From My 40 to Your 14

reluctant poem for my daughter

We are both fourteen, and also
going-on-forty-or-more:
Both of woman-mind and soul,
yet nested still in girls’ wild ways.

At fourteen, life is awful promise; 
nothing certain
nothing known.
But still she is/we are the sum
of all, for best or worse.
With womankind, it’s hard to tell
the promise from the curse.

At fourteen, hopeful mystery.
At forty, enigmatic hopes.

But headstrong grows to heartstrong;
joy and blood become the world.
There is no brighter beauty
than the woman in the girl.

Note: Holidays like Mother’s Day evoke mixed emotions in many women and men, for various reasons. I hope we can suspend expectations of what we “should” feel about motherhood and mothers and simply be present for those who find this day a painful Hallmark humbug.

Buddhists remind us to be kind to everyone, for through infinite cycles of rebirth, anyone we meet was very likely once our mother. And we were certainly once a mother to someone — maybe even that fool that’s now standing on your last nerve.

So… mother’s love, mother’s patience, and mother’s blessings to every single one of you.

Keep the faith.