Tuesday, April 01, 2008

make your own kind of music, sing your own special song

There was a moment this past weekend when my daughter rushed by me, on her way outside, and I didn't so much take notice of what she was wearing. A few minutes later, I peeked out the living room window to see her marching in a circle in the front yard, a large cardboard box embellished with color and eye-holes over her head.

And it made me think of a recent conversation I had with a friend. She was relaying something her son did that might have made some of his friends snicker a little bit, or else, if there wasn't overt snickering, there could have been, but my friend's son didn't care. We talked about how admirable it is to do something, choose something, or maybe be someone a little unexpected, a little unusual, a little different, and be fervently and unabashedly okay with that.

The box on my daughter's head? Apparently some attention grabbing tree disguise, made with the intention of compelling questions (from neighborhood kids, I reckon, maybe something like, What are you doing with a box on your head? Weirdo!) so she could jump into a conversation about nature and conservation.

For the record, no children asked her what she was doing. Which, considering the veritable parade of costumes and funny play often present on our front lawn, is unsurprising. But she kept at it a good long while and then came back inside and wrote this:

The trees trees
that sway in the breeze
I stand by these.

Good and strong
they'd live long
if man would not destroy them.

Trees are not some toys -ahem!-
Man has no right
to toy them.

They are strong, they are true
they live not to make
boards for you.

So stretch a rope
from me to tree
and tie it very tautly.

You'll cut this tree down
over my Dead Body.

To get the proper delivery, you'll have to do like my girl and raise your fists in the air for the last line, bellowing it out loudly. Which isn't so over-dramatic at all if you know Freya, whose passions have always ran deeply. I love that about her.

3 comments:

Lisa said...

I can just see her doing this, with the wind blowing her hair behind her!

Deb said...

Have you checked the library for Julia Butterfly Hill's biography? I bet she would love it.

Angelina said...

At nine years old Freya is a better poet than I was by the time I was twenty three. I envy her her natural wit, confidence,and her grasp of language and the things that really matter. That was a lovely poem.

Freya is one of my favorite young girls ever!! It is such a pleasure getting to know her.

I also think that part of what makes her blossom is through you and the freedom you give her to be who she is.