wise old woman

this morning, as usual, i carried bunny downstairs, his little feet outstretched (out of harm's way, he's scarred me plenty all ready). sometimes they quiver in fright. i have discovered, a rabbit does not like metallica. i think lars scares him. i must remember this, because he can hear it when i have my mp3 player on and freaketh out.

so daughter appears on back porch in pjs.

go change.

i say, trying not to break out of tai chi. not minding the intrustion though.

she returns, in some of the duds we got her yesterday. looking pretty. a rhinestone hello kitty t-shirt, plaid skirt with ruffles, and some new flip flops (we're all about style at my place! ha!).

she has in her hands a new little leather journal binder thing i got her yesterday. a rachel ashwell (love her!) drawing binder, which is a delicate muave (the color of my new leather jacket), and has a velveteen ribbon which holds it closed.

i wrapped up tai chi before the child reappeared, and was parked on a bench watching the squirrels (searching out pecans, we feed squirrels well), and attempting my morning pages.

i'm going to pick a rose,

she says. (for you is either implied or said, i don't remember but she was doing it for me, which pleased me immensely). and isn't it interesting that the rachel ashwell journal (lover of roses that she is, would inspire this act of kindness).

watch out for thorns,

i say.

there are no thorns.

all roses have thorns, mind them.

she produces the loveliest scarlet rose, fully open. and sets it on the table which supports my outstretched feet.

i'm going to draw it,

she announces.

fine.

i advise her to position it a certain way, and she does.

this is her first attempt at still life in a great while. i'm busily writing when she shows me what she's done.

it looks like the rose, i'm impressed.

you see when i draw, it is some sad semblance of what is. it is not actually a picture by any stretch of the imagination of what is. that is why i draw with words. i can capture the scenes then. i gave up drawing long ago, a certain wooly mammoth that would not come from my mind to the page.

my visual artist best friend recommended, drawing on the right side of the brain to help her bridge this gap.

she's ready to move into real life drawing

she told me before we left texas.

but mostly, i've just held my breath and let her be. i have the book on hand, when she needs it. but she showed me her technique this morning.

i looked at the rose mom, and my hand just drew it. i never looked at the drawing.

very good baby

(she hates for me to call her baby in public, but this isn't exactly public, is it?).

anyway, we sit out there in the garden enjoying the fading cool of the morning (it was supposed to be a scorching 95 here today). bunny is bouncing around nibbling on things.

then decide to go visit the geese at low tide so we can get on the island (wrote a poem about it, nevermind).

we go out, we return home. daughter is sent to room to find floor. i am in kitchen attempting to find countertop.

she walks in with her rose picture and has written on it, in a nice curly scroll of her own design:

Love is the only medicine for a broken heart.

i nearly cried.

more than i want this child to get all the fifty states memorized, i want her to listen to her wise old woman. to hear the crone in her. to be in touch with her instinct.

i do not know why she wrote this for me now, but i know i will frame it one way or another and carry it with me. sign, that it is that my daughter is in touch with her wise old woman.