The child is mother of the woman. Forgive me if I apply a gender twist to Wordsworth’s line “The Child is father of the Man.” Taken from the poem “My Heart Leaps Up,” this line speaks to his childhood awe of nature’s splendor, a sensation which has stayed — and, he emphatically hopes, will continue to stay — with him his entire life. Paraphrased more loosely and less in context: the child in us knows what we truly love, and we must honor that and be guided by it.

The Child is Mother of the Woman

As I approach my 56th birthday this month, I look at the significant choices I have made in my life recently and see how all of them were rooted in childhood dreams or desires.

I had one Catholic parent, but I was not raised in the Catholic church and had little exposure to it. But before I even started (public) school I began to “play nun” by putting a towel over my head and kneeling to pray by the night stand next to my bed. I made a “rosary” by taping two toothpicks together to form a cross and then taping them to a string of my mother’s beads. Had I ever seen a rosary before? I have no memory of it. How I even knew what one was or how to use it still remains a mystery to me.

In a long and winding way I left the Protestant church of my childhood, and in my mid-30’s joined the Jewish community for many years. (The reasons for that are deeply personal and a long story for another day.) But in 2009 as my mother lay dying and I sat by her bed, helpless and grief-stricken, I found myself swaying back and forth reciting, “Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee…” Two years later I went through RCIA and, with the support of my loving Jewish husband, “officially” became Catholic. My friends and family were surprised, but for me it was as though I had finally caught up with that little girl who knelt next to the night stand with her mother’s beads in her hand.

In August of 2011 I retired from a 32-year teaching career. I can’t tell you any specific reason why I left other than I just knew it was time to do something else. With the support of my loving husband, I began to paint — pictures of the Blessed Mother. These paintings, which you see on my webpage, became note cards, and, with the addition of two more paintings and more text, will become a Marian devotional book. Somewhere in the box of keepsakes I took from my mother’s apartment after her death is a hand-made book of notebook paper folded in half and stitched down the middle, covered with large scrawling letters and somewhat abstract drawings. It is my first book, Fun on the Farm, which I created for my grandmother when I was four. Katey Duffy wrote and illustrated a book for her Gramma Belle. Kate Duffy Sim is writing and illustrating a book for her Blessed Mother Mary.

Last Friday I loaded up my Puggle, Duffy, a stray we adopted two years ago, into my station wagon, and the two of us made a six-hour round trip to northern Indiana. Well, on the way home we were three. In the back seat with Duffy was Daisy, another Puggle, recently fostered through the good people at Kentuckiana Pug Rescue. The entire story is not fully known, but through abuse or neglect in her former home, Daisy sustained an injury that required amputation of her left front leg. Feel righteous anger for the unnecessary pain she endured, but don’t feel sorry for her now. This plucky little Puggle runs up and down the stairs with more agility than her four-legged counterparts.

This is our third dog. Mazel Tov, a Bichon-Poodle mix, came from a puppy mill eight years ago. With the support of my loving husband, I’ve brought two more “throw away” animals into our home. Three dogs may seem like a lot. Unless you knew me “when.” From the ages of 9 until — well, until now, actually — I have been a dog lover. In school I checked out every library book I could find about dogs and memorized them until I could identify all the AKC registered breeds. I drew pictures of dogs. I wrote stories about dogs. I fantasized about owning a kennel. I’ll stop at three dogs, but the child inside me laughs with delight when I see those cast-off creatures romping happily in our yard, or sleeping securely in my husband’s lap. Look at the photos at the top of this post. You can see the same joy in my face today as in 1971, when my father captured the image of my play with the neighbors’ puppies.

None of these interests was a passing childhood fancy, but all were indications of personality type, talent, and, yes, I believe God’s plan for my life. And, if you noticed, I included my loving husband’s support in each of these endeavors. We all have unfulfilled childhood dreams that are waiting to help us grow into the adults we are meant to be. Encourage your children in their dreams. Remember who you were when you were young and what burned as your heart’s desire. Find people who love and believe in you and will give you space to grow. Listen to your inner child and let it parent you.

The full poem by Wordsworth is below. Enjoy.

Wishing you a space for grace in your life today,

Kate

William Wordsworth – My Heart Leaps Up

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky.
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.