All good stories start with water. With a flow, a rush, a release. So did you.
You were made on the sea, in nights full of stars and gently rocking boats. You were made when laughter was simple, and music echoed through it all.
You were made because you asked me to be born, summoning me to you in waves of purple rising through my core. You were made because it had to be so.
Now I sit beside a new rush of water. This Oregon creek flows life through the desert, just as you will give new life to your father and me. We will be reborn alongside you, for where you start is our new beginning—you are the launch of the longest passage we've ever made across uncharted waters.
I stroke you through my taut belly, watching your knees and feet roll across the landscape of my body.
Here is what I want you to know:
There will be laughter and music and light and love. And there will be storms and pests and trials and droughts. Nothing is perfect. Plans change. Life happens when you're not looking.
So stay awake, little one. Watch for the thorns, but do not fear their prick. Learn from mistakes and cry when you need to.
But don't cry because you missed seeing moonlight on water, or the smell of wild roses, or the sound of the stream bursting with spring. Don't cry because you didn't risk the nuisances for the sake of understanding beauty.
Don't cry because you didn't try. Those are the saddest tears of all.