Anam Cara: For My Daughter's Daughter...

02 December 2010

For My Daughter's Daughter...

It's a girl! We found out yesterday. My daughter will be the mother of a daughter. And so the glorious mystery of woman is extended one generation more. I think of all it will mean for Kelsey to grow up this little one...to grow up with this little one...and my gratitude knows no bounds.

Yesterday, among the many sweet congratulations from friends and family, came this lovely poem from my young friend Amanda, a mother of twin girls. One of my favorite poets, Luci Shaw, wrote it for her youngest daughter, Kristin, on her eleventh birthday. It expresses, beautifully, much of what I wish for my daughter...and for my daughter's daughter...at eleven...and always.

Gifts for My Girl

At eleven, you need new shoes
often, and I would give you
other things to stand on
that are handsome and useful
and fit you well, that are not
all plastic, that are real,
and knowable, and leather-
hard, things that will move
with you, and breathe rain
or air, and wear well,
in all weather.

For beauty, I would buy
a gem from the earth’s
heart and a ring that is gold
clear through, and clothes the colors
of flowers. I would cultivate in you
a gentle spirit, and curiosity,
and wonder in your eyes. For use,
in your house I’d hang
doors that are solid wood
without hidden panels of air, set
in walls built of brick more
than one inch thick.

On your floors I’d stretch fleeces
from black sheep’s backs
and for your sleep, sheets
spun from fibers that grew, once,
on the flanks of the fields.
I’d mount for you one small,
clean mirror for a grinning
glimpse at yourself, and a whole
geometry of windows to the world,
with sashes that open hard, but
once lifted, let in a breath
of pure sun, the smell of a day,
a taste of wild wind, an earful
of green music.

At eleven, and always,
you will need to be nourished.
For your mind - poems and plays, words
on the pages of a thousand books:
Deuteronomy, Dante and Donne,
Hosea and Hopkins, L’Engle and Lewis.
For your spirit, mysteries and praise,
sureties and prayer. For your teeth
and tongue, real bread the color
of grain at a feast, baked and broken
fresh each day, apricots and raisins,
cheese and olive oil and honey
that live bees have brought
from the orchard. For drink
I’d pour you a wine
that remembers sun and shadow
on the hillside where it grew,
and spring water wet enough
to slake your forever thirst.

At eleven, the air around you
is full of calls and strange
directions. Choices pull at you
and a confusion of dream.
And I would show you a true compass
and how to use it, and a sun steady
in its orbit and a way
through the woods by a path
that will not peter out.

At eleven you know well
the sound of love’s voice
and you have, already, hands
and a heart and a mouth
that can answer. And I
would learn with you
more of how love gives and receives,
both, with both palms open. I
am standing here, far enough away
for you to stretch and breathe,
close enough to shield you from
some of the chill and to tell you
of a comfort that is
stronger, more real,
that will come closer still.