An idea, a fleeting thought embossed itself in my mind’s eye as I stood up to take a break from studying.
I was in a house full of children – eight at the least, all about four to six years old. They were all mine, all loved by me, all running around elated in my house, the place they called home. They jumped, they grinned up at me, they sought my and my husband’s attention, and we gave it to them gladly. Loved filled my heart, for each and every one of them. We had created a place of rest, peace, embrace, vitality, and most of all, a love of life, for these children.
They were my children, our children, our beloved little ones. We cleaned their wounds, we encouraged their interests, we indulged their curiosity, we taught them to love the outdoors, to care for nature. They brought joy to our already happy relationship.
In that fleeting moment, that image in my mind’s eye, I was perfectly in joy to simply be their caregiver. Career, ambition – these were irrelevant. My joy came from loving them.
And though they were mine, though we called them our children, they all were of others’ flesh and blood. No older than I am now, I was in love with loving forgotten and abandoned little ones. And it was more than enough.