You know her singing cannot be compared with a professional. You know her dance is far from perfect and she misses a few beats. You know her painting is not really going to find place in an art gallery.
And yet when your daughter dances with a group of kids at your nephew’s engagement, your smile lights up the hall. When she holds up a painting she’s just done, you feel like you’re looking at a million-dollar masterpiece and your whole soul reverberates with awe. When she sings on a stage at a school assembly, you cannot help your heart bloating up with pride, sitting amidst fellow parents. You often cry in joy too.
I am blessed with not one but two daughters, both of whom – to this foolish, love-struck mother – are amazingly talented, brilliant works of art in themselves. I cannot believe sometimes that they are born of me, of my flesh and blood and stem cells. There comes the voice of hope and wonder whenever I see them perform or create: “That’s me?”
Of course, it’s not me. It’s who they are. They are separate beings with separate karma and separate destinies. They’ve just chosen me as their mother in this life, the person who could best help them achieve their potential and purpose. Me, with my imperfections and flaws and insecurities. Me, with my difficult choices and strange life and complicated existence.
Despite myself, these awesome, creative, divine beings chose ME.
There it goes again – this foolish, love-struck mother’s heart – looking at them painting, or staring at them dance, or worshipping them as they sing.