We were on one of our safari outings in Tanzania, roaming the open countryside, delighting in the spectacle of giraffes, lions, gazelles, buffalo bulls, wondrous game in their natural surrounding. We came upon an infant gazelle by the side of the dirt road, uninjured, apparently lost, waiting for his mama, certain she would find him, as mamas do. We moved on.

The next day, we passed the meadow again and found the baby gazelle rooted in the same spot. We all took a deep breath. Was his mother coming back? Was he lost? Would he die here, waiting by the side of the road? Should we just leave him to nature’s mercy? What was our responsibility? With lumps in our throats, we moved on.

I experienced the same hands-on, hands-off dilemma when I met a young African mother. She passed us on the muddy road, thongs on her feet, kanga wrap draped around her and a baby on her back. Her large black eyes smiled as I playfully cooed at her infant, the same age as my grandson. We were on our way to visit the Hadza, the ancient hunter-gatherers who live off the land as their ancestors did for centuries before them.

When we arrived at the Hadza village, she was there, sitting beside her grass hut, huddled with her baby and family and a few handmade items. I identified immediately. I saw my daughter Sarah in her, and my grandson Archer in her child. Here, sitting beneath a baobab tree, my Sarah and my Archer, protected only by a kanga wrap and a grass hut to keep them safe from the harsh elements of life.

I wanted to embrace my Archer, here and now, in her arms, to keep him safe, to protect him from the unknowns he faced, to ensure a satisfying life. We exchanged smiles, all we had with which to speak our connection across different worlds. Questions raced my mind: How will you protect him, feed him, when others move in to take your land? How will you protect yourself in a world that thinks of the world as theirs? I felt a lump in my throat as I realized I was of the world I called “theirs.”

Her smile spoke volumes, as if to say, “You cannot protect me any more than you can protect your grandson from what he is here on this earth to learn. Let me go, but allow me the right to live on this earth with the resources I need in order to learn what I am here to learn.”

I could move on only when I was assured that the safari company with whom we contracted is working to secure land for these Hadza families, so they can meet the insatiable demands of the outside world with more of a base and with some dignity.  Only then could I leave these gentle ones beneath their baobab tree, to delight in the magic and moods of Africa. We moved on.

These images – the infant gazelle by the side of the road, my Sarah and my Archer beside the grass hut – followed me home, literally, into my home. When my daughter Sarah met me at the airport and told me she was moving five hours away, that my Archer was no longer available to me on a regular basis, I called on these images and the energy they gave. The universe had prepared me for just this moment.

I had learned in Africa to trust, to turn over my infant gazelle and my Hadza mother and child to a larger will. I let go and turned over my grandson to that same higher reality. I relinquished any control I might have had of the filter through which he will receive the learnings and experiences he needs to live in the world – his world.

I can no more choose what kind of experiences he should have – whether books and classical music or college football games and a soul-snatching career – than I can choose a lifestyle for the Hadza peoples. I can no more protect him from the uncertainties of life than I could protect that baby gazelle.

I can make sure he has the full resources and opportunities he deserves in order to choose himself from a full deck. But, the universe has a wiser lesson plan for him than I can see now from my perspective. I have no idea what he is here on this earth to learn.

The universe softened me up, in Africa, so I could be open to what it had to teach me about letting go, about letting life be, about moving on to a new day. It was not without tears that I let Sarah and Archer go. It was not without wandering around in a daze, disoriented, confused about my own future and personal meaning. But I had been prepared.

The universe had taught me to find the light in an otherwise dark, confusing circumstance. I could turn my loved ones over to that same mother universe. It took a Hadza mother from around the world and a lost baby gazelle to show me this.