Midway through wars, protests, plane crashes and assassinations, a baby has been born. I don’t know who she will be. I cannot tell from her first cries: raw, self-conscious calls into the darkness. And who might hear and come?
It feels safer to expect little of her. See in which direction she grows. Will she flow into or away from her name? That thing imposed with so much promise.
The world will shape her more than she will shape the world. I wonder if there is a point to her birth. It will take effort to raise her. How valuable is a seed amongst a world of destruction? A thought, an idea, brought into manifestation. So very small, but there, where before there was nothing.
Let her be a vessel for my love, a vehicle of possibility, no matter where she ends up. No matter how indifferent the world.