Miracles of Life

Aug. 21, 2020 — Such a soothing thought, “Step back and see the sweet miracles of life and our own beautiful part in them.” To the millions of parents and grandparents waiting, wondering, worrying about their kids returning safely to school, our weekend wish for you is that you’ll find a quiet moment to cherish everything about those living miracles you’ve helped create, and acknowledge yourselves for doing your absolute best by them. Then send blessings to teachers and tough-spot administrators, too.

As this Cardie Newsletter enters your inbox, our Cardie Community Manager Jayme is moving her daughter Yazmin to The Ohio State University. Yaz is to drop her stuff at the dorm, then head straight to the clinic for a Covid test. She’s been just as careful as she could be all summer, serving as an essential worker in a grocery to earn what she could for school but, should that test come back positive, she’ll be moved into campus quarantine.

Knowing it’s a bittersweet time for Jayme, I shared some lovely pieces of poetry with her, and she quick proposed we share them with you. They were written by one of our very first Contributing Cardies, known outside our Cardie community as Dr. Rachel Glik. Beyond her private practice, the St. Louis-based psychologist offers wonderful insight via her own blog and as family counselor on local Fox 2 News. The following poems from her book of poetry titled Come With Me were inspired by her love for her own dear son and daughter, now grown. Enjoy. Be safe. Be kind.

jodee stevens
founder & chief creative

The Perfect Stone

He searches for rocks,
certain perfect slippery rocks
flat and smooth
for skipping across
the fresh lake water.

I wonder if he’ll remember this trip
his young hand in the palm of his daddy’s
stretching his first finger round the stone
cocking back,
flicking his wrist,
letting it go.

I wonder if he’ll remember
how high he jumped the first time
his stone pranced across the rim of the water,
if he’ll store this golden day
skipping across the body of childhood
before it falls away
like the perfect stone.

Legacy

“What’s your favorite body part?” I ask, delighting in the sway of her, sweet as sunrise. I expect the usual response of a female — even at seven — under the spell of an exterior culture, regarding her body from the outside. She thinks, then asks, “What’s your favorite part, Mommy?”

Unprepared, I peruse my body in my mind, of course drawn to the parts I most reject. When I break my trance of body dissection and turn to my only daughter, I see her innocence beaming the birth of the whole world as she waits for me to speak. Finally, inside my own body, I find a lens, polished as the cool autumn sky. I see my answer.

“My hands are my favorite,” I tell her. “They let me hold your hand and braid your hair. They build and cook, write and dance. These hands lift you, warm and tender your face.”

“Wow!” she says, turning her hands with wonder. “Hands are great!”

I say, “Your turn.” She smiles up at me with blueberry eyes, her face alive with decision. “My eyes are my favorite, Mommy. ‘Cuz without my eyes, I couldn’t see you.”