My childhood memories are simple. I can remember, before the age of five, being happy. I remember how in the 80s, we had a shaggy, royal blue carpet that was always clean. My mother cleaned our house endlessly, and my most vivid memory is spending the day along side her while the tv hummed in the background. I can remember the afternoon sun streaming in our westward windows and the shapes it left across our kitchen floor. I can remember feeling warm and safe; I knew I was loved. I knew what came next. I knew that later, there would be dinner at the coffee table together, just the two of us. I was 4.
Today, I am the mother to a 4 year old of my own. She is everything I wish I could be. She runs barefoot in the summer sun, collecting all things beautiful and interesting. She asks her own questions, and she gives me wise answers. She is so much cooler than I could ever be. She inspires me to be wild and free. She inspires me to let go of all that has ever held me back. She challenges me everyday to become more understanding, more patient, more open, more loving.
And then I remember that little girl sitting on the blue shag carpet, and I can’t help but think about my own mother, and how history has a notorious tendency of repeating itself; maybe not in every detail, but certainly in the grande scheme of things kinda way. Did I help her the way my WildFlower helps me? Did I challenge her the way I am challenged? Did she grow the way I am growing everyday?
And my young daughter, will her memories be sweet and simple? Will she remember how she delighted in the small things? Will she someday wonder while looking at her own child, if she is doing all that she can? I can only hope that she will know the kind of love I know.