Taking My Own Advice

My daughter turned fourteen this month and a letter I wrote when she turned three resurfaced, as it does each year and likely will in all those that follow. Some of you have read it before. Recently I read that the advice we give is the advice we need to hear. And I’ve read this letter probably twenty times over the last decade, but this year I read it as if I had written it to myself.

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A Letter to My Daughter on Her Third Birthday

When my daughter gets older, we will talk about love. I will tell her that it is the best and the hardest thing she will ever do, to love someone. I will tell her that sometimes it will hurt, a lot, and sometimes it will be the only thing she knows. That then, the song of the world will be so loud-- she will learn and know things in those secret places in her heart that she will keep there, like treasure, for the rest of her life.

When my daughter gets older, I will tell her that loving someone does not mean you own or control them. That sometimes it doesn't even mean that they will love you back. That this is OK, even though it might not make sense. That there lies a true and simple freedom.

When my daughter gets older, I will teach her how to say, "No," and "fuck off". I will tell her that no one should ever pressure her into doing things she doesn't want to do -any kinds of things - and that those are the people that usually don't have her best interests at heart. I will tell her she is strong, and capable, and smart. I will tell her to trust her instincts above all else. I will tell her to be careful. I will tell her I love her.

When my daughter gets older, I will tell her that beauty comes in the most unexpected ways. I will point out the wrinkles that come with smiling, the character in a crooked nose. The beauty in our moles and marks. The way our skin tells stories. I will tell her every day no matter what she looks like that she is perfect, and I will mean it.

I will tell her that for a while, her body will be a constant source of fascination for her and those around her. That it will provide her great pleasure and sometimes great frustration. I will ask her to be cautious with it and understand it's power. And to know that it will change.

When my daughter gets older, I will explain to her how proud I am to be her mother. I will tell her that knowing her and her brother has taught me everything I know about my body, about loving, about patience. I will show her my stretch marks and silver hairs, the softness of my belly, I'll explain to her that these, specifically, prove that I've done something important. I will not lie to her though, I'll tell her that accepting these as good things is sometimes a struggle.

When my daughter gets older, I will tell her I know some of these things because I've done them the wrong way. When she asks me about what I was like when I was her age, I won't lie to her. This will terrify me, but I need her trust. We will talk about the importance of truth and of forgiveness. We will talk about humility and pride. We will talk about the hard lessons that have come along with being over-proud or holding a grudge or not being able to ask for forgiveness. We will talk about approaching the world with a gentle heart.

When my daughter gets older, I will speak to her as my equal and teach her that others should do the same. I will tell her that it is unacceptable for people to talk down to her, or to hurt her, physically, emotionally, verbally. We will talk about all these things, and I am not sure if she will hear me. She will be strong and independent, and she won't want to listen because I am her mother. But every day it will be the same, and I will tell her I love her, adore her, believe in her. That I think she will change the world. I will speak to her of the riches of being a woman and know that somewhere she hears me. That is my wish for Miette in her almost third year.

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I woke up this morning from a dream in which someone was shouting, “you know you’re not supposed to write about the meat?” I don’t know what that means, but it amused me. I only know how to write about the meat. Love, care, sorrow, joy, sadness, relief - I chew on these things daily and they feed me in ways nothing can ever come close to. I’ve had to step back and consider if I have been loving myself the way I love the people who matter most to me in this life, and the answer is usually no. It’s easy to throw your love outward. A challenge to let it surround you.

When I look at my friends, my children, my lovers - I feel lucky to have these people in my world. I want to treat them gently and see their humanity, I want to be cheerleader and shoulder to cry on, soft arms to rest in. I want to listen to whatever great gifts of connection are offered, want to be a safe place and a hand held. I want to know what it’s like to see myself with the kind eyes of those that love me. I want to be those mammoth but quiet expressions of love because I am sure, very sure, that love is the point.

Advice is best given by example, this is true. Perhaps it will take a whole lifetime. When I try to imagine loving myself the way I love others, I am on an Escher staircase in a hall of mirrors. There is a “caution, wet floor” sign and the overhead lights are fluorescent and flickering. It’s a closed loop of words I need to hear that are never quite reaching me. And still, I keep climbing.

I keep climbing because hope leads me. I climb because it’s the only option. And the more that I do it the more that I know you don’t get to just step off the stairs. But trust me on this one, if you keep going, eventually you’ll see a door, or a window, or a hand. You’re right, it wasn’t there before. You had to keep climbing for it to appear. And you take it, or open it, climb through it, you reach out your fingers. You find yourself somewhere new. You’ll have to climb another set of stairs, you’ll do it over and over and over again until you die. But not those stairs. You already climbed those stairs.

I flew through a window. Up I go.