Her language (like her father) has an edge--a poetic salvage that creates a melody and harmony that intertwines in the tendrils of your thoughts and won't let go.
Recently she read one of her blogs aloud to me. I sat at the end of my couch and was mesmerized by the cadence of her voice (both auditory and literary). At first she lulled me; her voice soothed. Gradually my inward person became attentive. When I came to full awareness I was jolted by her concepts and content. I came to attention. With vision narrowed. Focused.
And through the lens of that moment I acknowledged that she was no longer simply mine. She had become an entity. Sharp. Beautiful. Edgy. Bohemian. Strong. Ancient.
My daughter--also once my student--had become the teacher. The mother/teacher had become the student. I (who had once helped her form the first letter of the alphabet and the first letter of her name, I who had taught her about nouns, verbs, and adjectives, I who had once taught her about abstract and concrete ideas, and parallelism and imagery) was the student.
I was stunned. I once held this child's hands as she took her first faltering steps. I held out my hands to coax her forward.
She is now reaching out to me. She holds out her hand smiling her secret, coaxing, challenging smile. She has already entered this poetic dance of writing, and her words have a powerful lilt. And the fact that she allows them to dance across the screen in a blog instead of hiding them challenges me. The subtle power of her words beckons me. Yet, I feel awkward and hesitant--wondering how much of a fool I will make of myself?
I hear the ancient strains and harmonies of this poetic dance. I can't be still.