Dear Hildegaard

Jack London and hope the size of a kidney bean

Dear Hildegaard,

You are changing so fast. 

I watch you try to do a thing, fail, and then try again, whereas before you would respond by flopping your entire body on the floor to weep, head buried in your hands. This is significant. Many adults struggle to get beyond the fit response when it comes to failure. But you? You are already learning the importance of getting back up, dusting yourself off, and trying again. Trying again will be a big part of your life.  

I know it has played a significant role in mine. In my work as a writer, there were many years where I went unpublished and just simply did the work. I was still learning. Experimenting. Trying and failing. And it was years before anyone would take notice. But those years were important. Four books and countless poems and essays in, I am glad I didn’t give up. Your grandparents had a lot to do with that. 

Your grandpa Doug would say: “Always put your best foot forward.” I would get sloppy-excited about a thing I wrote and want to immediately post it, share it, and be read. But he would caution me to slow down, take the time to edit and rewrite, so that the thing I put out into the world was something I would be proud for anyone to read, including a future publisher. It was hard to put on the brakes and editing is the less creative side of writing but, I am so thankful for his wisdom. It has served me well. 

Your grandma Janice told me that Jack London, the incredible author of short stories like To Build a Fire and novels like White Fang, received over 650 rejection letters over the course of his career, and get this: he saved every single one. I remember reading his work in high school and marveling over his ability to show me a thing rather than just tell it. For example, instead of telling me it was cold out, he showed me how the man’s spit crackled in the air, turning to ice before it hit the ground, or how the previously warm biscuit against his chest turned into a hard, icy, rock. 

The choice to try again isn’t always available. Sometimes doors get slammed shut, but when there is a crack of light, I encourage you to push back the dark. There were dark days after my first marriage ended. Sometimes, all I could think about was getting a tiny house on your grandparent’s property and living a quiet life as a teacher during the day and writer by night, with my books, pillows, and coffee maker. All I wanted was to hide away from the world. Sometimes trying again doesn’t feel safe.

Then your dad showed up. He was confident about us. He knew we would fit - that we would make each other better - and even happy. He was trying again, too, and had a bravery I couldn’t muster. His kind faithfulness eventually broke through the dark, and I saw him. I saw him and knew he was home. Also: he wrote me beautiful letters doused in his Jay-Z cologne. That didn’t hurt. 

But I had to dust off so many ashes before I could try again for you, dearest. Before you were born, your dad and I lost three babies. You have brothers and sisters in heaven, which is a hard thing to grasp, no matter how old you are. I remember wondering if I really wanted to try again when pain was such a possibility. But the thing is: so was joy. So we tried, and we got you, the sweetest, orneriest treasure we could imagine. 

Recently, when we were playing outside, you lost your balance and fell off your swing. It hurt and you cried, but before dad and I could finish dusting the dirt off your back and clothes, you were already scrambling back up the swing. I couldn’t believe it! You had just gotten hurt, but were ready to try again. You knew that pain was possible, but you also knew the joy of flying through the air like a bird.

It felt something like that, trying again this time. But now, our hope has grown to the size of a kidney bean. While you swing through the air, I point to my stomach and say: “You are going to be a big sister.” You shake your head no and pat your chest: “Dog!” For weeks, you have insisted that you are not Hildegaard, but a dog. We both laugh, and while you fly through the air, imagining yourself with big, floppy ears, I watch and think how amazing it is to witness life bloom before you and inside you, all at once.

Cover image by Jason Wong