There are times, as a parent, when you are privileged to look at your daughter with new eyes - different eyes. Times when it matters very little if she made her bed or not that morning - Times when it really doesn't matter if she's getting an A or a B in Algebra - Times when you don't see any of the little day to day things that usually bother one so much.
There are mornings when one puts on their "supportive - mother" hat, grabs the camera, and prepares to feel proud of their child.
And then, in the moment, when the music starts, and she walks onto the stage, the camera is forgotten as I am transfixed with beauty and mesmerized with her steps.
I've watched her dance to this song, 20? 30? hundreds of time? But today it is different. Today she is performing in front of the entire school, her teachers and her peers - and yet her stage presence goes un-faltered, as if she is completely unaware of their presence, their staring eyes.
She wasn't there, you know, on a stage, in a school, in Arizona, surrounded by land. She was HOME. Home to that place that she's never visited - that place she's never lived or seen - that place that courses through her veins and lights up her mind, her spirit, her body with an energy and a passion rarely seen. She was on the islands, the waves lapping about her, the wind dancing in her brown hair. She was home.
And I cried. I cried to see her at such peace. Knowing, as only a mother knows, the pain, the hurt, the insecurities that she's gone through. But none of that was there today. Today she knew who she was. Today she stood there in majesty and glory - not a person - but a nation, a culture, a people.
I wept openly, happily - I'm weeping still - for the baby in my arms, the child at my side, the girl battling her mother to be an adult, my daughter, my gift from God, whom I adore and love deeply. I weep because she is still a child with much to do - high school, graduation, dating, college. And yet as she danced, she was not a child, but a woman - a woman of grace and beauty - a woman who held her head proudly as any Polynesian Princess should.
Today, Christine transformed into Kavahei.
Oh, how she would roll her big, brown eyes if she saw me now - crying and pouring through her baby album. Honestly I never thought I'd have this day. I was always glad to watch her grow up and move on into the next stage of life. But today, oh today, can't I hold on to yesterday? My little girl has grown! I miss her! I miss my curly headed helper girl, the one that was so strong willed that we clashed even though she was so small. I miss her 4 years from now when she'll head to college, never looking back - just like the first day she walked into kindergarten. I miss the sound of her laugh, her continuous conversation, her Hawaiian music blasting out the rest of the house; I miss her falling asleep in my arms as I rocked her in the rocking chair; I miss the years that she'll return late at night and wake me to tell me she's home (though those days haven't come yet, I know they'll come and go in the blink of an eye).
Where has my little girl gone?
She has vanished before my very eyes.
The wind has blown, and Kavahei has danced upon it.
(Photos archived from 1997)
There are times, as a parent, when you are privileged to look at your daughter with new eyes - different eyes. Times when it matters very little if she made her bed or not that morning - Times when it really doesn't matter if she's getting an A or a B in Algebra - Times when you don't see any of the little day to day things that usually bother one so much.
There are mornings when one puts on their "supportive - mother" hat, grabs the camera, and prepares to feel proud of their child.
And then, in the moment, when the music starts, and she walks onto the stage, the camera is forgotten as I am transfixed with beauty and mesmerized with her steps.
I've watched her dance to this song, 20? 30? hundreds of time? But today it is different. Today she is performing in front of the entire school, her teachers and her peers - and yet her stage presence goes un-faltered, as if she is completely unaware of their presence, their staring eyes.
She wasn't there, you know, on a stage, in a school, in Arizona, surrounded by land. She was HOME. Home to that place that she's never visited - that place she's never lived or seen - that place that courses through her veins and lights up her mind, her spirit, her body with an energy and a passion rarely seen. She was on the islands, the waves lapping about her, the wind dancing in her brown hair. She was home.
And I cried. I cried to see her at such peace. Knowing, as only a mother knows, the pain, the hurt, the insecurities that she's gone through. But none of that was there today. Today she knew who she was. Today she stood there in majesty and glory - not a person - but a nation, a culture, a people.
I wept openly, happily - I'm weeping still - for the baby in my arms, the child at my side, the girl battling her mother to be an adult, my daughter, my gift from God, whom I adore and love deeply. I weep because she is still a child with much to do - high school, graduation, dating, college. And yet as she danced, she was not a child, but a woman - a woman of grace and beauty - a woman who held her head proudly as any Polynesian Princess should.
Today, Christine transformed into Kavahei.
Oh, how she would roll her big, brown eyes if she saw me now - crying and pouring through her baby album. Honestly I never thought I'd have this day. I was always glad to watch her grow up and move on into the next stage of life. But today, oh today, can't I hold on to yesterday? My little girl has grown! I miss her! I miss my curly headed helper girl, the one that was so strong willed that we clashed even though she was so small. I miss her 4 years from now when she'll head to college, never looking back - just like the first day she walked into kindergarten. I miss the sound of her laugh, her continuous conversation, her Hawaiian music blasting out the rest of the house; I miss her falling asleep in my arms as I rocked her in the rocking chair; I miss the years that she'll return late at night and wake me to tell me she's home (though those days haven't come yet, I know they'll come and go in the blink of an eye).
Where has my little girl gone?
She has vanished before my very eyes.
The wind has blown, and Kavahei has danced upon it.
(Photos archived from 1997)
2 comments:
i would love to see that, it sounds so neat!!
This is how I totally remember the girls! They certainly have grown up quickly!
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