Taking Stock

Her pages had been empty of late, left in a drawer under sharpened pencils. Dust was settling around ornaments of inspiration, clock ticking around her motivation. Excuses piled up, leaking on to the floor like dishwater.

It was not a reflection of her ability, but of her effort.

 

 

Sun

She rose on the East: glowing through the slits of clouds and shaping the world like a shattered Easter egg. She bowed to the moon and turned the light on in every room. Gently she whispered to the world its morning blessing. The world would wake once again and we would each be given another opportunity to live.

Continuity

She wasn’t sure where to start: she wasn’t sure she’d ever finished. She met herself in the middle, turned herself around three times, cracked her fingers and sharpened her pencil. A new chapter would be her commencement.

She was then and always would be, continued.

Infinity And Beyond

Her thoughts went dark: to a place that bared no window. There was no air to provide her food for thought: she was settled. Into a dust that had fought a storm, a dust that rested on a ground of lost adventures. She was done. She was defeated. Arms splayed for forsakenness, she had to remind herself of her needing: who would call her name as she turned to sand? Who would cup her into a vase and carry her across the desert to a cool salvation? Who would hold her, until her true end?

Only time.

Only time could hold her.

It Takes A Village

The rumour is, that the village is gone and motherhood is lonely. There are many days this rumour feels undoubtedly real, BUT the village is still there, you just have to be open to it; you have to let it in as much as you want it to let you in.

On some days the village is the park, where you make small talk with strangers trying to make their shopping list on their iPhone as their children wrestle them as if they are still in the lounge room. It’s times like this when a villager takes action and pushes their own child over with the others, separating the herd from their parents and dragging the mother to safety. “Come with me, let’s talk smack about motherhood for a while”. Yesterday my village was only made up of two, and we told horror stories about the emergency caesareans we endured and how we desperately want more children, tipping our heads back and laughing at how ridiculous our “biological urge” is, or as recent studies have argued, our “psychological urge”. (That’s a whole other conversation.)

On other days the village is the pool or the sport of the term; gymnastics, athletics, dance. The villagers stare at each other silently, they are so sure they want silence, they are so sure that they don’t want to make small talk or get into another deep discussion about why their child is still shitting under the table while demanding privacy when of course he could get all the privacy he wanted if he just went to the fucking toilet. The villagers try to escape eye contact by escaping into their phones as their children run, swim or frolic like a bunch of uncoordinated psychos. But it only takes one; one overheard comment, one caught glance or one unintentionally loud exhale to get the relatable acknowledgement from some or the entire group. And before you know it, you are walking back to the car, smothering your child in kisses with the knowledge that you are not the only mother trying to coax your child out from the dining room table as they conduct one of their many daily bowl movements.

On most days, the village is digital. I consider this the biggest village by far, the easiest to access and the most private. A village made up of mummy bloggers of both the super mum and the super honest: A village of grandeur or slap dash recipes: A village of the motivated or the recluse: A forum for all. On the days when leaving the house just seems all too hard, I am thankful for the digital village and it’s ability to keep me connected to the world.

If you are not prepared to call on your village, the village is privy to the signals of need; a look of apology as your child hits another, shoulders removing themselves from your ears as your child finds a friend to play with, a ‘like’ on a specific post. We are all secretly and some times unconsciously hinting towards a village, hoping they’ll pick up on our vibes and let us in.

It takes villagers to create a village – look up, look around.

Be a villager; For the sake of your sanity.

Dressed in pearls

She wrote with her soul disguised as her ego. Her truths rolled out cloaked in rubber, bouncing pleasantly off people’s judgements. Had she’d been brave enough, her soul might have said ‘I’m crying’.

Instead of smiling.

But she wasn’t brave.

Yet.

Sharing Space

She woke; baby breath blowing gently on her cheek and tiny fingers reaching knowingly in the dark for the comfort of a mothers presence. Stiff as a board she remained so as not to wake him but instead to stare at him through the slits of her morning eyes. So still and so quiet she took a moment to embrace the lack of space his tiny body provided while in her bed, her feet cold and without a pillow, this tiny person, consuming her world.

He was her world.