In honour of International Women’s Day, a re-post of a poem I wrote a while ago. Here’s to every strong, independent, talented, compassionate woman I’ve ever had the fortune to know. Especially my daughter, who continues to teach me how to be a woman.
I’d walk her into the ocean with her pockets stuffed with stones if she said that was where her happiness lived. I don’t know if that makes me the greatest of friends or the worst. But I’d go with her, wherever she wandered, without reservation or reproach.
She doesn’t need me to tell her what to do; how to live; who to be. She simply needs to be loved. That’s what I do. I love her without restriction. No stipulation, no prerequisite, no request for reciprocity. But she does – she loves me that way too. Because her soul and mine are the same.
For as long as there is life in us, no matter who joins us on the way, she and I will be together; side-by-side.
We will walk each other home.
Again. You are doing this again. Again, you are making me feel as if I could seduce you, love you, lose myself inside your fantastic “I” forever. Again, this desperate aliveness, alertness. And you. Not “you and me” – merely you; this is all you. You are making this happen: you are excelling at this. You are causing this and you are owning this. Volcanic you are – you. Fuck you for that. Thank you for that.
– Henry Miller to Anaïs Nin