Transcript
Major Jackson (0:00)
Hi, it's major. All year long you rely on the Slowdown for moments of pause, reflection and poetry. This show is powered by poems and by the generosity of our listeners. Give today to help us power the show into the new year. When you donate, you can choose a special thank you gift like our tote bag or ceramic mug. Visit slowdownshow.org donate or find the link in the show notes. Thank you for your support. I'm Major Jackson and this is the Slowdown. The winter holidays are upon us. It's the most wonderful time of the year. I am thrilled my daughter is arriving with her partner who we will get to meet for the first time. I've been looking forward to this moment. No, not looking forward to meeting him, but to pretending to be the tough, overly protective no one is worthy of my daughter kind of dad. But I have a feeling that act will last only so long and I'll quickly be laughing it up with the person of her dreams. When Anastasia was little, she and I drove from Michigan to Vermont. As we approached Mohawk Valley on I90 through upstate New York, a ginormous thunderstrike pierced the sky. Still gray clouds and lightning made the drive fearsome. In her sweet nine year old voice she said, dad, I'm scared. I told her a storm was merely passing over, that we would survive. Then another heart rattling blast thundered down. She started to cry. Heavy rain pelted the car. I couldn't see ahead. I put on my hazards and slowed down. Through tears. Anastasia said, we are supposed to turn off everything and be still. Daddy, I told her, that's only when we are home. A minute later I pulled beneath an overpass and stopped the car. At first we listened to rain sloshing the road as cars passed by. Then I started to sing Old MacDonald, a favorite from her childhood. It made her giggle. Then we sang together. Miss Mary Mac, then Freire Jaca, then Celle Pont d'avignon. Then I sang a song she had never heard before. Pole, Pole, a children's call and response tune in Swahili, meaning go slow, go slow. I had her join in. Our voices together rose above our fears. About a half hour later we were driving again, with the sunshine blindingly blazing through the windshield and our hearts full. I want someone in my daughter's life who will sing to her when she is most full of doubts and uncertainties. When storms inevitably arrive. Today's poem gorgeously anticipates the day ahead when our children will pursue their own loves and what magic we might model for them two shadows by Morris Manning the little one belongs to her and and the taller one is mine, though I doubt she knows. The shadows walking hand in hand ahead of us in the field are ours. If I walk behind her, mine without a word overshadows all of hers, a magic I think she likes. And when I walk at her side again, the two of us return, a giant and his long legged little helper who's new enough to walking. Still she manages a wobble or swings a foot in, picking the place to put it none of this beautiful secret love will last. Other shadows will come along and she'll see her own one day apart from mine. But before those fates arrive, I'm going to stretch my arms and tipping and twirling, I'll show her how to turn her shadow into a bird and rest it softly in the tree. And afterward, when she sees a shadow, perhaps she'll think of birds or me. The Slowdown is a production of American Public Media in partnership with the Poetry Foundation. This project is also supported in part by the National Endowment for the Arts. On the web@arts.gov to get a poem delivered to you daily, go to slowdownshow.org and sign up for our newsletter and find us on Instagram loadownshow. Give your loved ones the gift of poetry this year with Poetry Magazine. Poetry's gift bundle includes a one year print and digital subscription to the magazine, plus a limited edition tote bag. Your loved ones will receive 10 beautifully curated volumes of contemporary poetry and unlimited digital access through the Poetry Magazine app. It's a gift that lasts all year. Subscribe today@poetrymagazine.org slow that's poetrymagazine.org slow.
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