Poem for my Daughter by Teddy Macker
It seems we have made pain
some kind of mistake,
like having it
is somehow wrong.
Don’t let them fool you—
pain is a part of things.
But remember, dear Ellie,
the compost down in the field:
if the rank and dank and dark
are handled well, not merely discarded,
but turned and known and honored,
they one day come to beds of rich earth
home even to the most delicate rose.
~
God comes to you disguised as your life.
Blessings often arrive as trouble.
In French, the word blesser means to wound
and relates to the Old English bletsian—
to sprinkle with blood.
And in Sanskrit there is a phrase,
a phrase to carry with you
wherever you go:
sarvam annam:
everything is food.
Every last thing.
~
The Navajo people,
it is said,
intentionally wove
(intentionally!)
obvious flaws into their sacred quilts …
Why?
It is there, they say,
in the “mistake,”
in the imperfection,
through which the Great Spirit moves.
~
Life is easy, yes.
And life is hard.
Life is simple, yes.
And life is complex.
We are tough, yes. But we are also fragile.
Everything’s eternally perfect
but help out if you can.
And big decisions—
decisions concerning
relationships, concerning children,
concerning death—
are rarely made cleanly.
In general, be wary—
even if just a little—
of talk of purity,
of goodness,
of light.
~
To love everything, not just parts …
To love all of yourself, not just certain traits …
To rest in not knowing …
To carry the cross
and to lay your burden down …
To savor the medicine blue of moon,
the fierce sugar of tangerine …
To laugh …
To be shameless, wild, and silly …
To know—fully, headlong,
without compunction—the ordinary magic
of our beautiful human bodies …
these seem worthwhile pursuits, life-long tasks.
~
By way of valediction, dear Ellie,
I pass along some words
from our many gracious teachers:
Eden is.
The imperfect is our paradise.
All is grace
