On Miranda’s Birthday

It’s a special day: my daughter’s birthday, and I have been a mother for twenty-three years! Unfortunately, I felt that I was just getting the hang of it when she left, and I still can’t fathom how quickly all that growing up happened. A pink blur and giggles, a girl and her horse, a student in Boston, then a rather head-spinning, dance-y leap into living a life in Oxford.

She has always been like Harold with his purple crayon, you see. She draws things in her imagination, makes them real, and steps right into them. I'm proud of her, and I know the protocol is to hug ‘em and let ‘em go, but gosh, it’s complicated.

Well, as J.M.Barrie said, “Fame is rot; daughters are the thing.”

So here’s to her.

The tide was very low this afternoon so Monte and I went for a beach walk. We wandered over to the seawall and looked at it from the side of the sea for a change. Time and the ocean have worn it away so much, it looks as though it's melting; it has a soft, round-shouldered look, with rusty steel pieces protruding here and there like old bones, and a surface of stoned and pebbly conglomerate. It was covered with grassy algae, like the drippy cuttings from Neptune’s lawn. 

On the cliff side, it is stepped, resembling the ruins of an ancient amphitheater. We tried to find the dates my daughter said she once saw carved into the stone, but we weren’t sure where to look; maybe they have eroded away.

What I found instead is this beautiful piece of abalone. It is polished like satin, filled with iridescent color, and has a graceful contour to it -- don't you agree? I’m thinking maybe I can figure out some way to carve it a bit smoother and emphasize its natural leaf-like shape, and maybe Monte can drill a tiny hole in it, and I can wear it as a pendant. (Oh, dear. It’s happening. I’m becoming one of those women who adorn themselves with totems. Will dreadlocks be next? Chanting? Running with the wolves?)

It’s going to rain.The canyon road is already muddy and puddled, the sky is silver-gray, but oh,the hills are green! Green to the hue of enchantment, take-your-breath-away green, burst-into-song green, green even to the cusp of some sweet kind of heartbreak. 

In the garden, four perfect daffodils are craning their necks to look at the world.

Happy Birthday, M.