New Berlin Central School - Crest Yearbook (New Berlin, NY)

Page 9 text:

To Our Parents There is this to be said: life is really composed of very simple things. We are bom, we live, we die . Within this pattern come the eternal struggles of people to make some sort of sense out of existence, where-in all the passions of desire and drive to excel become muted by experience, until one sees the simplicity, until the designs we weave of ourselves begin to take form. Much of what we become depends upon who gave birth to us. We are bom into the inexorable rhythm of life, we live. We are. To give birth, then, is not so simple. To give birth is to take part in the rhythm of life. It is our primary purpose, the one immutable thread that ties people together, whether civilized or not. Parents give birth to parents who give birth to parents who . . . and so the rhythm of life continues. Inexorable. And beautiful. It is creation in the highest sense of meaning, an eternal refutation of death. Yet there is this to be said: once the surprise, the delight of parents who hold a precious baby in their arms fades into the regularity of diapers and feedings and teething, there come the truly serious decisions and responsibilities of parenthood, many of which are extremely crucial. Life is for a time not so simple , for another human has to be considered whose needs exist quite apart from what may seem to be a simple, well - ordered rhythm of life. Sometimes these new humans seem forever on opposition to the order, to the rhythm. What to do then? Parents so often see their children as extensions of themselves. But that is not so. What is so is that children are held in trust for a time in their lives, protected while they grow, nurtured, guided, and then let go. We may dream for them, but they have their own dreams. So. Having said these things, there is this to be said. There is a warmth in the word: PARENT. There is warmth, protection, care, and love in that word. And a thousand other meanings too personal to express, gratitude, longing, a reaching-out, life. Visions. Dreams. The scent of freshly baked bread, the sound of voices murmuring on a porch on a summer' s night, the reflection of moonlight on a bedroom ceiling. The remembered touch of a hand. Warm. Yes. Thank you. § Dedication written by Jack Graven