PROSE POEM
Little one.
I named you, Aletheia. You know why?
Because that’s the name the early Greeks first gave to signify the search truth, sincerity and wisdom. Philosophy’s authentic name, Aletheia.
Sophia is a lovely name as well, but for you, it has to be Aletheia.
I think you aren’t just a wise little one; you are wisdom itself. All babies are born with the seed of life’s wisdom. This I believe.
So, you are Aletheia.
These thoughts murmured through my mind as I rock you, to and fro, to and fro. A steady rhythm of thoughts flowing through me to you. Well, it’s you and I, right here, right now. In the lightening dawn sky, I watch you sleeping in my arms, dreaming of angels as the old folks say, whenever a baby smiles in their sleep.
I smile too. In my heart of hearts, I know that you, Aletheia, are not a fallen angel, fallen from heaven’s grace with the weight of original sin, but one who will awake and arise, an angel of light and life.
Yes, little by little you will grow wings. Though they will remain unseen, I see them as they unfold—mighty wingspans, strong and invincible with the wisdom of all the ages, soaring high, with soft, colorful feathers fashioned with tenderness and compassion.
