Last night I had a date with my daughter. 

She is 22, freshly graduated from college, immersed in creating a life of meaning, working for Green Corps and as a hostess at a pub, and living in the third floor of our house.

We don’t see each other often beyond a “is there coffee in the thermos?” in the morning or a creaking of floors above me when she comes in after her old mother has retired for the night.

She is walking delight.  So, having a free night for both of us and having the luxury of time together, we opted for dinner and a chick flick.  We perused the movie listings and landed on the most unlikely movie ever to attend with our partners and thus, on a Friday night, we found ourselves in a throng of woman people – Rachel counted nine men in the packed house – and sat through “Dear John”.  I was easily the oldest person in the place.

It was as we expected:  Drivel (ok, I did cry) and surface-skimming.  But of course, that wasn’t the point of going.  The point was, we claimed the time and participated in the ritual of sharing food and laughter and appreciation for the wonder that is liking people called kin.

Blessed am I among women.