Bringing you into the world was a half-cocked plan, born of accident and bravado. Of one thing I was certain: I would do better than my parents. My smart resolve soon fell away into the ruts of their well-worn path.
From the Box Store of Beliefs, I bought a large suitcase. Around scratchy clothes and tight shoes, I arranged for you all the useless nothings Of Propriety and how.it.is.supposed.to.be.
I watched that unwieldy valise bounce against your new knees. I knew this was best for you because Important Things are Heavy and keeping a grip on Big Truths takes tenacity and brute strength.
As the years went by, The pillars of what I thought I knew, what I thought was true, Toppled.
I remembered The dream of another way, Of the path that says: It is never too late to let go of the Warping Weight.
It is not too late For us to slide that clunker out the rear car door into a backwash ditch.
Now, I’m buying you a big bandana and a stick.
I’m packing you a bundle Of deodorant and daring and creativity and chapstick and sriracha and compassion and fuzzy socks and the salve of let.it.go and the balm of how.it.could.be.
I will watch you set off, A bright bandana ball bobbing behind you.
Yes, that will be a happy way to release you into the world.
I’m trying to set up this tent in the dark. Not city dark, Not country dark, Wilderness Dark.
I’m trying to line these wiggling poles up with the tent seams. I’m trying to hold this flashlight between my cheek and shoulder. I’m trying to get this impossible rain tarp in place.
I’m trying to be happy and patient.
I’ve tied my children to trees. They’re calling me to untie them so they can help.
I’m trying to do this myself, and I will.
It’s a good thing I tied them Up Tight so if they fall asleep they Won’t Fall Over.
I’m trying to drive these anchors into rocks, or some close stony relatives and ignore the name Rex just called Syd.
I’m trying to fling our food over this branch, fifteen feet above our heads so the bears don’t eat Kate for breakfast.
I’m trying to set up this camp so I can untie my children and lead them straight to the tent and zip them in.
I’m trying to put the sleeping bags on places without roots or rocks and I’ve done so for everyone but me.
We sleep. They sleep. I try.
I awake. My children are outside, unroped, in the light. Something big is going on. I try to listen. I cannot hear words. Hushed tones of astonishment, admiration. A large splash. Whoops and hollers.
I try to figure out why the ranger didn’t tell me there was a drop
off, 60 feet, into the lake on the border of my campsite.
I try to figure out how I set up the tent five feet from the edge and didn’t fall in.
I try not to think of how I tied my three children to trees On the edge
Bringing you into the world was a half-cocked plan, born of accident and bravado. Of one thing I was certain: I would do better than my parents. My smart resolve soon fell away into the ruts of their well-worn path.
From the Box Store of Beliefs, I bought a large suitcase. Around scratchy clothes and tight shoes, I arranged for you all the useless nothings Of Propriety and how.it.is.supposed.to.be.
I watched that unwieldy valise bounce against your new knees. I knew this was best for you because Important Things are Heavy and keeping a grip on Big Truths takes tenacity and brute strength.
As the years went by, The pillars of what I thought I knew, what I thought was true, Toppled.
I remembered The dream of another way, Of the path that says: It is never too late to let go of the Warping Weight.
It is not too late For us to slide that clunker out the rear car door into a backwash ditch.
Now I’m buying you a big bandana and a stick.
I’m packing you a bundle Of deodorant and daring and creativity and chapstick and sriracha and compassion and fuzzy socks and the salve of let.it.go and the balm of how.it.could.be.
I will watch you set off, A bright bandana ball bobbing behind you.
Yes, that will be a happy way to release you into the world.
Chali Davis 