STUFF: Last night I woke up at 2:42 (digital clocks are just too precise). Filled with worry about some things that could eat me, swallow me and spit me out.

But….shouldn’t I help them?  Shouldn’t I try to give my last piece of flesh to right a wrong, to expose facts, histories? I rose from my bed to sort my thoughts, my feelings. Do I jump into the fire of an empty house, or do I let it burn and walk away?

Up. Now I am up. I walk to my iBook G4 (tired old friend…or fiend) and turn her on. Emails? Essays? Blog posts?  Stop.

Look.  On the counter sits a box: Number 42. It holds treasures and trash of my daughters’ school days. Forget the mounting community crisis. Sort your own world first. Leaf by leaf, I rake through old photos, school play programs, little notes.

Among the stuff is my younger daughter’s journal from her first year in high school, part of a daily writing practice from her 1994 Honor’s English class. I read. I think the statute of limitations on “Mothers Reading Private Stuff” has passed…I hope.

Oh, that little paperbound notebook is filled with wonder! On the front, a note: “A Mind is Terrible Thing.” Perhaps this notebook is a Mother’s Lode, a vein of gold?   It is filled with amazing flights of fancy, a young girl on that edge of childhood, standing on a shaky precipice. Stories of climbing trees far beyond my reach. Dreams of slaying monsters, of friendships true and new.

There are dark corners, too. She writes of days and nights that are unraveling her magic, her spark as she struggled through the tangled labyrinth of American High School ( Definitely NOT a Disney movie). She writes of her inner wisdom, her core of knowing who she is and what she can do. I love my daughter…fiercely.

Then I read, “I hate my mom!” Take a breath.

Moms and daughters. Some days I wish I could wind back that clock….or re-set those glowing numbers. To have known when to just let go and when to hold on tighter.

I let her climb that tree, all the while knowing she was there standing 60 feet up, soaring over her world. I trusted her to get down safely, back on the ground. But where else should I have closed my eyes? What other times might she have sailed off and then landed gracefully, steadily?

My daughter, now a young mother: Strong, grounded, determined and dreaming. In one entry way back then she writes, “I love it (gymnastics) because you can soar through the air like nothing matter at first. The only thing you have to worry about is missing your hands. After the first try though, it’s about the funnest thing.”

Now she flies as she watches her own children. Soar, dear one. And don’t miss those hands.

The clock says 4:03. Back to bed. I’ve forgotten fire and found gems. Sleep.

I’m B.Z. Smith. I tell stories. Here’s one.