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Show CHRYSALIS pAGE 243 This has been a time of homecoming. Being human, if I'd had a choice, I would have chosen not to host this hidden battle. I am a cowardly soldier, shy and unwarlike. But I know now that there is wisdom in tears. Pain does come from darkness, and it is pain. Sometimes it is also wisdom. Today I watched as Christopher learned to tie his shoes - the frustration and anger, the tears, the knots - and the ultimate satisfaction with the perfect bows at his feet. I would not have tied them for him and spoiled his triumph by protecting him from the tears for anything in the world. Whatever happens next year, or in the year after that, or if I should die tomorrow, I know that my success is not measured by the number of my years on this small planet. Jesus died at thirty-three. So did Alexander the Great. Shelley was barely thirty. Lord Byron was thirty-six and Dylan Thomas was thirty-nine. (Here someone will surely say, "But George Bernard Shaw was ninety-four!" So it goes.) I respect each hour. I have learned not to waste my time in futile lethargy. It's a good world and a good life. We are Voyagers and Explorers. All our lives are a journey homeward. Our passage is lighted with the dust of comets and nebulae and pulsing stars. Symphonies of milkweed burst above us. |