I’m reading a novel about two sisters who experienced a tragedy as teenagers and live through it only to grow up and never speak to each other. The one sister who was badly injured is so disappointed in her sister, who was able to run away from the perpetrators, because she doesn’t grow up to have a perfect life. The injured sister feels as if her own tragedy would have been worth it if her little sister was able to escape unscathed. Instead, the little sister is so filled with survivor’s guilt that she unconsciously “fails” over and over again.
This makes me ponder disappointment. It’s like black mold, quietly growing and hibernating in the corners of one’s mind and heart. We create plays in our heads of how life should go, and when another person goes off script, we become disappointed in them. But are we meant to be the playwright or are we simply an actor in the story?
I’m reminded of the words of Khalil Gibran: Your children are not your children. They are the sons and the daughters of life’s longing for itself. They come through you, but they are not from you, and though they are with, they belong not to you.
If we open our eyes to see the pictures our children are painting for themselves, we may find it far more beautiful, when it’s finished, that what we’d been sketching for them.