On Stars and Boulevards

I am often struck by my daughter's curiosity and comprehension. She is barely 14 months old, and already I've had many an instance where she surprises me by her understanding, her unspoken intuition about something, or her observation of something she finds lovely or wondrous. I try to push myself to remember each day that she is capable of more than I realize, and not limit her ability to grow through my own lack of understanding, which I think will be a theme throughout our relationship, and is a general policy I don't think enough parents practice. In a sense, this one assumption is, to me, one of the foundational elements of breaking generational cycles. Instead of reproducing my own values and ideas, and creating a robot, I want to give her room to choose for herself, to glean from me what knowledge or truth there may be, and then stand on my shoulders to reach things beyond the grasp of myself and my generation. It is a basic tenet of parenting that we should want more for our children than what we had, though too often what we mean is rooted in materialism, what I mean is knowledge. More knowledge, more answers, more hope. And that may look very different from what I consider to be true. I hope it does.

Her personality has been strong from the start, that's for certain; but if she has her mother's beauty and discerning gaze, she has her father's sense of awe, and if I could have granted her anything of mine, it would have been that, because I know that, if sharing in this and for all the days we share together, we will always be kindreds. Perhaps that is selfish or vain, but I've yearned all my life for my children to share in this one passion that is at the root of all others, and is a disposition I find in all those who are awake.

Her observation and understanding spans from the mundane to the infinite. Yesterday, she started vocalizing the word "Duck" and began pointing out ducks in books and toys. In the afternoon she wandered the lawn selecting blossoms and pods from various plants and squishing or shaking them in turn, laughing at an unexpected rattle. Later that evening, not for the first time, she noticed the stars, arched her head back and pointed as high as she could reach, then looked back at me for explanation (her standard is to point out new objects and have us say the word as she watches our mouths sound it out). "Stars", we repeated, slowly and clearly. Now, I should mention that Emma moves me to tears on a daily basis, in milestones large and small, but this one I found particularly provoking. A life so new, discovering her universe on such different levels, yet those stars may be no more distant in her mind than the toys in her nursery. Eyes that are so new, looking into such vastness with such wonder. Tiny fingers pointing at sources of light so distant, the light they shine is ancient beyond reckoning, and not yet feeling what it means to be somwhere between heaven and earth. For now, it is all the same, a joy... an opportunity to laugh, marvel, and learn... each one is an indescribable treasure for me as a father to share with my Emma. It is my sincerest wish to provide the kind of environment that is ripe with moments for her to discover, as she wanders along stars and boulevards.

Die Beruhmen Orden der Nacht
(The Renowned Orders of the Night )
Anselm Kiefer, 1997
Guggenheim