cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
And on the day when she comes to the end of all she will learn, she will still be yours. No matter where she runs, no matter if she hides, no matter. She is inescapable to you. You are inescapable to her. Maybe this is what she already knows.* She has “wise eyes.”
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It had been the sweetest day spent with some of my beloved ones. As our time together was coming to an end, a child whom I adore noticed the bright, full moon outside my east-facing windows. “Oh, look!” she said. “The moon! Can we go outside and look at it?”
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The sun is setting before the low-grade headache from another day spent on my screen fully registers. But now the muddy light of my apartment has sharpened the artificial glow of the laptop, and I can’t help but wince. Note to self: explore blue light glasses. A bit of self-awareness ushers me into my body,…
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This is what people say the most after meeting my infant daughter: “She’s so attentive!” “Such eye contact!” “She’s very aware!” “She’s looking at me so intensely!” I remember the first time Glorya Joy looked at me. Really looked at me.
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Whiplash. Home is a word we don’t understand. Moved abruptly from countries and continents, from a place of dust to concrete, in days. From the land of never enough to more than enough to spare. Whiplash.
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