When My Sorrow Was Born

When my Sorrow was born I nursed it with care, and watched over it
with loving tenderness.

And my Sorrow grew like all living things, strong and beautiful
and full of wondrous delights.
 
And we loved one another, my Sorrow and I, and we loved the world
about us; for Sorrow had a kindly heart and mine was kindly with
Sorrow.
 
And when we conversed, my Sorrow and I, our days were winged and
our nights were girdled with dreams; for Sorrow had an eloquent
tongue, and mine was eloquent with Sorrow.
 
And when we sang together, my Sorrow and I, our neighbors sat at
their windows and listened; for our songs were deep as the sea and
our melodies were full of strange memories.
 
And when we walked together, my Sorrow and I, people gazed at us
with gentle eyes and whispered in words of exceeding sweetness.
And there were those who looked with envy upon us, for Sorrow was
a noble thing and I was proud with Sorrow.
 
But my Sorrow died, like all living things, and alone I am left to
muse and ponder.
 
And now when I speak my words fall heavily upon my ears.
 
And when I sing my songs my neighbours come not to listen.
 
And when I walk the streets no one looks at me.
 
Only in my sleep I hear voices saying in pity, “See, there lies
the man whose Sorrow is dead.”

Khalil Gibran (1883–1931) “When my Sorrow Was born”

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I have given birth to more sorrows than I can count. Some just happened, and others were carefully planned. I raised them all with care and love and pampered them a bit too much sometimes. Some outgrew me, some were neglected and left in the end without saying goodbye. Some sorrows are still with me today -perhaps always will be.

As I get older, I understand that the key to my happiness is in my pocket and that I cannot walk backward into the future. The sorrows we give birth to are part of us. No need to look back all the time, they walk right beside me. It seems we are a package deal, the good and the bad and perhaps I should learn to live with it and appreciate them. I don’t know life’s purpose but I start to think it’s perhaps finding my own purpose and the meaning of life itself. Maybe it’s only my life that will get meaning in the end?

Even if life is full of pain at times, it forms us like clay on a pottery stone, and we get bigger and more beautiful with every rotation.

My life! So full of sorrows, so joyful and wonderful that I glow inside. Learning to appreciate all of it, is perhaps the wisdom I am longing to find in the end.

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