Like any mother, I always refer to my children, as, well, 'my' children. This innocent two-letter word, 'my', is loaded with implications that do not always bode well with the Buddhist way of life. I found out, yesterday.
In the middle of the night, I woke up, with painful emptiness in my core. Soon after, dream helped shed some light. My daughter was coming back home to pick up her belongings. She was with a friend, and was moving out to her friend's house. Just like that. Hardly any words exchanged, . . . Of course, dream is a metaphor for daughter's final step towards full independence as a young adult. Although my mind knows, the heart is having a hard time following, after what feels like a cold break.
Daughter as master teacher, dispelling long held illusion that she is 'mine' . . .