The prodigal son

The prodigal child is the proof that miracles, after a long, very long, Siberian winter, are possible. My child, my beloved son, my dreams of you haven't expired. You are the proof that the divine world has no clock. That time is always the present, eternal. A house can be renamed (''The Tree House'', why not), a life chapter can be unwritten and deep wisdom, relearned. And my senses have some catching up to do... timeline was fractured, growth spurts happened out of sight. Now you are taller than me. Now my foot compares its length to your giant shoes at my door...

Your room. The full moon room. The tiger's den. Swaddle yourself in there as long as you need to. You had a long, arduous journey, with deafening mental noise, unimaginable wars, soul starvation. But your spirit is the same. I can see it, I can sense it. Through a different version of you, almost four years later, but I accept you. You are beautiful. 

Once loquacious, exclamative, effervescent, full of existential questions, you are now a person of a few words. But this is a huge step forward, nonetheless. It's like both of us have traveled different universes and we are meeting to exchange notes, a little bit every day, during every car ride to school. Through the silent language of co-presence. Or it is as if we are just waking up from a years-long coma. We need a little retraining of our deconditioned beings, a little warmup of our laughter. You need to wake up your senses, one at a time. To let certain emotions thaw, in the safety of silence.

With spring comes rebirth. You need the gestation of adolescence. May the full moon room be the comforting womb. And I will be the placenta, tray in hand, responsible for feeding you. You come out when you need to. When you are fully ready. No induction by our productivity-driven world.  No C-section of your ambitions or dreams. They will trickle, one by one, just like my waters broke without a fanfare almost 16 years ago, unlike the epic gush announcing your brother's arrival three years earlier. What a glorious day it was. To see you come out, just perfect, only the body temperature worrying the medical team and making them monitor you a little bit. And one chord loosely around your neck. Hence your delight in having my grandmother's scarves when you were a little boy.

Like my home, my heart is full. I have this complex mixture of worry and bliss just like after coming home with my newborn. I am blessed and deeply grateful to hear you sneeze. Because it means you breathe. To hear you take a shower. because it means you stand. To have you let me wash your clothes. Because I can indirectly hug you. And see the evolution of your tastes, your sense of style, reflecting your complex inner world, integrating light and dark, yin and yang.

My child, back at last. I see you. I love you.

And for being you, one of my best teachers, thank you.