Three is the Perfect Number

Kaia,

As the fireworks popped in the blackness of the desert sky this year, I thought of us; the way we expanded and sizzled and exploded with birth energy three years ago, shifting the course of the cosmos ever so minutely. I closed my eyes and remembered the outpouring of gentle wisdom from your eyes as we held an emotional gaze for the very first time.

July 5, 2:35 am. From maiden to mother, I was initiated. Like a tribal tattoo, I have the scar to prove it.

In earthly terms, you are three. In spiritual terms, you are infinite, like the flame in my heart that whispers your name and the memory of your journey from womb to world.

You made me into mother, connected me back to that mysterious, thick universal energy source that say You are Always Enough.

I am humbled to witness the person you are becoming, the less-traveled paths you choose to tread. I love that cherry-red heart you wear on your sleeve. You simply accept your three-year-oldness and I adore that, respect that actually. You live with Bigness in the Now…occasionally veering into the Later (especially if it involves choc-o-lates). I have lots of little details to tell you about your Life at Three – like how you say “hoirt” (hurt) and “poo” (pool) – but for I’ll save those for another update. The truth is, mostly I watch as your babyness slips through my fingers (ABBA reminded me of this as I watched “Mamma Mia” last week).

You know your galloping heartbeat that I heard so many times while you were cradled inside my belly? That rhythm hasn’t stopped since you entered this world. You are a whirlwind of power, a dust devil of energy, the beat of a line of conga drums sending warriors to battle.

Thumpa Thumpa Whoohsa Whoosha Conga Conga Boom Boom – Here comes Kaia! There goes Kaia!

You are the quick flash of lighting running jagged across the sky rimmed with mountains.

You are the second hand on a clock, reminding us To Live.

You are a fairy with glistening, golden wings. A leader of the fairies, to be precise.

You are the diamond shaped symbol you make with your fingers connected. Did you know that a diamond shape symbolizes six paths to enlightenment? I think it is your portal to somewhere not defied by gravity, money, and war. I think that in that place you travel to there for sure is wild fire dancing and dark chocolate berries growing on every tree. And peaceful co-existence between every being (that’s my eternal optimism peeking out again).

You are the whipping wind on the top of the highest peak, beneath the fullest moon.

You are peaceful solitude.

You are contemplation.

You are loving-kindness.

You are questions without answers.

You are spongy dark cake with gooey hot fudge inside.

You are witchy, always brewing some kind of spell in your crazy cauldron.

Wrapped in an embrace together, settled into a cozy bed, you are the tiny arms I come home to.

You are remembrance.

You are Quirk, and Smirk, and a lotta Good Work.

You are a gift wrapped in untamed hair, a row of Band-Aids on your knee (for looks, not for healing), and cheeks stained with blueberries.

You are Order and Chaos, singing a duet together full of harmony and discord, notes deeper than birth and higher than clouds.

You are the laughter that rings through the walls of this home, finally letting my shoulders sink.

You are shiny newness, eyes-wide curiosity, The One Who Tests All Rules and Logic.

You are anger in all its broken-open fury and soul-baring vulnerability.

You are the fibers and busy cells of a body that work so perfectly and wonderfully to heal any scrape, scar, or wound.

You are Good.

You are Worthy.

You wear no masks.

You are my flesh, my bones, my blood, my tears and crooked smile. But with a new kick, a fresh soul, a unique imprint on this earth.

You are my resilient work, my guide, my teacher who doesn’t let me resign my role as student. Even for a moment.

But mostly, when I take quiet moments to ponder what you really, truly are, I think you are La Loba, the mythic She-Wolf who sings a primal song over the bones of the wolf until the howling creature is alive again. See? Just read:

On any given night, if the dry Pueblo winds are in your favor, you may be lucky enough to stumble upon La Loba, the Wolf Woman. She is found deep in the desert, in a place between consciousness and all the depths below. She is as old as the earth. Wise and wild. Beautiful in her ugliness.

The old crone works quietly joyous in her cackling, quirky, earth bellied knowledge. She is the thick, whiskered and weathered protector of that which is in danger of being lost to the world.

With her skilled and gnarled hands she digs up the bones of desert animals, but most notably that of the wolf’s, and reassembles its body bone by bone, polishing each until they gleam ivory white. When the skeleton is whole, La Loba contemplates long what song she will sing, and when the untouched refrain has found its way to her throat, her strong ancient voice cries and bellows out the song that calls the stars and shakes the earth, fleshing the creature back to life, note by note, until it leaps up in full array, running free into the desert night.

La Loba looks to the ground. Her milky eyes see the life that still remains deep within the marrow of remains still lost in the earth. She sits quiet, for her voice only wakens in harmony with the cycles of life, knowing when to let the bones lie, and when to dig down.

It is in the digging that the song begins to form. It is in the dirt under her long fingernails. Digging. Birthing the notes. The long process of bringing the music back into the bones.

And then I found this and it stopped me in my tracks. The word “Kai” means the following:

Old Scots Gaelic = Fire

Ukraine/Altai = Shaman of Song

Scottish/Finnish – Keeper of the Keys

Hawaiian = water (soul’s water)

Kaia, my Shaman of Song, in my best moments, I Mother you with and arms-open love and humble heart and a mind that could give a shit about dirty floors and broken glasses and sleep deprivation. In my worst moments, I can barely breathe and flail the limbs of my earthly body in an attempt to break free from the crushing resentment over dirty floors and broken glasses and sleep deprivation.

You help me want to be the Mother that blends those moments together and can recognize the calm in the storm, the heat in each drop of rain, the ground beneath my feet.

I want to be that mama that dissolves into your laughter as we sip wine and eat ice cream together on the cliffs of a tropical beach some 20 years from now. I want to stare into those temptress eyes of yours and remember these times – these right now – as the Best Times Ever.

But right now, it’s all about you and thank you for reminding me of that.

In love with you always and humbled to learn from you,

Mama

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7 thoughts on “Three is the Perfect Number

  1. happy THREE, magical, perfection in time. THREE.
    they are the best times ever. they all are.

    love to you kaia marin. you always make me smile. as a matter of fact, i can’t not grin ear to ear when your face comes into my mind.

    xxoo-mb.

  2. And you….

    ……are my grandchild. A union of genes long ago united then divided, lingering among the mist: traveling different paths only to come to gather once more. Generations waiting to be one. You were intended to be….. forever the first… the one for which I long waited.

    I love you,

    Grandpa

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