Dear Hildegaard

Annie Dillard and nature soup

Dear Hildegaard,

Someday I will have you read Living Like Weasels and The Death of the Moth by Annie Dillard, because I think that, even though my students used to respond with wrinkled noses and “she is so weird,” you, my Hildegaard, will understand. You, who chase down the cat to return his fluff of fur that you found floating in the wind. You, who bend down and draw in the dirt with a piece of bark. You understand. And I think you will love Annie. 

But I was also realizing that none of us will be Annie Dillard at this rate. At this pace. We want to be writers who sit in log cabins with kerosine lamps but we are k-cup coffee drinkers, email checkers, no-tie shoe wearers with kids and backpacks and deadlines and microwave’s beeping. Always beeping and we can’t even remember what we were microwaving. And who knows what will exist by the time you read this. Will we still be readers then, of anything longer than a tweet? 

We do not need to carry guilt for modernity or convenience. That’s not what I’m saying. But we do need to slow down long enough to ask ourselves: what of this do I really want? What is the better portion? You recognize this phrase because it is what Jesus said of Mary to Martha: “She has chosen the better part,” or some translations say “the good thing.” The other day, your dad said this to me about being with you while he left for work. “She is the better portion,” he said, pointing to your sweet frame, wrapped up in a blanket on my lap, watching Winnie the Pooh. What he didn’t mean was that being a parent is easy or that work isn’t fulfilling. He didn’t mean that people who are single or childless don’t understand life or what is good (people who say such things are silly and want everyone to be just like them). No, what he simply meant was that you, baby hands cradling your bottle full of milk, smelling sweet like yogurt and cookies, are the good portion. The best part of his day. 

And maybe the future will include Annie Dillards, because I watch you carry dirt in your fists from one bucket to another. You are so busy learning just to learn. Playing just to play. And picking daisies for me and for the cat, who doesn’t care about flowers but enjoys your affection. I don’t think there is anything more important happening at this moment than your tiny fists, pulling up blades of grass to transfer into a blue bucket. We are making nature soup. And it is delicious.

Cover image by Tengyart.