I seek to cement in my daughter what she may forget; what the world will surely attempt to steal from her. I run beside her, handing her worn linen bags of jewels I’ve tried my best to keep clean: moss, river stones, birdsong, damp soil. I trip and fall, navigating uneven ground through tears on unsteady legs and lose my way, then catch up. I try to hold her gaze for as long as it takes—these are yours.
I tell her things I am trying to remember—
The only difficult part of life is tolerating your own feelings.
You are Life, your body is the Earth, all creatures are your siblings, you are not a slave to anyone or anything, your investments are only worthwhile while they are, you already know what to do, your body and your talents are not your currency, you are free.
I pray that she will remember these things she was born with—all her birthright. I hope that whatever her path, that the wisdom of the wings of the hawk, the watchful eye of the coyote, the silence of the clover will stay with her.
That she will know her mother ran as fast as she could beside her for as long as she possibly could to try to outrun the pretend world full of deceptive others who won’t understand her worth.
I pray that she knows her beauty and that worth in her bones.
That her wildness will always be hers.
Gorgeous.