EXCERPT FROM THE BOOK

What does my name mean?

"Am I Tara?" She asked.

"Yes, you are Tara." My precious Tara, I thought.

"What does Tara mean?"

I took her hands - my daughter's hands were long and fine. No longer baby hands, but the hands of a sophisticated 4 1/2 year old.

"Tara is a star, the brightest star in the Universe. Did you know that the Buddha's mothers name was Tara - the compassionate one?"

"What does Leela mean?" She pointed to her younger sister.

"Leela is the play, the dance, of the universe."

"She does love to play," Tara giggled. Leela, two years old, pointed to herself and said "Yaya. Yaya." (Her pronunciation of Leela.) She then did her unique dance - arms bent, shoulders bouncing up and down, head bobbing from side to side, little jumps that did not really get her off the ground.

"Why are we Tara and Leela?"

I smiled, because somehow each of them had taken on the personalities of their names.

"You are Tara because you came to our world as a star that brightened up our whole universe. You made everyone around you feel peaceful and loving. You made our hearts warm and safe." I gave her a tight hug and kissed her soft head.

I looked at my dancing toddler. "And, Leela came to our world to remind us to laugh and play and dance. She stirred our hearts with her giggles and her teasing eyes."

"Dance, dance" Leela sang. "Aha! Aha! Aha!"

Tara and I looked at each other, and then laughingly mimicked her movements. The three of us danced freely in our universe of bright, giggling stars.

Question for your Child: Do you know what your name means to me?

Where did the snowman go?

As a young girl growing up in Boston, I loved the snow. I watched the snowflakes fall from the sky with wonder, a sprinkling of unique and delicate designs dancing in the wind. Looking up high into the clouds, I loved the tickling sensation as the snow touched my skin and turned into a drop of water.

I remember my mother bundling me up in so many clothes that it was difficult for me to walk. I clearly remember feeling the new sensation of falling as my little feet dug into the snow.

I must have been four years old when I joined some older friends at the park to build a snowman for the first time. I helped roll the snow, watching with amazement as the small ball became larger and larger. Soon, we had three big balls piled on top of each other, and my friends were decorating the snowman with sticks for arms, rocks for eyes and nose, and leaves to decorate.

I could not stop staring at the snowman. I was so proud of our creation. Before we left the park, I asked my mother if I could put my hat on him so that he could stay warm. My mother agreed.

For the next few days, I pleaded with my mother every morning to take me to the park to go visit him. I would patch up any spots on his body.

And, then one night, it rained. The next morning, when we reached the park, the snowman was gone. I was devastated.

"Where did the snowman go?" I desperately asked my mother.

My mother paused for a moment. Now, thinking back on it, I realize she was thinking about how to answer my question. I am so glad she answered it the way she did, because her words planted a belief in me that our souls can always return.

"Every year, when it is cold and the snow comes, the snowmen come to play and laugh with us. But, they need to be in the cold to stay healthy, so when it starts to get warm, they decide to go on vacation to a place where there is still snow."

I was genuinely devastated. "But, I will never see him again. I miss him."

"That is the wonderful thing about snowmen, baby." My mother's warm voice reassured me. "See snowmen always come back, every year. They are brought back to life by the laughter and games of children."

"You mean we will get to make him again next year!" I remembered the fun I had with all the children in the park. I remembered giving him my hat and my feeling of love and pride when I saw him. I smiled at the memory.

As we walked away, I had a last thought. "Mom, where did his hat go?" We looked back at where he had stood, and there was no hat in sight.

My mother's eyes twinkled, "Well, surely he had to take it with him to keep his head warm!" I held my mothers hand tight as I dreamt about what hat to give him next year.

Do trees have feelings?

I love to ask Tara questions and watch her face as she animatedly creates a story and tells me how the world works.

We have a beautiful tree in our front yard. I asked Tara, "Do trees have feelings?"

"Of course, they do. They feel sad and happy." I realized by the shrug of her shoulders that it wasn't a provoking question. Why would the tree not have feelings?

"And, you know mama," she continued, "When it is hot outside, the trees, they sweat like crazy!" I smiled. It was a hot day.

"If we hug a tree," I asked, "does the tree become happy?"

Tara put her arms out. Her smile said it all. The tree definitely could feel such innocent love.

"Did you know mama that the tree's branches are its arms. And, with its arm it hugs the air and the sky and the birds?" Her face was full of expression, her body reaching out into the world, her soul pure. It was a beautiful image.

"Mama, its not nice to ever hit the tree." She mimicked hitting and then shook her head. "Because the tree would feel it. It would hurt, but also it would be sad."

"So, we have to be careful to always take care of trees, don'we?" I asked.

She nodded her head and mimicked stroking the tree. I could see her mind churning, thinking about how she could take care of it. And, for a moment, I knew that the tree was listening to her thoughts, and they were connected.

Question for your Child: Would you like to go and hug a tree with me?

Mommy, what's a bomb?

It was a typical morning.

Leela, 9 months old, tossed and turned for a while before finally demanding that I get out of bed and pick her up. Sumant stretched in bed, and Tara called, "Mom, I woke up!" We all cuddled in bed for a while, and then got up to make breakfast.

I put the television on and there were images from the London bombings flashing one after another. Sumant and I were dead silent.

Tara asked me a question. I didn't pay attention, so absorbed was I in trying to decipher what was going on. Leela was screeching with delight, having found a carrot from the night before under the sofa.

A typical morning, but not really.

Tara pulled at me again, "Mommy, what's a bomb?" Finally, my three year old had caught my attention.

I put the television off and held my daughters. I looked at Sumant, not knowing how to answer.

I looked at the innocence in both my daughter's eyes. The look of pure love, pure trust, and pure compassion.

How do you explain that bad things happen? That there are people who purposefully kill and hurt others?

I held both girls in my lap, held them to feel their love, to feel stronger, to know that they would process the information from a place of compassion. I held on to them, and knew that it was their purity of spirit that held hope for the future.

"Sometimes, baby, people hurt others because they are hurting themselves..."

How is your soul feeling today?

One evening we found one of Tara's goldfish dead in the pond. Tara took it in her stride, but before going to bed she began asking questions about where the goldfish had gone.

I explained to her that the soul of the goldfish had left its body. So, while the goldfish was dead - not with us in our life anymore - its soul had floated away and was still alive.

"So, actually, only its body is dead?" She asked.

"Yes, that's how I think of it." I answered. "Souls choose which bodies they want to live in for a while. When they are ready to move on, they leave the body."

"Where do they go? Can we see them?" She was fascinated.

"Well, we can't see them, but we can feel them." I answered.

"Really!! How?" she asked, excitedly.

"Close your eyes and lets be quiet for a moment."

We both sat silent in the bed. Tara naturally put her hands together in a praying position.

"Can you feel your soul, how it is listening to my words?" I tried to adapt a technique my father used in his talks when he told people to listen to the one who is listening.

Tara enthusiastically nodded her head. Her hands still in prayer and her eyes squeezed really tight.

"Your soul and my soul are both connected. We will always be connected."

"Mom, I think I can feel the goldfish's soul.." she dreamily said.

"Really!" I quietly said.

"Yes. My soul is telling its soul to be happy."

And, with that, she opened her eyes, lay down and drifted off to sleep.

Question for your Child: Can our souls talk to each other without words?