She is beautiful. I knew her as a child, a teenager and now now shes 21. She has come home to the tribal land and the extended family to share the celebration with us.
I feel honoured. We have gathered to share with her. And to share her.
But someone is missing. And she should be here.
The girl woman, I mean has always had a cheeky spark in her eye. She was always the wild one. She didnt like to be told what to do. I raise my glass to her keeping that quality her whole life. (I raise my glass of non-alcoholic bubbly grape juice tasty, but thats another story.) Too often were told whats what and we just accept it. Accept nothing, young woman. Nothing. Except love.
Question everything. Always. Because the question is the truth the answer is irrelevant. There are answers everywhere. Pick one, any one. Doesnt matter. Even politicians have them.
When love is given to you, its like some old treasure chest buried on a lost island in the Caribbean by a disabled guy with an aviarian penchant. Can you dig it? You can accept that. And you accept love by giving it.
Love is the food we all live on. Its nutritious and organic and doesnt come wrapped in cling wrap. (Except I remember this evening once where a raunchy sort of love did come wrapped in cling wrap tasty, but thats another story.)
This young woman, so full of life, is a tonic. And shes drinking vodka. Shes not the only grown child at the celebration but its her night. The others have had their ritual coming of age and some are still to come. And then there are the younger children. Even the children of the children. They too will have their day and I hope they acknowledge us, the older ones we who established the tribe in the hope of such I dont know. Just in hope, I guess.
In this web woven of relationship some still strong, some broken and mended, some breaking, some just forming, all always changing the young ones have a place. And the web transmits all the good, good, good vibrations through the silken connections to those who hold to them. We are spiderpeople.
But someone is missing here.
Someone who is a part of the family. Someone travelling that dark road of relationship turmoil. Or is it re-alignment? I dont know. (Answers are not my thing. So I have learned.)
But she should be here. And she is missed.
By me. By the young woman. By the family. By the Milky Way which stretches like a nylon stocking across the leggy galaxy I stand under, away a little from the party. By the wind which touches me lightly on my cheek and tousles my hair just a bit. By the spiders.
So, young woman, get out there and glow like the cigarette that dangles elegantly and dangerously from your fingers and accept nothing but love. And question everything.