Do you think i know what I'm doing?
That for one breath or half-breath I belong to myself?
As much as a pen know what it's writing,
or the ball can guess where its going next.
-- Rumi
the act of living is an act of faith. we do not know, when we are born, when we arrogantly declare our teenage plans to the world, when we venture into love, where we will end up. We do not know — I did not know — that unfolding is better than conquering, that fulfillment would come in my daughter's laughter or smell of the forest; that through my husband's warm mouth i would drop into the universe; that my greatest adventures would come from living deeply.
what is it, that i now know, that i will look back upon and find false? what can i teach my child when truth is so malleable? when youth is for absolutes, but maturity, worlds of gray? i think about the journey of my life, and wonder about satine's. what are the lessons-- the heart lessons, not the 'keep away from hot stoves' lessons-- that she will need to learn? how can i guide her with the wisdom of my experience, without denying her her own?
these are the things, this morning, flashing through my mind as i sip coffee, cool breeze blowing, and satine, pulling herself up to standing, testing her wobbly, chubby legs, looks at me and screams with excitement, "Ehh!" she wants to make sure I am watching. and though it cannot be, though there are places she can only journey alone, i lean down to guide her hand and want to say to her, "Always, my love. Always."
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