The following is a draft of a precious letter I discovered among the many journals Jeana kept over the years.
To Lalu on becoming 20 –
Lalu, my lovely daughter,
Someday you will know I hope a mother’s heart. It is so deep and wondrous a thing as not to bear description. It is so full of love and pride and hurt and forgiveness as to encompass the universe in its constancy. And its viewpoint can only be reached by being. The years it takes to love a grown daughter are its measure.
The day you were 20, I stood on the heights and opened my palm and a spirit flew full blown into the way beyond me. I stood, an artist of life and saw my work move out into that fresh experience, twirl her skirts, and laugh that wonderful laugh which is my Lalu. I thought, “How terrible and how divine to be twenty. How awful and ecstatic and heavenly.”
Oh, my dear, growing older is very, very, nice. But have a wonderful time now. Savor, taste it, hold it, give it the best you have, don’t dare hurt it too deeply. Because its like a Venetian glass chandelier, it can only be blown by Venetians in Venice to be that beautiful. That’s what the 20’s are – live them, feel them, and know them, it can only be had by you once. Be aware of every moment of them. They are your citadel, your castle for a fine life after.
I do not agree entirely with the authorities that childhood is so great an experience, that it shapes all our destinies. I think the 20’s do. They are such “aware” years.
Don’t hurry and become frantic searching for the way. Pace it and breath deeply, and see it all. It’s full of burning desires – make them cooperate with your time. The burning flame of the arts are all around you. Hold them like a torch in front of your eyes – and give your best to the one that makes you most sincerely expressive. But remember, inspiration must have honest endeavor and application. Nothing does itself.
Last, but not least, when it’s time to have fun – angel – have the best time of your life. There is no better time to have it.
Here’s to you – and Got Bless my girl.
Love – Mother