Thursday, March 24, 2011


My ten-year-old came to visit this morning. She was hiding in her costume; a chocolate colored velvet flat hat and a dark purple jacket. She is a bully. Withdrawn and angry she pushes people away. She got into some fights leaving fifth grade and going to sixth grade, which was at a new school.
Her profile is silhouetted, she’s hunched in shadow. Closed. I tell her she is loved. I know she is the one who has a difficult time bonding with people, making connections. She drives me to keep busy, keep moving, keep going. I need to release her of this job.
I roll over and ask Dan for a snuggle to show her how much she is loved. She cries lightly. Overwhelmed by the thought that she is loved just as she is. Baxter and Lucy give her snuggles too. 
I thank her for getting me to where I am. For doing the best she can. I can see she wants to draw. I see her on her belly, legs kicked up in the air, her costume intact, happily drawing the hours away.
I tell her everything is ok, all she needs to do now is draw. She can take off the jacket and hat because we live in paradise. It’s warm here. I encourage her to feel the warm sun on her bare arms, the cool trade winds, the moisture in the air. Breathe deep. Fling your arms out. Tilt your head to the sky. Play! Fly! 

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