The Sling Diaries, Volume VII. A photo-documentary chronicling the art of baby wearing in the lives of families around the world. Over the course of six months, Sling Diarists will create their own Sling Diary though a series of diary entries interpreting a unique theme given to them each month.
Meet all of our Sling Diarists here.
I met this girl once, a few years ago, and she was free as, ya know, she was free. The kind of free where you fly at any moment and come back broken and high. This girl, her heart, it was bigger than her head and her impulse bigger than her heart.
She loved deeper, harder and she felt deeper, drowning. She felt like shea butter smooth on skin. She loved the smell of a humid evening; the sound of the drum beating.
This girl she’d write love letters in her head. She’d write with passion and it would spill everywhere until it was empty, and refilled only so often. But when it spilled it spilled with passion of dreams and truth. And the beat was strong and heavy and true.
This girl could not, she had to move and change and constantly transform. For fear of not truly living, she lived.
She liked to move and change her way and come back broken and high and looking for more.
And I saw her years later. She still smelled of passion; of rose and sweat and summertime. She was still there. Very much there.
She was carrying this tiny girl with curly hair and caramel skin soft like shea butter. This tiny girl, she beamed. Her eyes, her smile. She loved her mother, that girl, deeply. And she laughed for the whole world, this tiny girl, with curls and caramel skin.
This tiny girl she had this look in her eyes, of fire and love and she could lock you in, her eyes full of life and ready for adventure.
She was strong like that girl, her mother and she was beautiful, but mostly she was strong. And that girl was telling this tiny girl, her daughter, stories she used to write, that spilled everywhere. And that girl was telling this tiny girl, her daughter, that it was okay to dance to the beat of the drum. This tiny girl had a rhythm that was strong and loud and she couldn't hear anything, she didn't listen to anything because her beat was strong and loud.
The kind of rhythm that could carry her anywhere with strength.
This tiny girl had transformed that girl, her mother, and they both beamed.
And then she disappeared. Wrapped up in the gentle strength of Motherhood and planning, dreaming, creating, a world for them all.