The dandelions are in full bloom in our backyard - a yellow carpet spreading over the green that appeared overnight following Monday's soft rain. Alex and I spend hours, beginning March 20 each year, looking for signs of spring. At first, our search is a little bleak. It requires imagination and endless optimism to discover those early signs here in upstate New York. But one day, we discover something legitimate - a robin or a crocus - and a few weeks later, we can hardly keep up. But the advent of the dandelions is something we treasure every year. This first batch, newly sprouted, not yet gone to seed, is a nourishing site to eyes deprived of color for so long. No longer a hint or a whisper, but full blown evidence that nature has made it through her darkest cycle and is ready to burst with color again. Every year, I quote Robert Frost, "Nature's first green is gold. Her hardest hue to hold." This year, my efforts were rewarded with a freshly picked dandelion and an emphatic, "Just stop it, Mom. Just stop it." But I know this boy will love poetry. You cannot uncover each little trick of nature with his enthusiasm and not have poetry in your soul. You cannot look at a dandelion and ask, "Why are flowers so beautiful, Mom? Why?" and not have poetry in your soul. His day will come.
This year's greeting of the dandelions was more magical because we shared it with Cate. In six short weeks, she has come a long way. She is no longer the little girl who stands with her feet firmly planted on the earth and refuses to budge. She has migrated away from that. First, she walked tentatively on the grass covered ground, but refused to walk on crunchy leaves or twigs. Now, she happily goes along on our adventures, sometimes rooting herself, but almost always rejoining when her brother goes back and takes her hand, much to his delight. She is fascinated by dry leaves and rocks, collecting as many has her little hands can hold, and today, we introduced her to dandelions. With great ceremony, Alex stopped, picked one, and held it out to her. "DANDY-LION, Cate. Say, DANDY-LION," he stated in his patient, all-knowing big brother voice. Cate said nothing, but took the flower and then bent down to pick her own. What she did next surprised me and sent me into one of those moments, part wonder, part joy, part longing sadness I have come to know since we met her. She picked her dandelion, brought it to her lips, and blew on it, the puff of a little girl making a wish. This was clearly not her first dandelion. We had not introduce her. It is a strange sensation to watch your tiny girl do something so connected to the core of childhood, so simple, and I see now, universal, and have absolutely no idea who taught her to do it. What lucky auntie had the joy of teaching her to blow away the seeds of a dandelion? Was she filled with laughter? Did they make a wish? Was it a happy summer day? A gathering of friends? Did she hold her hand? Who taught this thing to her? Such a simple act, and yet one so pure.
I experience this same sensation when I tuck her into bed at night. I cuddle and rock her, humming or singing, and she often joins me. Her eyes take on a far away look and she begins to sing. The singing seems more than that of a two year old - it is muddled with definite words and sounds, but it is musical and soulful. It breaks your heart and fills it with joy. The words now begin to slip a little more each day as her life takes place in English and not Chinese. I would give my right hand to know the woman that sang this song to her. Who was she? What can she tell me about my daughter? I want to know what Cate is singing, what she is feeling? What do the words mean? Do they matter or is it the feeling of the song she knows? Was she rocked? Does she miss the one who sang it to her?
A part of my heart longs for it to have been me. Me who sang her first lullaby. Me who can take credit for the way she hangs her coat and puts her shoes away. Me who had the joy of blowing on the dandelion that first time and laughing together at the wonder of all those little seeds carrying away a wish or a dream. And yet, I know no matter who taught her, those seeds have done their job with Cate and with Alex. My wish for them is happiness. Peace. Wonder. Raising children isn't a single-handed adventure and I am grateful to all those who have imparted joy and curiosity to my children with their knowledge and love and enthusiasm.
The Frost poem ends "So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay." By next week, the dandelions will have gone to seed and we will have the thrill of tromping back down the hill and wishing them all away until the sky is filled with downy snow.
Until then, I will cherish my tiny vase of droopy dandy-lions. And with all due respect to Mr. Frost, I believe some things gold can stay.
This year's greeting of the dandelions was more magical because we shared it with Cate. In six short weeks, she has come a long way. She is no longer the little girl who stands with her feet firmly planted on the earth and refuses to budge. She has migrated away from that. First, she walked tentatively on the grass covered ground, but refused to walk on crunchy leaves or twigs. Now, she happily goes along on our adventures, sometimes rooting herself, but almost always rejoining when her brother goes back and takes her hand, much to his delight. She is fascinated by dry leaves and rocks, collecting as many has her little hands can hold, and today, we introduced her to dandelions. With great ceremony, Alex stopped, picked one, and held it out to her. "DANDY-LION, Cate. Say, DANDY-LION," he stated in his patient, all-knowing big brother voice. Cate said nothing, but took the flower and then bent down to pick her own. What she did next surprised me and sent me into one of those moments, part wonder, part joy, part longing sadness I have come to know since we met her. She picked her dandelion, brought it to her lips, and blew on it, the puff of a little girl making a wish. This was clearly not her first dandelion. We had not introduce her. It is a strange sensation to watch your tiny girl do something so connected to the core of childhood, so simple, and I see now, universal, and have absolutely no idea who taught her to do it. What lucky auntie had the joy of teaching her to blow away the seeds of a dandelion? Was she filled with laughter? Did they make a wish? Was it a happy summer day? A gathering of friends? Did she hold her hand? Who taught this thing to her? Such a simple act, and yet one so pure.
I experience this same sensation when I tuck her into bed at night. I cuddle and rock her, humming or singing, and she often joins me. Her eyes take on a far away look and she begins to sing. The singing seems more than that of a two year old - it is muddled with definite words and sounds, but it is musical and soulful. It breaks your heart and fills it with joy. The words now begin to slip a little more each day as her life takes place in English and not Chinese. I would give my right hand to know the woman that sang this song to her. Who was she? What can she tell me about my daughter? I want to know what Cate is singing, what she is feeling? What do the words mean? Do they matter or is it the feeling of the song she knows? Was she rocked? Does she miss the one who sang it to her?
A part of my heart longs for it to have been me. Me who sang her first lullaby. Me who can take credit for the way she hangs her coat and puts her shoes away. Me who had the joy of blowing on the dandelion that first time and laughing together at the wonder of all those little seeds carrying away a wish or a dream. And yet, I know no matter who taught her, those seeds have done their job with Cate and with Alex. My wish for them is happiness. Peace. Wonder. Raising children isn't a single-handed adventure and I am grateful to all those who have imparted joy and curiosity to my children with their knowledge and love and enthusiasm.
The Frost poem ends "So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay." By next week, the dandelions will have gone to seed and we will have the thrill of tromping back down the hill and wishing them all away until the sky is filled with downy snow.
Until then, I will cherish my tiny vase of droopy dandy-lions. And with all due respect to Mr. Frost, I believe some things gold can stay.
2 comments:
Yummy, yummy writing. I'm sitting at my computer, with only one child awake so far, and enjoyed every morsel of description and detail and imagery...
I often think about Brie's Ayis and think that if I had been the one who showed her the way for the past four years...she would not hang her coat up as she does, she would throw it on the floor like her sister does! So many of her behaviors and little rituals put my own mothering to shame...but, alas I'm sure the days of finding Brie's socks in a jumble on her bedroom floor are coming.
I cannot wait to meet your little pirate and princess duo! They sound like a magical pair.
It's the tiny clues that make your heart stop, right? The first night we had Fang Fang with us, I sang Ibiyaya to her and she went completely still, and then grabbed my hands and rocked in time with the music- someone had sung to her before. Somehow she knew the song.
I know so little about where she was in the Before - but she has this sweetness, this ability to share, this open heart, that makes me feel that someone loved her - someone taught her to trust, and accept and give affection. Someone kept my girl's heart safe. Maybe someday we'll know more. I hope so.
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