You Keep Moving Me.
You give me hope. When a lot of this life business get me looking behind, ahead, up, down, all I have to do is look at you; smell your neck, hold you small hand, examine your chewed up nails, take in each scrape and scratch and bruise and devour your chubby elbows and I get gently placed right here. Now. With you. My hope.
You inspire me to over- accessorize with cheap dollar store glittery scarves and plastic multifaceted gem bangles.
It’s you who drives me to become a better writer and yogi. I do my arts for me, but my girl, in essence they are for you. I want you to know all parts of me. The swing pushing, pancake making, cuddling mama I am is of the utmost importance, which is who I am for you. But I want you to know more, the other parts you help me water. We learn by witnessing evolution in the soul and I want you to watch me grow as I watch you. To pass on my gifts to you somehow; the art of mothering and the art of life, would make me sigh in relief.
You entertain me. I am never bored watching you romp around naked, making up marvelous songs about life and friends that I don’t have the wise eye to see. Your stories about your ‘old mother’ Sarah, and your ‘father’ Asha and ‘you’ aptly names, Zaza thrill me. It’s not like I thought I’d have a kid with a dull imagination, what kid does? But actually living your vibrant mind stories have been an unexpected awe of motherhood; I am floored with giddiness, despite the fact Sarah, your ‘old mother’ "got dead when the firewoman ran into her".
You remind me that life whizzes right on by. Your voice in it’s valleys and hills, your eyes dark army on the inside, dark brown circling round, remind me to enjoy it’s delicate, savory taste moment to moment.
You teach me to be courageous. To jump off rocks with my eyes closed. To play with tigers and snakes under blanket tents. And because of you I know that to eat a meal out of sugar once in a while isn’t gonna kill me. To sing no matter how off key my voice is. You have made me braver than I ever thought I would be. I am stepping out of any box; any false sense of security that this world offers, I pass over and go straight for the path less traveled; the one we views of unicorns, red bulls, magic slides, and large creatures you call Gadazazas. The one where I am fiercely myself; wild, weird, restless, ritualistic. I do this for you. I want you to keep the grand valor you possess and how will that be if I don’t hold mine high above my head like burning chariot. No fear. We are made of no fear.
And when we are scared, you have taught me to curl up under the blanket with another person, or alone, helps chase it away.
You answered my numerous calls for you over many years before you were inside me. Thank you for coming here. There is no feeling like having a baby for the very first time. And you my special angel, you are my first. The first heart that beat inside of me besides my own.
I often think of you as a new soul; your excitement and raw desire to keep your eyes open, trying, touching, curious about everything that you pass on your way and your need to prove your awesomeness to the world makes me think you are fresh. But now and again, I see this ageless, wise shift, like a new wind on a sand dune. You may know more than I can fathom. Perhaps you know so much you tackle each incarnation with Beginners Mind. A true avatar in the making. A simple child.
I have always wanted to be a big sister. Watching you become one, your struggles, your sensitivity, your joy and delight in making your sister laugh (and cry) lets me in on the world of big sisterhood just a bit.
I am grumpy lately. Impatient. Dreading the pending heat, a heat nobody should have to endure, I become testy. But you walk by my side, holding my hand, looking up at me with those saucers, your wispy feathery hair glowing in the ever-present sun, and you still love me, honor me, guide me. You share your coconut popcycle, sticky drops down your hand, I get to lick clean.
You open my eyes to the Venusian beauty, the cosmos sparkle, the utter refined sense of style and taste for all things fine and fancy. There is something about a Rose, and you are a rose. I breathe you in, the scent of pricelessly smooth petals, the softness, the utter decadence and purity and class of the scent soothes me and heals me. And then I revere you for your thorns, powerful and sharp defense of earth; which protect you and insist that you be handled with care and caution. You are sharp and soft. You’re a gentle kind, but you kick some ass if need be.
You move me. There are no other words my imagination can conjure up. Not even the earthquakes I have survived seemed to have shaken me up, moved me around, thrown me inside out and sat me straight quite like you do.
I honor you.
I love you.
I will always protect you with vibrant love.
Ma
(What you like to call me now and I love it.)
