She barely knew me-- we had met just a half-hour earlier-- but I was the only adult present. When she fell and bumped her knee, she cried for Daddy, but had to run to me.
"Hold me," she whimpered, clambering onto my lap, burrowing close against my chest, clinging to me with small arms. So I held her tightly, stroking her silky little-girl hair, breathing in the scent of blueberry muffin and sweat and children's shampoo, crooning in her ear, and wishing for the days when I was small and could beg comfort from anyone . . . .
Hold me, I, too, want to cry at times, my voice echoing in the vast empty universe, feeling desperate for any arms that will reach out and tuck me close.
And a Voice does answer, but sometimes I don't hear Him as He whispers,
I have loved you with an everlasting love . . . and underneath are My everlasting arms . . .
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
the woods
My child-self would hate me right now.
Even as the thought came to me, I pushed it away. My practical adult-self listed reasons why I should mow the plants that had always provided a feeling of wilderness to my childhood haunts. But still, a feeling of guilt, almost betrayal, lingered in my mind. With every push of the mower, I could feel the stomach-gurgling nausea that arrived whenever something outdoors was changed, or destroyed, or molded by humans. Still, I knew that the weeds were breeding grounds for mosquitoes, an unsightly mess, and needed to be mowed. And I did feel satisfaction at the neatness I left behind me.
After I finished mowing, though, I took a rake and attempted to remark the paths I had run so many times in the past. Even as I did, I knew it didn't matter; there were no more pairs of small feet to scamper through what I used to call "woods" but now saw as a scraggly patch of trees.
And so I raked the paths one more time, smiling and waiting for the day when a smaller version of myself would stand with her hands on her hips, and demand that I leave "Grandma's woods" to their natural condition. I knew that I would acquiesce to her demands, and I knew that once again, the woods would grow wild, and the paths would be worn away by small feet. But, for the time being, the woods were tamed into just an extension of a lawn . . .
Even as the thought came to me, I pushed it away. My practical adult-self listed reasons why I should mow the plants that had always provided a feeling of wilderness to my childhood haunts. But still, a feeling of guilt, almost betrayal, lingered in my mind. With every push of the mower, I could feel the stomach-gurgling nausea that arrived whenever something outdoors was changed, or destroyed, or molded by humans. Still, I knew that the weeds were breeding grounds for mosquitoes, an unsightly mess, and needed to be mowed. And I did feel satisfaction at the neatness I left behind me.
After I finished mowing, though, I took a rake and attempted to remark the paths I had run so many times in the past. Even as I did, I knew it didn't matter; there were no more pairs of small feet to scamper through what I used to call "woods" but now saw as a scraggly patch of trees.
And so I raked the paths one more time, smiling and waiting for the day when a smaller version of myself would stand with her hands on her hips, and demand that I leave "Grandma's woods" to their natural condition. I knew that I would acquiesce to her demands, and I knew that once again, the woods would grow wild, and the paths would be worn away by small feet. But, for the time being, the woods were tamed into just an extension of a lawn . . .
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