🪶 The Arena Is Not my Name

I stood where echoes feed on stone,  

where verdicts wear robes of delay.  

They called it duty, I called it dusk—  

the hour when silence learns to speak.

My hands held systems,  

not swords.  

My battles were made of questions,  

my wounds—of withheld replies.

They said: wait.  

The wind will change.  

But I am not a leaf.  

I am the tree that chose to shed.

Resignation is not a letter.  

It is the breath between two truths:  

the one they write,  

and the one I live.

I do not die in the arena.  

I dissolve from it—  

like ink from a forgotten decree,  

like fire from a cold rebellion.

Now, I teach with ash and light.  

And if they ask where I went,  

tell them:  

he walked out  

wearing his own name.

  

🩸 A Little Fall, A Big Question: Parenting, Blood, and the Logic of Children

 Yesterday, as I drove home with my twin daughters in the back seat, I received a call from my niece. She sounded cheerful, proud even—she had just donated blood for the first time. A small act, perhaps, but one that carries quiet courage and compassion.

I shared the news aloud, half speaking to myself, half to the girls. “She gave her blood,” I explained, “so that someone who’s hurt and has lost blood can be helped. Her blood will refill what was lost.”

There was a pause. Then came the question—sharp, sincere, and utterly childlike.

“Appa, when I fell down in school last week, why didn’t you give me blood?”

I smiled, but her question lingered. It wasn’t just curiosity—it was logic wrapped in love. In her world, falling down meant losing something. And if giving blood was how we help someone who’s hurt, why hadn’t we helped her that way?

I took a breath and tried to explain.

“That’s a smart question, kuttima. When you fell, your body was strong enough to fix itself. It made new blood all on its own—like magic! But sometimes, when someone is very badly hurt or sick, their body needs help. That’s when kind people share a little of their blood to help them heal.”

She nodded, half convinced, half still wondering. And I realized—this wasn’t just a biology lesson. It was a moment about empathy, about how children understand care, and about how they see love not just in words, but in actions.

In her eyes, blood wasn’t just a fluid—it was a symbol of help, of presence, of being there when someone is hurt.

💬 What Children Teach Us

As adults, we often explain things in terms of systems and science. But children ask us to explain things in terms of love. Their questions remind us that logic and emotion aren’t opposites—they’re intertwined.

My daughter’s question wasn’t about blood. It was about belonging. About whether we show up when someone falls.

And maybe that’s the deeper lesson: that every fall, no matter how small, deserves attention. That healing isn’t just physical—it’s emotional, relational, and sometimes, symbolic.

🌱 A Final Thought

I’m grateful for that car ride. For my niece’s act of kindness. For my daughter’s innocent challenge. And for the reminder that parenting is less about having answers, and more about listening to the questions that matter.