The infinite universe stands always before your eyes. Infinitely large and infinitely small. – Verses on the Faith Mind
I’ve just downloaded the trip pix from her little pink camera, and since these eyes of mine haven’t slept, thought better of adding a single qualifying word to what she saw in Amsterdam.
To chop the soft and blemished fruit into a past-due breakfast parfait, lace with warm oatmeal, then cajole my daughter into eating it instead of the Trix she finagled from the cereal aisle and which I’m certain will give her sugar-induced pea green diarrhea.
To rise from my sickbed to do the weekend laundry, resurrected from my habitual resentments, appreciating this simple task as the essential business in a whole and healthy life.
To tenderly, mindfully, as though approaching an altar, hang nearly every item of my daughter’s laundry to air dry, because although it is our fervently futile wish that she never grow up, I can still do my best to ensure that she not too hastily grow out, and starvation is not an option.
To notice that, within the full hamper of cleaned clothing, not one pair of her socks had been worn in the previous week, meaning she is suitably free of her mother’s fastidious conventions.
To hear my grace, my Georgia, against her willful inertia, practice the piano and deliver to me the most lovely praise songs, thus knowing that my own mother, standing in her own kitchen, despite my fumbling artistry, once received the same sweet cup of satisfaction from me.
To flush and fill the fish tanks with fresh gallons of distilled elixir, a weekly baptism, comforted that in the vast mutabilities of this life, I can pour this gold into the goldfish forever.
To watch my husband and daughter circle each other in wary regard, to wrestle and shout a messy wreck of feelings, to see them suffer their deep adoration of one another, and leave it be, well and good and theirs alone.
To receive, sort and distribute 1,700 boxes of Girl Scout cookies into and out of my garage, ennobling each girl with the triumph of her participation, relieving each parent by the discharge of their duty.
To take, one by one, copies of my book to the good old United States Post Office, knowing these recipients by name, the readers by heart, and remembering full well that I can “wait a year to get rich.”
To see without doubt that when my dog places her muzzle on my left thigh while I sit here at the cockpit of my ruminations, it is indeed time to take her for a walk, because dogs are never confused about what time it is.
To relent and allow, when my daughter asks by name for an afternoon snack, the bowl of Trix she favors, and makes for herself, apprising me in the process that she had a bowl of the same yesterday and it didn’t turn her insides green.
To have all of this, to forget it, and then remember again, remember again, remember again.
She rolls into the room with a salty grin.
Mom, here are two things I think would be fun.
First, I want a sister. A little sister. I just think it would be neat and fun. Is having a sister fun?
(Pause)
OK, then, how about a Wii Fit?
I am working on a long post which probably won’t be half as revealing or uplifting as this one, courtesy of Georgia:
OK, so there’s this contest at school called WordMasters and you fill out this paper and turn it in. So today at lunch I see my friend M and run over to her and start to hug her, then these two girls in her class come over to me saying that I won the contest and I got excited, so I went over to my friend C and told her what they said but I wasn’t quite sure if I believed them. Then C and I went on the bars and told JL, H, and JG. They got so excited that they picked me up. Then we went inside and I got a paper that said: Congratulations! Your child, Georgia Miller, will receive recognition in the next Spotlight Assembly for their achievement in the WordMasters Meet. Grade: 3 Award: First Place!!!
Oh and I also got my bangs cut.
The first time to watch the Academy Awards is overwhelming for any young girl, especially an aspiring actress. We carried her crying to bed, her heart overcome with imaginary acceptance.
Mom, do you know what would be nice? If they gave the ones who came in second at least a medal.
The one who comes in first, of course, gets a shampoo bottle.
Hey mom, I have an idea to make money.
What’s that?
Let’s invent medicine that really works.
Why hasn’t anybody thought of that?
And that tastes good!
***
Mom, you know what worries me every time I fly?
What’s that?
You know when they say in the event of an emergency landing do not take your personal belongings?
I’ve heard that.
What if I’m carrying my American Girl doll?
We’d get you another one.
Just checking. That’s what Dad said too.
***
Mom, I’m worried about some of the kids in my class.
Why’s that?
Well, they are in third grade already.
Yes they are.
And if they don’t know anything by now how will they ever graduate from high school?
***
Mom, I feel sorry for God, you know why?
Why?
Because he has to create like a billion, million jillion fingerprints.
Update:
Georgia has sold enough cookies to win the license plate, beach towel and Love Your World t-shirt, which says it all.
In case you don’t have a barefoot scooter-propelled cookie impresario on your block, you can borrow mine.
Does anyone want to buy at least 8 boxes of Girl Scout cookies to be shipped to their home or office? (Are there even any offices left in this country?)
My daughter Georgia will sell on credit, being the only solvent lender left on this planet, and pay for postage, because these days a good customer is that valuable, and the product is, well, a mint.
As economists predicted, the pedaling on our street this year is uphill. What can I say? It’s the money.
For this year’s selection of tantalizingly classic confections, look in the cookie cupboard. (But you might want to overlook the price, $4 per box.)
Her goal is to sell enough to win a personalized license plate for her scooter. The kind that costs $5 and requires her to sell $600 worth of cookies. What can I say? It’s not the money.
The sale ends this Saturday. Your regrets won’t arrive for a month. But when they do arrive, they are guaranteed not to last!
Dear Malia,
My name is Georgia Miller. I’m 9 and from California. I watched your Inauguration at school today. What is it like at the White House? What I really want to know is if you want to be pen pals. I would love it if we could but it’s ok if you don’t want to. I hope to get a letter from you!
When my sisters and I were really little, we were lovestruck by our handsome president and wished that we could be his darling princess daughter. Then came the teen throbs of Lynda Bird and Luci to moon over. I understand what we have going on now in our house. I understand it completely.
It’s Malia time all the time.
First, she wrote and mailed this letter. Then she decided to name the lead character in the story she’s writing “Malia.” Then she wrote a one-act play last night after dinner about a girl named Malia, age 9, doing her homework.
Malia: Ugh! More homework! I’m already on my third page!
It’s not a pure love, you see, because romantic love never is. It’s subtly and insidiously self-serving. “You see,” she says bright-eyed, “I think everyone will be writing to President Obama and Malia won’t get any letters. Mine might be the first! And if we become pen pals then she might invite me to the White House.”
Later on she asked her dad if he might ever run for president. She’s scrambling to cover all the routes of admission, you see, since she’s heard there are 132 rooms in the building, a movie theater, a bowling alley and the Jonas Brothers.
Last night I tried to coach her (my mistake) through an intense monologue she’s doing in her theater class. “Say it with the kind of feeling you have for Malia,” I offered, intending to stir up passion and enthusiasm.
“You mean, like I’m jealous?”
***
All that aside, click here to see why I no longer worry how she gets her feet wet.
“Although we can expect small-business failure rates to increase over the coming months, the entrepreneurial spirit is still alive and well.”
– Dr. Jeff Cornwall
The Entrepreneurial Mind
Pup Sudz
The ULTAMATE doggie
grooming center!
Make the dog look good!
small dogz: $5
medium dogz: $10
large dogz: $15
*
Jan 4 (only)
We don’t take credit cards!!!
_______
Opening/Closing day customer count: One, her own dog, who doesn’t count.
“Mommy, no one ever comes to these things, no one ever wants to come to these things, and they don’t even care how hard we try!”
–Georgia Miller, age 9, The Entrepreneurial Mine
Dear Georgia,
Thank you for the delicious cookies! (And Rudolph and the team loved the oats!)
You were very good this year and you are one of my favorite good girls in the land of California.
I think you’ll like the gifts I brought you, and it was super sweet of you to ask for a gift for your father, but all the Nintendo DS Lites up here are for boys and girls. Please tell him to try Circuit City or Best Buy. And hurry.
Love, Santa
– Dogen Zenji
When I tell you that this ancient practice comes alive in my home, you as yet may not believe me. You may not yet believe yourself, or trust your own home.
This is how it flowers. This is how it is. This is how it has always been.
Deep love and appreciation for you on these holidays and everyday. Be of good cheer. Your life is in bloom. Just look.
The Miller Family
My girl was a big girl, her own girl, with her own loves and life. I was a spectator, but the show was splendid and I still had the best seat in the house.
By my reckoning, I wrote those words nearly eight years ago, they were published nearly three years ago, and last night they came true in the most absolute and unpredictable way. I watched my daughter debut on a theater stage, feet steady, eyes blazing, cheeks glowing, her own girl, in her own life, from my seat in the full house. I’m filled with awe, not so much with her particular drama, but with the wonder of life itself. Do we write this life? Do we conjure out of scribbled ink and poetic image the very future we inhabit?
We must! We must!
Who is this girl, I wonder? Where does she come from and where will she go?
Is she the baby at twelve months, the fickle birthday girl whose sudden flare of independence inspired the tearful flow of the original words? Is she the sweetheart at two, and three, and four, who dressed herself in an everyday wardrobe of feather wings and glitter crowns? Is she the girl of eight, who cast herself in the real-life leading role of a fantasy come true?
She is all and none of those girls, and most of all this. She is the one who moves in and out of the mists, as we all move in and out of the mists, to appear live and on-stage in the pure light of the briefest moment of recognition.
Oh my heaven, my goodness, do you see it? Do you see it? When we do, when we open our eyes to see the show, there is only one thing to do. There is only ever one thing to do, and without the hesitation of a second thought.
Applaud! Applaud!
Out of the mists of The Huntington Gardens.Dear friends, my best friends, my full house, appreciate your life.
