There was a time not long past during which I pursued the wisp and wraith of my longing for filia mea, my daughter. So sweet to hear it in its Latinate form; soft and pliant and lovely in its imagined beauty.
And I was allowed to name this tiny, struggling entity whose female expression was what God intended best for us. Capable of bearing more and better than before, the road she strode with firm intent and light-like tread upon the future she created for herself and for us seemed endlessly green with fecund promise, and a natural love for what was to come.
Imbued with Celtic sense and coin, minted from the heady mix of Nordic force and Pictish intransigence, her name must be as mellifluous as her presence in the world, and as intractable and certain as the dawn.
Islay, she became, and would remain within my heart like a secret rhyme whose beauty only I could cipher, and whose soothing vibration none but my lips could pronounce. Being father to the woman child, I would nurture her to claim her strength, the heritage of a million million births before, and a million times more to come. For none but woman may lay claim to that inalterable power and inexpressible love that sits astride the world like a beacon lighting us on our way, and which pours forth without equal or hesitance, without cessation or doubt.
What man is not envious of the mother’s bond with her child? What might man offer in its place? Pride may not touch it. Physical strength can not move it. Running will not catch it. But love and respect may allow us to approach. This thing we see is shrouded in the first and final mystery of being, and is nothing less than the miracle of creation itself.
So you are to me, and will always be, filia mea, my daughter, my Fiona.
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