Slacko checks in ...

Ok, my bad. I have been MIA, but I have a good excuse ... truly. My year 12s had their final exam last Thursday, so we ( my beautiful students and I) have been preparing like crazy. Essay and essay after never-ending essay. We find out final results on December the 15th, so it's fingers crossed until then.

Secondly, I am just wrapping up hell month. AKA 6 weeks of toddler birthday parties. At least one party every weekend for the past 6 weeks, sometimes two - aaaaahhhhhhh. It ends on the 21st with my darling little girl's party, but tomorrow is her actual birthday. She turns three. Like any dutiful, modern-day, Generation X parent I have created a photo montage for her, and will share it with you (please keep comments suitably sucky, of course she is gorgeous, wonderful, the smartest kid out etc, etc).

I am currently drafting a poem for her. The poem focuses on the close bond that we have, and I hope for it to be a poem that she can look to forever and ever and then a little bit more. Meanwhile, I would like to remind you all about the poem I wrote for her many months ago. This poem describes the impact she was had on my life. She is a true gift and I am so happy to have been allowed into her life.

Lastly, I would like to thank Steph Damore for nominating me for a Kreativ Blogger award. I am so very glad that you like my musings, and hope to be back in action very soon, so that disappointment no longer abounds.

Let she who is without sin, cast the first stone.

re⋅cid⋅i⋅vism /rɪˈsɪdəˌvɪzəm [ri-sid-uh-viz-uhm] –noun
1.
repeated or habitual relapse, as into crime.
2.
Psychiatry. the chronic tendency toward repetition of criminal or antisocial behavior patterns.

Decades have gone by, all the while we keep looking at that mirror. Snow White's step mother asked, 'Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is fairest of them all?' Desperate to beautiful, she preened the savagery that came from the all-consuming obsession.

The mirror never lies. It always tells you what you want to hear. We ask it to tell us that we are ugly, too fat, scarred, mutilated, not worth loving. We commit this crime each and every day. We tend to the needs of the mirror, ensuring that it is clean enough to reflect our sins. We look for evidence of imperfection. We hate, we loathe, we constantly remind ourselves of the repulsive nature of our souls.

We wonder why children are sad. We don't understand why little girls don't want to grow up. We cry when children tell us that they are not worth loving. The answers should be clear.

It is a cyclical crime; its recurring nature realised too late - when the damage has been done.

The grandfather and the child

'Creep with me,' she said - Little Miss Tippi-toe,
Her tender features yearning for the game to be played.
The little mouth dipped as she saw your shoulders hesitate.
'Please,' little blue eyes asked, and how could you now say no?
And crawl you did, beginning a simple game,
' I'm a cat - meow,' her face lighting up with joy.
It's a memory I would not give up for the world.

It is for you ...

(Little cups of Marigold flowers and a simple flame, offered with a prayer on the Ganges)

I am the child was written for my daughter. She is the light of my life, and I am priveliged to have her.

Each stanza represents something that means something to me in our relationship, or something special about her. The last stanza, in particular, tells the story of how she came to be.

When I initially drafted the poem I was trying to describe what she was like and link the qualities to the earth in which we belong. It just didn't work. I then realised that with children, they just are. They are so in tune with the world; not yet influenced by negativity and turmoil that they live as a part of the world, as opposed to alongside it.

The four words in the second line of the first stanza are qualities that she displays every day. I felt that when I thought about these qualities I could imagine a delicate dew drop, dripping, and determined to make an impact on the earth. Children are definitely unwavering in their desire to take on the world.

The next stanza describes the love that that we have for each other, that is shared and communicated through touch. Sometimes, she just warms my heart as she reaches out and strokes my face.

As she breathes, she brings me peace and happiness. Something I have sought for so long. Each breath that she takes, makes me grateful for my own, and gives me hope that the future will be worthwhile.

She dances like nobody is watching, she laughs like she will never have a care in the world. She trusts me implicitly to love and protect her. I can imagine a snowflake would be like this in a gentle breeze.

She calls out without shame. She observes and asks about details that we, as adults, often miss. Her passion for life is like an untamed storm, and I can only hope that quality remains with her forever.

I was so worried I would never meet her. I walked around the Nandi Bull and prayed on the glorious river Ganges. I set forth a lit candle, hoping against all hope that the river would deliver a miracle. One month after my return, she entered my life. That river is a part of her story.

I am the child

I am the dew drop falling from the leaf;
rhythmical, steady, demanding, determined.
Unwavering trickles streaming through the earth.

I am the delicate fingers of the sun;
reaching out, longing to touch,
entangling themselves in your heart.

I am the wind; breathing in, out.
Healing, eliciting hope.
Aloft and tended are the dreams of man.

I am the crisp snowflake;
drifting without concern,
waiting to be held by you.

I am the thunder;
echoing, rejoicing in the world.
An unfurled tempest throughout eternity.

I am the river;
illuminated soulful, miraculous.
Courageously forging a path through the rock.