Dear Alatha,

Happy month-day to you. Today marks three months since we first held you in our arms, and a whole year since my life became physically woven with yours. The fullness of this initiation is one I will never be able to hand you with words. Perhaps one day you will become a mother yourself and we will lean into the loud silence of understanding, together. The unspoken kind that weaves our own life with those of our ancestors and descendents. The deeper unwordable wisdom forever at play.

Yesterday morning we rose before dark. I dressed you in a white baby-grow that is fast becoming too small, put a striped hat upon your head, and placed a coin in it. An intuitive blessing for the road ahead. We wrapped you in a blanket and bundled you to my heart in a pink sling. Loaded our luggage into the back of an uber and drove into the morning, to the airport.

We'd never journeyed into the night outside with you before. Your huge brown eyes widened at the streetlights and I felt a fluttering for the grand unfolding of our journey. After several weeks of your Papa flying away from us, leaving us to live life in different cities, we were now joining him in Durban. You took to the flight beautifully. I thought of the many flights I had taken by the time I was your age, how audacious and brave my parents were to travel with a child so small. Sometimes you feel like an indestructible giant, around three times the size you were at birth. Other times you become a delicate sprite, teeny-tiny and totally dependent on us. 

After an easy-going flight, we touched down at King Shaka Airport and drove to an AirBnb that we had booked just days before. The place we had chosen looked spacious, a luxurious place worthy of spending money on. What we found when we arrived was less than glorious, a ground floor residential flat that was stuffy and small. Before you arrived in my life, I would have likely gritted my teeth and endured my lack of satisfaction. I couldn’t though. Something’s changed. I voiced my dispirit, took a bold decision to cancel despite the money it appeared we’d lose, and bundled us into a new place. Turns out we received a full refund and the gods were in cheer of my new boldness. 

I now write this from a gorgeous apartment. The one I took a stand for, the one I declared us worthy of, for you. I prayed for a home away from home, somewhere that we could breathe deep in, a place to support the coming together of two worlds: family and work. The ocean sounds lulled us to sleep last night and have been hushing through our bodies all day. If there is any sound that cleanses the soul, it’s that of the ocean. I wonder when I’ll first take you to Whitby, the English seaside town that I grew up in. I wonder how soon you’ll learn to swim. Your kicks in the bath promise of many water adventures ahead. One day you’ll snorkel with your Oma and run home to tell us of the turtles you met. You’ll splash in our pool at home and have underwater races with your cousins. Who knows where in the world we’ll journey to as a family. How far will we go? How deep will we dive? I pray, no matter, to give you as almighty a sense of home in the wilderness as my own parents did.

We’re staying in Ndloti, fifteen minutes drive from where your father shoots a TV show, Durban Gen. He’s acting as a doctor and from what I’m aware, his character is due to turn bad. Your father has a beautiful love for the bad guys, the broken and misunderstood ones. He is forever seeking to know the path they have walked, and what happened to their once-open hearts, to bring the essence of their story to life. He is devoted to re-writing the one dimensional reality of the characters he is given, and wants nothing more than to animate himself in a way that awakens and heals his people.

Once upon a time my Dad wondered what would be of the South American countryside and its people when I’m grown. I wonder what will happen to the internal landscape of South Africa’s people, and how healing will move through the land with your life. Right now you lay wide-eyed, gazing at your Papa as he sings to you. Your Oma sits with us, wearing a yellow dress with big buttons that your eyes often obsess over. Watching you grow is the greatest gift. We laugh at your pout, giggle at your grunts and coo over your sweetness. Your determination is undeniable and your spirit heroic. My darling, you are so loved, by so many hearts. So held and protected by so many prayers. May you truly know the people that walk with you, near and far, in body and in spirit, forever.