You Haven't Chang

You were six days old when I had to admit that I could not keep you on this Earth with my will.

The birth had been rough for me and harder for you. The closer you came to air, the tighter the knot in your life line squeezed. The doctor was scared, your godmother watching from the back of the room was scared and I have no doubt you were scared. Would air come before your source for life stopped?

When air finally filled your lungs we all breathed a huge sigh of relief, rejoiced and welcomed you. You, however, were not so sure. After the hemorrhaging stopped and things settled down, the doctor and nurses went on to help others. Your father went to sleep on the floor. I lay in bed with you, my precious, precious bundle of love and life beside me.

Your baby body temperature had been low. I could tell the nurse was concerned so I reached down to the center of the Earth calling on the Mother of me, of you, of all of us, to fill your body with Her powerful life force. Soon you were sweating. Pleased, I thought that would be all that was needed. But it wasn’t.

That is when the magnificent Spirit that is you came out of your little baby body. You sat beside me on the bed, a full grown man, dressed in an Arabic kaftan, the vertical strips folded easily the length of your adult body. Many years later, when I saw a picture of you in Morocco wearing just such a kaftan, I wept with the memory of fear and of gratitude.

“I don’t know if I am going to stay,” you informed me, perched there on the edge of the bed that held both of our Earthly bodies. Panic hit. “Oh please stay Dear One. You are so loved. We want you so much,” I begged, trying to hold you with my heart. My heart, aware of the threat, at the same time, began to distance just a tiny bit, in case you really did decide to leave.

Holding your baby body while longing to wrap my arms around your magnificent spirit being, and hold you here, on Earth, in my arms and family. There is no telling how long our conversation lasted. A second? Minutes? Forever? Then suddenly you switched to a delightful little spritely being and with a burst of light and energy you did a dance at the 4 corners of this beloved Earth.

I finally took a breath. You had decided to stay. I wrapped my arms more tightly around your baby body whispering, “Welcome home, Kabir.”

Yes, I was breathing again and so were you, but my heart knew your connection to Earth was still fragile. A deep knowing in me told me that you still needed constant, aware, human touch to remind you of your decision to stay.

And so, for six days and nights, I kept vigil. You could take short naps with me close, but you slept with your father and me. After six days my deep knowing spoke again. “I cannot keep you on this Earth with my will.”

Panic hit again. I slowly allowed in that deep knowing that if you decide to leave, I have to let you go. My wanting and my will is not a full enough reason for you to stay. I had to leave the decision to you.

I held my breath as I lay you in your own bed for the first time. I, of course, barely slept. I was up every 15 minutes, checking to see if you were still breathing. You were.

Only six days old, Kabir, you slept for six hours. New babies don’t do that. I was terrified. In the morning you woke, bright eyed and hungry.

You woke again the next morning and the next and the next, for 37 years. The way you moved on the basketball court, the way you met life with such stubborn determination, the way you pursued what you wanted made it hard to believe your attachment to this Earth was ever fragile. You were so solid in body and in presence. You met this life with joy and enthusiasm and power, loving and loved wherever you went. Your commitment to truth and justice guided you to find so many ways to bless this hurting world.

Thirty-seven years, almost to the day, after I laid you in your own bed, finally accepting, I could not keep you on this Earth with my will, you did not wake up. Your shinny eyes were gone. Your soul, hungry for the light on the other side, had made its own decision.

If it was up to me, the story would have a different ending. But the story is not up to me. I couldn’t even keep you here with my will when you were six days old. And clearly, I could not keep you on this Earth with my will at 37. But I have not forgotten something you showed me clearly within hours of your birth: our little Earth bodies are not the whole story. You were magnificent that day sitting on the edge of my bed. That magnificent you shown through your body every single day you lived with us here on Earth. And I can still feel that magnificent being that is you, here beside me, on the edge of my bed or chair.

As I weep, my heart breaking open over and over again, I remember that tiny place in my heart that tried to pull back in protection, in case you decided to leave. I realize now, pulling back and closing down was never really an option. My heart moved way past that long ago in that hospital room when you were laid in my arms. Always my heart has insisted, “Keep loving. No matter what, keep loving.” Indeed, I loved you then. I have loved you for the last 37 years. I will love you forever.