My children taught me greater love

What is love? The timeless question begs to be answered by philosophers, musicians, the religious, and the agnostic. It is a substance without physical form that can elude understanding.

I have always thought I've known love. As a child I loved my parents and siblings. I loved my friends and special teachers in my life. I loved the cats I've owned over the years. But as I have grown older, I have found myself in possession of a greater capacity for just about everything else in life, including my ability to have love.

I recently read that the Chinese character for "Mother" (and correct me if this information is wrong)is comprised of the two characters for "pain" and "joy." If this is so, I think it is a significant symbol. Evidence all around me says that the line between pleasure and pain is a thin one, if it exists at all. The pleasure of exercise is only completely realized when one has pushed to the point of their physical limits. Hot sauce, for the appreciator or such a flavor, is both pleasurable and painful simultaneously. And as a mother, my love for my children resembles more of an ache than a flowery profession.

So, to my point: My children have taught me to love. They didn't sit me down and lecture me on the finer points of the emotion. They simply came as new life, completely unencumbered by the stains of mortality. They came as reflectors of what I did and said. They came with sweet smiles free of judgment and sarcasm. They came and I felt the need to preserve them somehow from what they had to be exposed to, knowing that I couldn't really stand in the way of their experiences, but aching for what simply must pass.

To love is to hurt for that one you love. Only when you can hurt for them, can you really love. My children have taught me this.