My Daily Miracle: Merry

At Scenic Beach, with shell ears

 Merry, my Merry.  She's growing up so quickly.  Yesterday morning I was grumpy; Martin had headed off to the early service at the Episcopal Church and come back in time to take Elspeth and Beatrix off to a morning brunch where folks were discussing a service project.

I should have been thrilled to have the house to myself, but there was laundry to put away, dishes to do and a grey sky hanging around outside.  Blah.

With the uncanny ability she's shown since she was tiny, Merry sensed my mood and went about doing what she could.  "Mommy," she said with a strong strain of authority in her 11-year old voice, "I'll take care of the kitchen.  You go upstairs, take a shower, have some quiet time."

Half-heartedly, I offered to stay and help her clean, but she shooed me upstairs.  As I was showering and Merry clinked around in the kitchen, I realized that once again, I was acting like a fool.  How could I have not seen a morning alone with Merry as a wonderful opportunity?  I dressed quickly and ran downstairs.  "Let's walk somewhere," I said.  "How about we head downtown to the coffee shop?"

She ran off to wash her face and then we set off together.  "Do you want to take books or just talk?"  I asked as we pulled on our shoes.  "Just talk," she replied, and we headed out into the cloudy day.  She easily kept up with me as we cut through the park, scooted down a heavily wooded trail, and made our way through neighborhoods and down the main street downtown to the little coffee shop built on a hill overlooking the harbor.  We ordered a big mug of chai and a pumpkin spice biscotti and then we sat in the corner of the shop, right next to the huge windows that frame the smooth waters of the Sound; dozens of diving seabirds; sailboats with anchors thrown.

When Merry was in preschool, I used to pick her up at noon every Friday and take her across the street to the Victorian Tea Room.  She always got the same iridescent teapot with the pink herbal tea and we shared a basket of bread or a piece of pie.  Now it seems ludicrous that I used to bring along my writing from the morning and read it to her--was she really just four years old?  But that's Merry--Martin and I often reflect that one of the best things we've ever done together was to have Merry.  An old soul from the very beginning.  And now such a grown-up, lovely companion. We talked all morning and continued talking on the longish walk uphill back to our house, didn't stop talking until we opened the door to our little red house.

with "Texas" Grandma, sipping cafe au laits at Port Townsend's uptown bakery

It's been some time now since I grew up enough to find out that my mother was a friend.  Every day after high school I'd walk home through the dusty Nairobi streets, duck through the white gates of our compound, and cross the warm cobblestones to our massionette.  My mother would always be waiting, along with the smell of starch and roses on the table.  We'd drink milky tea (my mother took a spoonful of sugar then) under the thatched roof of our patio in our tiny back yard with the hedge climbing with bouganvillia.  And we'd talk and talk--about my friends, my teachers, boys-- until finally we'd part ways, I to my homework and my mother to preparing dinner.

Now I've moved back close enough to take tea with my mother again on a fairly regular basis.  Somewhere over the years she stopped taking a teaspoon of sugar, and that really threw me for a loop.  It was back in those days in Kenya when I began associating tea with intimate, cozy conversation.  Much later, I knew I'd found a real community in Pennsylvania when I knew, without asking, how each of my friends took her tea.  When you change something as significant as whether or not you take sugar . .well, it shows that the relationship needs some nurturing.

at school

For a while after we moved to Washington, my mother quietly drank the tea I offered sweet until finally, apologetically, she confided:  "You know, I don't take sugar anymore. . ."  I felt struck.  How had I not known?  At what time had she changed?  How had I not noticed?  After six months of living close to my mother again, I remember not to add sugar to her tea.  I feel as if this is important. 

I know how each of my daughters takes her tea: with a lot of milk and a lot of sugar.  But over the years, that will change.  And I want to to be around--I want to intentionally carve out that sacred space with each of my daughters--so that I will always be attuned to the changes.

deep in a sisterly conversation at Foul Weather Bluff

Suddenly I am becoming aware that my girls have suddenly turned a corner out of babyhood forever.  Merry, pulling long strides beside me, nurturing me and coaching me up the hill on the way back from coffee on Sunday morning--she is changing and blooming and growing ever more beautiful before my eyes.  I want to notice.  I want to see and celebrate and love her through every moment of it.