Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

from “A Blessing”, James Wright, Above the River: The Complete Poems

This is a season for blossoming, literal and metaphorical. Lilacs are budding, tulips have braved the uncertainty of March and burst forth in all their perennial splendor, and beneath the rotting leaves of last autumn, there are tiny green sprouts waiting for just the right sun.

As I watched my granddaughter at dance class last week, I witnessed another season of blossoming. No longer a child, she took her place in the line of 7-8 year old girls and danced. What I saw both delighted and pained me, though. A child would dance with abandon, all arms and legs, strands of hair pasted across a damp face, and eyes, like bright fish, darting wildly about the room. A child would not see the eyes upon her. A child would sing with the recorded music, losing herself in the familiar melody, safe among a cozy clutch of little girls.

But Gracyn is no longer a child. As the music began, I watched her begin to move. Small, subtle movements as she were a marionette whose strings were held much too tightly by the puppeteer. The arc of her movements restrained, she fixed her eyes ahead, casting furtive looks to the girls beside her now and then. The clipped rhythms of her classmates’ tap shoes echoed throughout the room, but hers were muted taps, the uncertain taps of adolescence that would soon descend upon her. When a classmate flapped with too much vigor sending one shoe arcing over her head and across the room, girls giggled. But she did not. I could almost hear her thoughts: Is it o.k. to laugh? What if she is embarrassed? What if this were me? What if this happens in the recital? What if. . .? 

Standing against the wall, I wanted to scoop her in my arms and say, throw your arms to the sky, laugh with your eyes, tap loudly enough to wake the dead. I wanted her to dance like we did when she was little, collapsing in a sweaty mess of glee. More than anything, I wanted to postpone the inevitable self-consciousness that would soon overcome her as she moved into adolescence.

Before I was a mother, I was moved by Ann Sexton’s poem, “Pain for a Daughter.” In this poem, she writes of her daughter’s obsessive love for horses, a love that drives her to the neighbor’s stable to care for their flaming horses and the swan-whipped thoroughbred. When a horse steps on her foot one day, she limps home, the tips of her toes ripped off like pieces of leather. In the final stanza, Sexton writes:

Blind with fear, she sits on the toilet,

her foot balanced over the washbasin

her father, hydrogen peroxide in hand,

performing the rites of the cleansing.

She bites on a towel, sucked in breath,

sucked in and arched against the pain,

her eyes glancing off me where

I stand at the door, eyes locked

on the ceiling, eyes of a stranger,

and then she cries. . .

Oh my God, help me!

Where a child would have cried Mama!

Where a child would have believed Mama!

she bit the towel and called on God

and I saw her life stretch out. . .

I saw her torn in childbirth,

and I saw her, in that moment,

in her own death and I knew that she

knew.

For a moment as I watched my granddaughter dance, her eyes locked on the wall in front of her, I felt as if I were looking into the eyes of a stranger. Like Sexton, I saw her life stretch out into adolescence and beyond. I saw the pain of first love and loss, the pain of self-doubt, the pain of childbirth and the ferocious, all-consuming love for a child. And I knew that she knew. Oh the brutality of such blossoming! In its tender beauty lie the thorns of adulthood.

Lately, I have watched how Gracyn cares for her brother. When she asked to have a sleepover at my house–precious time alone with grandma–she included Griffin. As they walk from their house to mine, she walks alongside him like a caretaker, urging him to stay the course and not become distracted by unusual pine cones or sticks that might be used as weapons. When he correctly identifies a letter of the alphabet, she looks on with a seasoned pride and says, Good job, Buddy! There is so much life beyond her life, and she is seeing it, feeling it,and knowing that it is her responsibility to affirm it. She is blossoming.

And when she feels the pain of another, I see her mother at about the same age. It was an unusually warm spring day, and the neighborhood kids were playing in the backyard as I cleaned the flower beds and prepared them for new mulch. Suddenly, my daughter was beside me, looking up intently as she said, What’s wrong, Mom? Are you o.k.? I said nothing, stunned momentarily, for I had no idea what had prompted her to ask. Until she said, You were making that face. And then I understood: the sun in my eyes, I was squinting and scowling as I raked and worked my trowel in the dirt. I’m fine, I reassured her, I just forgot my sunglasses, and I have to squint to keep my eyes open. She looked up at me dubiously, scanning my face for signs of distress, and then finding none, ran off to join her sisters and her friends. Such a small moment, but a blossoming, indeed. I saw her life stretch out before her and knew that she knew. 

And yet, there is joy in the blossoming and blushing. The little girl who would once stick a feather in her hair becomes a young lady who prefers dangling earrings. Full skirts and ruffles give way to printed leggings and tunics. And frenzied romps on the trampoline with your brother? Well, they only give way to more ladylike jumping when a friend is around.

But when she and her brother are alone, she is all arms and legs, all shrieks and giggles. In these moments, if she would step out of her body, she would surely break into blossom.