Hope, Regret, Resolve

In the midst of my New Year's Day organization of the books and articles I have on the Suzuki Method, I encountered a poem. A poem that contained hope. Hope for a new year. Hope for childhood. Hope that things of beauty, ideas that feed the heart, truths that nourish the spirit, always available to those who seek them, will be the things I share with my children.

Yet it also contained regret. Regret for the brief span of time that is childhood. Regret for lost opportunities. Regret that if I am not careful, the workaday cares of tending to my children's physical cares may leave their hearts and spirits empty.

Finally, the poem contained a resolution, a promise. A resolution to feed my children's souls. A resolution to find things that are "worth the while." A resolution to seize the moments I do have.

When I was a child, my mother hung a cross-stitch on my wall that read, "A mother's heart is a child's classroom." Love is the thing I want to pass on to them more than anything else, love for everything that is beautiful and worthwhile. Einstein said, "Love is a better teacher than a sense of duty." I know my children will only learn from my heart if I seize the time to communicate heart to heart, spirit to spirit. The seasons will pass swiftly enough, but only a moment is needed to share something of worth.

Here is the poem. I hope you also find hope, resolution, and yes an ounce of regret in the simple stanzas. I resolve this year to show my children the light of this world, so we may all look with hope towards the perfect day.

Although the Day Is Not Mine to Give, I'll Show You the Morning Sun
by David Melton

My child, my child,
Your days of childhood are quickly spent.
As the season passes,
I wonder why it hurries so.

I hope that in these years,
I have attended to more
than skinned knees and cut fingers.
I hope that somewhere in the everyday,
that I have not overlooked
the needs of your heart,
and the growth of your spirit.
I hope that somewhere in the while
there was enough worth the while.

And if there was not . . .
And if there was not . . .
And if there was not . . .
I don't know now
how I can make it up to you.