little i

While discussing the Riding Alone movie with a walktalk friend yesterday evening, I was surprised at the surge of emotion that rose up with the memory of a particular season of life that I associated with growing up -too fast. It was strange indeed that the memory could still bring back those feelings of reluctance to reliquish dependency and a childish envy for carefree-ness.

Later at night, while sorting my lunchtime treasurefinds from BooksActually, I saw that I had somehow picked up this poem by ee cummings, typed-produced line by line on graph paper on an Olivetti Lettera.

who are you, little i
(five or six years old) peering
from some high window;
at the gold of november sunset
(and the feeling;
that if day has to become night
this is a beautiful way)

- ee cummings

And it was true. That same reluctant period saw some of the greatest miracles of provision and mercies from the Father, who loved His child enough to let her grow up.