Another birthday

Each one spins by faster than the one before. This year my son came here to visit me. We did a lot of things but mainly we spent time. It cost him, yes– a plane ticket, time away from an important deadline at work, he is still recovering from his surgery a few weeks ago, but he came to spend something that cannot be bought or borrowed or hoarded. He gave me his time.

How often do we think of what someone does out of love for us as a gift? How often do we take it for granted or (far worse) feel it is deserved?

So much of life is a gift and I am saddened to the point of tears at times to realize how long it has taken me to understand how much I have that I did not work for, did not earn, didn’t even ask for but it is right in front of me, all around me.

It also makes me wonder because of the glut of richness in this life– not just the colors of the earth or the softness of a fawn’s eyes or the sound of wind in the trees or waves on the sand or laughter of a child –we do not truly see, nor do we hear. Some of us are so busy with amplifications or distortions of some sort or our selves that we can only see and hear no further than our own parameters.

My son had precious time, and he chose to share it with me. He went beyond himself, the rim of his existence. I hope he received something in return, my love, my joy at his gift.

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