Friday, December 14, 2012


Summer 2011
Road Trip to Portland, Oregon
My daughter, Arianna, our friend, Søren, and I.
How did she become so different than me?
I gave birth to thee!

50 percent of her genetics I gave,
though naught but the luminous, copious mane
of rich, deep chocolate brown,
did I make.
With almond eyes, soft and serene,
skin tinted with olive and kissed by the sun,
she is more her father than her mum.

The ornately carved bazier that holds her spirit, deep within,
burns low and slow with the embers of wisdom
that comes from the many lifetimes her spirit has cycled herein.
So unlike me,
hot and ready to flee,
easily startled and quick to flame,
I have the intensity while she has the power to sustain.
I want to win.
She wants to have fun.
I obsess,
    she knows when to let things fall.

This difference is so hard for me to embrace,
her lack of desire to always win the race.
My anger and anxiety builds,
as I see her competitive with only the middle of the field.
I know I need to let it go,
Let her find her own rhythm and flow.
I try to ease my burst of flame,
with the forcing of self to walk away.

And with deep breaths and sighs,
I strive to just be happy with her choices in this life.

She is not me,
I remind myself constantly.

I am not you, Mom,
Her soft gaze says to me silently.

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