Light has just begun to come through the slats in the wooden blinds. I’ve been up folding clothes, just the sort of comfortable ritual that is a time-honored meditation for the householder.
I am reflecting upon our Thanksgiving gathering Thursday evening, the house filled with growing grandchildren. There are the beautiful teenaged girls, Andie and April, who cannot pass a mirror these days without fluffing their hair and turning slightly to admire their emerging goddess shapes, awareness of their latent power dawning; Alex, who at 12 has begun to sprout like the proverbial beanstalk, his newly deepened voice still something of a surprise; and 10 year old Julia, who is ever the spiritual child (spiritual in the way of wandering mystics who look for meaning in the reflection of shifting sands). She offers honesty always, and delights me with her unflagging love for all creatures, especially bunnies in the woods.
How lucky I was to marry a Granddad 25 years ago, not only for the man himself, although that would be an embarrassment of riches in anyone’s universe, but also to acquire by the small embroidery of the heart, year by year, the privilege to enjoy a piece of the hearts of these children.