E­di­tor’s co­lumn by Ma­ri­ët­te Bur­ger A blink of an eye... and a­not­her y­e­ar has flo­wn by

Graaff-Reinet Advertiser - - Letters | Briewe -

O­kay, not qui­te yet. But, with No­vem­ber roun­ding the cor­ner I'm su­re the mas­ses of Chris­t­mas de­co­ra­ti­ons that u­su­al­ly beau­ti­fy the shops at t­his ti­me will soon fol­low.

E­very y­e­ar, as the ca­len­dar turns to No­vem­ber, I’m re­min­ded of one very sca­ry thoug­ht - I'm a­bout to add a­not­her y­e­ar to the tal­ly.

Mos­t­ly, I’m qui­te con­tent with w­hat a­ging has broug­ht a­bout.

I li­ke wa­t­ching my kids grow - being a lo­ving ob­ser­ver in their pro­gres­si­on through pat­hs that I’ve al­re­a­dy wal­ked.

A very po­pu­lar phi­loso­phi­cal book, “The Prop­het,” by Kah­lil Gi­bran, no­tes the con­flicts ma­ny pa­rents fa­ce as their child­ren grow: “Your child­ren are not your child­ren, They are the sons and daug­h­ters of Li­fe’s lon­ging for it­self.

They co­me through you but not from you... though they are with you yet they be­long not to you.

You may gi­ve them your lo­ve but not your thoug­hts, for they ha­ve their own thoug­hts. You may hou­se their bo­dies but not their souls, for their souls dwell in the hou­se of to­mor­row, which you can­not vi­sit... you may stri­ve to be li­ke them, but seek not to ma­ke them li­ke you... you are the bows from which your child­ren as li­ving ar­rows are sent forth.”

Pro­found, rig­ht?

But at its co­re, it is pro­ba­bly pret­ty c­lo­se to w­hat God in­ten­ded from the very first fa­mi­ly on­ward.

T­ho­se sen­ti­ments seem heig­h­te­ned e­very y­e­ar a­round t­his ti­me. On­ce De­cem­ber da­wns, thoug­hts turn to­ward a new s­chool y­e­ar and the ac­com­pa­nying li­fe chan­ges that ma­ny child­ren and their pa­rents fa­ce.

In our fa­mi­ly, one Bur­ger gi­r­lie, Mi­ley, will be he­a­ding to Gra­de 2, whi­le the ot­her one will be he­a­ding to Gra­de R next y­e­ar - litt­le 'Em­ma di­lem­ma' will ha­ve her first tas­te of s­chool struc­tu­re as she ta­kes on the y­e­ar that must pre­pa­re her for her pri­ma­ry s­chool y­e­ars to co­me.

Fa­mi­lies a­cross the bo­ard are all fa­cing the ef­fects of ti­me as it mar­ches for­ward, wai­ting for no one.

At the end of e­ach y­e­ar, I’ve mour­ned my de­si­re at the start of the y­e­ar to wish for ti­me to fly.

And as I ta­ke no­te of the speed at which the y­e­ar did, in fact, fly by, I try to ta­ke ti­me to re­flect on e­ver­y­thing that had trans­pi­red t­his y­e­ar - I'm su­re the mo­ment that Gi­bran re­fers to will be he­re soo­n­er rat­her than la­ter w­he­re my ar­rows ha­ve flo­wn from the bow, all gro­wn up fol­lo­wing their own pat­hs.

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