatest gift might be the way it prompts you to reflect on whether your parents lived by its wisdom — and how their example has shaped your life.
What do you think — do you love this poem as much as I do?
If you’re a parent, does its message resonate with you?
Do you feel that your own parents lived by this poem’s wisdom?
*Very often, the comments section are the best part of these Kindred Letters. Today, I’m going to open them up to all of you, whether or not you’re currently a paid subscriber. Please do share this poem with others, leave a comment, and reply to each other’s comments as well - this group contains an incredible amount of wisdom and forbearance!
When I had my son My MIL was outrageous, over bearing and completely cancelled me as a human. I became nothing more than the conduit to her ‘life’s greatest achievement of becoming a grandmother’ she made the first year of my first child’s life the worst of mine. Unfortunately yet unsurprisingly my husband was unable, unwilling, incapable,
Conditioned to remain frozen silent and not stand by me or stand up for me. I now reflect and wonder if she was suffering from a second PANDA a PTSD of her first time as a mother ( my husband is the first born) and I was the receiver of her stagnant trauma and grief in the form of manipulation, bullying, domination and control.
All this
When I was in the peak of vulnerability as new mother, when I should have been supported held and considered with compassion. I had zero capability at the time to create boundaries with her. It went on for many years.
The only self
Expression/ rebellion against her constant barrage of invasion I was able to conjure was to get her to read this very poem at our second child’s naming day. Cheeky perhaps, sneaky indeed but it’s all I had to desperately and quietly hear my own voice, remember that I existed and mattered. Eighteen years later I still get comfort from the memory which speaks to the power of pain and how when not sat with, worked through, taken responsibility for , can deeply hurt another. ‘Our children are not our children’ became my true north for how I mothered my golden ones. I am deeply proud of how I raised my babies with very minimal family support that was only ever offered heavily laced with conditions and ownership. My children are are truley exceptional humans. We Share love, acceptance, honesty understanding, friendship and joy. They know deeply they are truley loved as they are and they know that they owe me nothing, I have broken societal and familial cycles of generational trauma.
My parents moved their eight children from So Cal suburbia to the northern Cal woods in the 70’s to a house my brothers and Dad built. They named the GIANT redwood tree in our yard, The Prophet after their favorite book. The property long ago sold and parents gone, I sometimes drive by that tree(you can see the top from a road below 3 miles away) and think of that passage.