Monday, September 27, 2010


"Love consists in this, that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other. " - Rainer Maria Rilke

My daughter the explorer.  At first, it was just with her eyes, those gaping, still pools that took in as much of the world's images as would fit into her waking hours.  Then the mouth got added into the equation, and everything she could grasp or shove went into the mouth for a taste-test.

Now, along with eyes and mouth, she uses her hands.  Her fingernails skritch every surface, testing for texture, and her fingers and palms touch and pat every new place.  She touches my tongue, teeth, and lips while she takes her bottle, practicing ungentle dentistry in search of answers.  Where do Momma's songs come from? Or her laughs?

In our bed in the morning, she reaches out sleepy fingers and holds onto my hair for comfort and reassurance.  Mom is still here, tangible and anchored, right where she should be.  Maeve falls asleep on my lap while stroking my arm.  Mom is a soft and sleepy place. Just right.

What Maeve knows about the world is what she has experienced, mostly through sight, taste, and touch.  I am enjoying being one of the subjects of her exploration.


  1. :) My old friend, you still have the heart of a poet. As I sit in army land surrounded by cammo and masculinity, reading your beautiful thoughts on mommyhood is making me smile. Something is right in this world.

  2. Thanks, J, and reading your thoughts on missing country life this morning, it just seems right, too. :)