A Whisper Away

It's that time of year again, that time when you can smell droplets in the air, when the bulbs have been planted, and the soil fixes on the lines in skin, in the heart line, and the life line, and underneath nails, dry and chipped. I feel viral. I feel tired. But I have seen a russet moon, the colour of a dog's tongue.

Summer is being covered in yellow leaves and toadstools over the lawn. Is it a toadstool or a mushroom or a fungus? I never know the difference, and the spores make my breath rasp, my chest yearn for inhaler. But it has disappeared, the heat, the longer days, and with that I'm fattening up on crumpets and cake, sausages and mash. Most things baked and fried.

I love all the colour, it's just all these damn colds.

And she, she is six weeks into year one. The stories. How so and so chased so and so. The ongoing battle of girls against boys. Who is marrying who. The grazed knees and the cut fingers. It's hard to keep up. She is happy, she has friends, and I am happy too. She is reading, she is eager to spell. When I write a letter to a friend, she must also write one too. Mummy, how do you spell birthday? Mummy, how do you spell friend? And now she has discovered a love of numbers, loves writing number sentences she says. 4+2 = 6. 15+3 = 18. I think she has her father's precise mind, he's an engineer, a lover of logic and solution. Where as I, well I'm not sure, my brain is.... I was branded unclassified in maths.

Her new thing is sewing. I draw the picture on the material, a shape, a butterfly, and she carefully eases the needle with the red thread through. Her stitches to begin with are a little erratic, set wide apart, and then she finds her flow following the pencil, finding the coordination in her hands. She prefers it to the IPad. She prefers it to Pinky Pie and Princess Twilight Sparkle.

Any clues to Summer have now faded from my face. The colour. The freckles. All gone. I look a little wan, a little waxy under the eyes. And I try pulling back the warmer days but even their memories are as pale as my skin. A holiday home - an old vicarage. An ancient town built on a hill. The harbour. The cobbled streets. The tea rooms. The back garden disappearing under lavender, under holly hocks, under fallen apples. The wonky floors and the old beams. A princess castle with a moat. A grand old house with old, old wall paper and the smell of dusty, unread books - the smell of history. Days on a beach over-turning shells, adding height to sandcastles, running from an incoming tide. A weekend spent with Granny, and an aunt in her new pub. And a few days in a forest lodge with dappled sunlight and roaming deer. The discovery that peacocks can fly and the gift of a fallen feather. A morning spent purifying in the steam of a Japanese salt bath and the eucalyptus of a Turkish Hamman... It all seems a whisper away now.    

And half term is around the corner. She has a new coat and new wellies. The zip on my coat is broken. And the winds are coming and so is the rain. One last mow of the lawn. One last pruning back of the shrubs and the clemetis overgrown.

I have my light box switched on: I am galvanising myself for shorter days...

#One Week - Autumn '14 - Autumn Bites

I haven't touched a conker or turned my face towards the wind.
I haven't baked a crumble or remarked on how the nights are drawing in.

I have forgotten the richest and most dishevelled of seasons.
Paid little attention to fallen leaf and heavy cloud.

But have written under light of bureau lamp.
Have sat at table, helped her read first words.
Have planted pansies in pots, verdant heather in borders.
Have had silver birch cut back, harvested tomatoes.
Have visited showrooms, poured through kitchen catalogues.
Have wheezed with asthma, upgraded inhaler.
Have made new friends at school date, kept in touch with old.
Have forgotten hair dye, bought her new clothes.
Have felt lost, bereft, adjusting to new routines.
Have worried and worried about this here blog.
Have lacked the inspiration, ideas for posts...

...like a gust of air released a kite from handheld grasp,
and earth under foot turned to mud.

Maybe I am unknowingly taking stock?
Maybe I have run out of stories?
Maybe I need a different approach?
Or maybe I simply need to devote my time to where my energy now flows?

#One Week - Autumn '13 - Noted

Leaves, that's what I've really noted this autumn. My focus shifted south, down there, towards the ground. Walking to preschool, I avoid the clutter, the mulch and decay, the foul undisclosed. The garden is littered by a tide of yellow and broken twigs, a landfill of fungi.

What a mess. What a complete anarchic mess. Autumn is conkers bonkers.

And I still haven't bought a rake...

I noted the air one exceedingly blustery day, a gap in the garden fence, a missing tooth, a large branch collapsed on the road outside. Quite dramatic, the most exciting theatre before we'd woken up. The wind, caught and howling in the chimney.

I've noted Little A's ever growing love of language. 'B' for book and boy and boat. Curly 'C' for cat. Kicking 'K' for kite. I bought a Pocket Oxford Dictionary. She was fascinated by it's size, page after condensed page of nouns and verbs and adjectives... It all began with, 'can I borrow it,' to, 'can I have it?' Then, 'you can buy yourself a new one mummy!' Now she takes the tattered dictionary to bed with her, shifts a teddy out of the way, opens and places it besides her plumped pillow. Words to send her to sleep, for dreaming... I have given up sneaking in, snatching it for back-up with my bedtime read, I am going to have to buy myself a new copy.

I've noted how incredibly industrious I've been as the days shortened and the dew on the grass thickened and frosted. I've attempted NaNoWriMo over November, trying to make head way into the final third of my novel. It's going okay, although I've had a few inert days, juggling words while I organise Christmas (my mother and brother coming to stay), preparing for a holiday, and planning Little A's fourth birthday party - it isn't until the end of January but in these parts, halls for hire tend to book very quickly. The theme is lovely, whites and creams and blues. A winter wonderland party.

...and Christmas, I've never planned it this early before, my hosting cherry is on the line. Most of the presents and decorations are procured. I've even placed the order for the meat, a large lump of strip loin beef, Younger Dad's been itching to cook one this Christmas, the seal of approval from his in-laws. I'm secretly glad we're not having turkey, it tastes of, well, not very much at all...cardboard?

And I've noted that it's my birthday next week. I'm going to be forty three. 4.3. I've really enjoyed 42, as I said last year, it tasted very good, the richness of a chocolate fondant pudding. And what am I doing to celebrate? Well I mentioned it earlier, we are going on a week of winter sun to Lanzarote. From bleak weather to black beaches. This is my first holiday abroad since my honey moon, and Little A's very first adventure on an aeroplane.

I haven't decided if the laptop is staying at home yet. If I do bring it, it will be for the novel; I've harboured romantic notions of tapping away against a backdrop of volcanic wasteland.

All social media is barred.


This is the third and final day of the seasonal linky One Week. I wanted to say a big, big thank you to all those lovely bloggers who joined in, and those who commented, and tweeted, in support of this project.

One Week will return in winter, dates TBC. So get your cameras at the ready and imaginative hats on! For more details about One Week, take a gander here. You can join in for one, two ... or the full three days...

Badge Code ...

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#One Week - Autumn '13 - Hands

My hands; they are ageing. 

Poor, dear hands, never much cared for, left to mercy of wind and rain. What little respect given, when they have opened the world to me. The pleasure of touch. Brushed cotton, silk, sand through fingers. The sharp edges of danger. Sensation as warning. Hot and cold. Skin. Little A's perfect skin. Young and velveteen. 

My hands spun records, alert and nimble. Have turned page after page. Scribed imagination in words. Caressed my baby's face.

My hands create and love and comfort.

Without my hands I would have no...  

What have I given them in return? Nothing. Not a jot for their manual servitude. Mother said, 'moisturise your hands everyday.' I was twenty four. They were plump, ripe, so I didn't bother with creams. Not even in my thirties. Now I have a tube in the bathroom, a tube on the chest of drawers. I think the tube in my handbag is past expiry.

The creams, they smell of July over grown. Too flowery. Too condensed. I like neutral, plain. Honest vanilla for me. No wafts of jasmine please. Or lily.

Looking at them, they have lost youth's sheen. Dry mud flats. The pitted surface of fruit. Veins bumping under skin like roots breaking free. Wrinkles. Fine lines etched in wood, all markers of minutes and years. Knuckles. Flattened stumps, pummelled by stone and earth.

When Little A was birthed, and my body cancelled out, numb, it was my hands that touched the moment; retained the ability to impress, be impressed upon. My baby, my child, my girl. Her fingers on breast, the first object of love, finding existence through touch, through her hands.

Leopard spots. Gravy taints of decline. Junk mail landing on the doormat. Will I get them? When will they happen? Long, long ago, I asked a baby sitter what those things were on her hands. Leopard spots she said. Leopard spots.  

My Grandmother's hands, warm and soft. Before the end, unusable, frozen, curled like talons; raking away memory, making room for sempiternity. Those hands once made food, and party dresses, and touched with such tenderness...

...Hands, I would like to shake yours.


This is the second day of the seasonal linky One Week. From Monday till Wednesday, I'll be posting a photograph(s) and a few words that diarises and distills my experience of autumn '13. Take a peep at the details here. You can join in for one, two ... or the full three days. And don't forget to add #oneweek on Twitter, and comment on each others posts...

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#One Week - Autumn '13 - Champagne

A walk over the ploughed flats of Norfolk. Brown and grey. 

Cracked clods of earth underfoot, thick and heavy from harvest. 

The dog bounds off the leash, after sticks, after birds.

And here we all are, to bid farewell.

A goodbye in the wind.

Granny says, 'she said the air was like champagne up here.'

I adore that description. Champagne.

Bubbles through the yellow leaves. Fizz through the sloes.

And onwards, a thoughtful walk, on dirt track, 

under canopied boughs, and mossy floor.

Here we are, journeys end, her resting place. Only us.

A pond at low ebb, ferns and reeds bent over.

One bench.

She loved to walk her dogs here. In the champagne.

I liked her. A lot.

Straight and sturdy (if you discount the broken hip).

Honest to the bone.

A fierce wit.

Out comes the jar and spoon. Sacred dust.

Like course granules. Chalk white.

Powder in the grass. Particles of a life well lived.

Ashes and atoms.

In the air.

Away and beyond.

Little A says, 'Bye bye Great Granny.'

Little A says, 'Great Granny has turned into a star.'

Life and death in one burst.

Flesh and bone between her fingers.

-------------

A foot note: This was Little A's Great Granny on Younger Dad's side of the family. She passed away over a year ago, her ashes scattered this September.

This is the first day of the seasonal linky One Week. Over the next three days (Monday till Wednesday) I'll be posting a photograph(s) and a few words that diarises and distills my experience of autumn '13. Take a peep at the details here. You can join in for one, two ... or the full three days. And don't forget to add #oneweek on Twitter, and comment on each others posts...

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#One Week - Autumn '12 - And...

One Week pushes me into paying greater attention to the world around me; the colours, the changes, the unnoticed detail. But this project is turning out to be something else entirely, more than just a nature trail, it's becoming a kind of rite of passage - a personal festival - marking the events, crystallising my reflections, honing my intent throughout the wheel of the year...

This autumn, Little A has cuddled and demanded and lashed out and cuddled some more. She's rough and tumbled and tip toed and danced. She's learnt the difference between 'like' and 'not like', and used her new found understanding as sharpened weaponry with divisive aim. The other day, when I frustrated her with another "no", she retorted with, "I don't like you any more, I want my daddy instead."

I didn't take it personally, it's to be expected, but I was quite taken aback all the same.

As she races towards three, I suspect a new era is approaching, the dawning of a parental favourite...

'The age of daddy' 

I'm secretly hoping this is the case, it might let me off the hook for a while. I might capture some time to read that book, to buy that jumper, to watch that box set, to write that novel...

Meanwhile, I have written and written and attended Blogfest and caught a cold and made casserole after casserole and dreamt and laughed and moaned and upped my medication and had my greedy fingers in the biscuit tin and seen wonderful friend after wonderful friend, and realised..... it might be a rather good idea to chill my boots and indulge myself in a few worthwhile things, like reading a good book, like having a hot bubble bath, like seeing more friends, like going to the cinema, like S.T.O.P'ing and enjoying the moment with a fine glass of wine.
  

As winter beckons with bare, frozen arms, I turn to autumn to thank her for showing in such simple, fluid, colourful ways, how to reestablish my equilibrium and enjoy the fruits of this year.


This is the final day of the seasonal linky One Week. I wanted to say a big, big thank you to all those lovely bloggers who joined in, and those who commented in support of this new blogging project.

One Week will return next winter for another five days, 25 February - 1 March. So get your cameras at the ready and imaginative hats on!

For more details about One Week, take a gander here. You can join in for one, two ... or the full five days...

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#One Week - Autumn '12 - Clearing

When the clocks change I slow down. Or I would like to. Squeezing my foot on the break would be far simpler if I didn't have a toddler on constant acceleration, hiding from monsters, 'ironing' my knickers, whooping atop the double bed.

I find this time of year very symbolic. A client once astutely observed that a tree knows how to be a tree, a flower knows how to be a flower - unfolding, basking in its innate beauty - but us humans? The myriad complexities of the human condition separate us from the cyclical ebb and flow of the natural world. Beneath the worries, the fears, the daily hubbub, the never ending to do lists, lies a forgotten moment that exists in an boundless present. I like to think this soothing balm is nature's gift if we just allow ourselves to stop, look close enough, realign our rhythm.

The leaves are falling and I am reminded that now is the time to prune the dross, simplify my schedule, rebalance my life - to dream of new possibilities as we plunge into darkness. This time of year really is one of death and rebirth. And when I think of it, we begin our lives sheathed in the warm, night time cave of the womb. In the dormant earth, the sodden black soil, behind the decay and rot lies another day, another hope, another promise, a fresh idea.

And so I need to reset the inner clock. Slow down a little. In the frenetic run up to Christmas I would like to blog less (who am I kidding), read more, find some time for yoga, luxuriate in a hot bath or two, enjoy my birthday, eat puddings, nail the plot of my book, spend time in silence, count my blessings...

...and douse myself in gratitude for all the love and support in my life.

Autumn begs me to take a chill pill, put my feet up and reflect upon this year's personal harvest.

It's time to simmer down, and be, be, be instead of do, do, do, if that's possible with a crazy toddler.

Do you mark this time of year?
What are you grateful for?  


This is the fourth day of the seasonal linky One Week. Until Friday, I'll be posting a photograph(s) and a few words that diarises and distills my experience of autumn'12. Take a peep at the details here. You can join in for one, two ... or the full five days. And don't forget to add #oneweek on Twitter, and comment on each others posts...

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#One Week - Autumn '12 - Closer

A week ago, just after nap time, Little A and I enjoyed a peaceful moment together on the sofa. She was still in that fuggy half awakened state, her body loosely curled around mine, my arms gently embracing her drowsy form. The only sign of life came came from the slow rhythmical movement of our chests. Up and down. Up and down. The only sound, apart from the tick ticking of the kitchen clock and the occasional hum from a car idly passing in the street, could be heard from the even inhaling and exhaling of our breath. In and out. In and out.

Outside, the late afternoon light waned, the grey slate on roofs just shades darker than the overcast sky, evening approaching with assured readiness. Little A slid from my lap and leaned into my side tucking herself under my arm. A soft hand placed itself tenderly on my stomach. Together we watched aeroplanes - giant airborne sharks - silently descending, their wing lights flashing in the semi darkness...

"Mummy can we hold that plane?"
"No darling, it's too big. But look at that one coming in. It's a tiddler."
"Can I hold that other one."
"No. Still too big."
"That plane can be the daddy one. And that plane can be the baby one."

This autumn, Little A has taken yet another social leap. Her world is over flowing with mummies, daddies, grannies and babies - every role playing game be it with teddies, building blocks, cutlery, aircraft, is all about family. And now she is a bigger girl, she also wants a pet."Mummy can I have a pet and a brother?" I don't quite know how to answer the part about a brother just yet.

Little A desires closer relation to everything and anything she comes into contact with, whether it's....

cuddling a bunny,

getting to grips with a tractor,

or making a new friend.

This season, Little A has edged ever closer to the world around her, taking risks, finding her limits, discovering the first ties of friendship. And our relationship has become more loving, more complex, a playing field of two wills. Little A is learning that she can be many things, a playful kitten, a fire breathing dragon, a demanding bear cub, a roaring lioness, but that her sudden emotional flights between calm and angry, content and tearfully upset, don't diminish our bond, nor my love for her.

This is the third day of the seasonal linky One Week. Over the next few days (until Friday) I'll be posting a photograph(s) and a few words that diarises and distills my experience of autumn '12. Take a peep at the details here. You can join in for one, two ... or the full five days. And don't forget to add #oneweek on Twitter, and comment on each others posts...

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#One Week - Autumn '12 - Colour

Autumn.... It's the season of conkers and casseroles. Colds and crumpets.

I love this time of year.

It starts with the turn of one audacious leaf.  

Then the biggest fare well party commences in full fiery riot..  

Earth bound confetti.

A kaleidoscope of colour. 

Decaying leaves smothered in palate rich flavours...

...of mustard, ketch-up and plum sauce. 

Nature, so adept at change. 

Dewy spiderwebs floating in air borne neighbourhoods,

as temporary as my thoughts.

Or a lone arachnid playing house under the wing mirror of my car. 

I admire peach lit morning mist,

and the fresh, cold bite of atmospheric breath on my finger tips.

Autumn disrobes,

and I wrap up warm.

I love nothing more than encasing my feet in socks warmed on radiators. 

I hanker after bangers and mash. 

I salivate over treacly sponge and custard. 

I lust after slices of lemon drizzle with tea.

I look forward to the inner adjustments this season inevitably brings.

This is the second day of the seasonal linky One Week. Over the next few days (until Friday) I'll be posting a photograph(s) and a few words that diarises and distills my experience of autumn '12. Take a peep at the details here. You can join in for one, two ... or the full five days. And don't forget to add #oneweek on Twitter, and comment on each others posts... 

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#One Week - Autumn '12 - Park Life (or not)

This is our bench. The wobbly bench. The bench Little A and I have shared many a ham sandwich and blueberry muffin picnic on. It sits between two large trees in the playground of our local park. The wobbly bench is a place to relax, to wonder, to dream, it's a rickety station from which to appreciate all the running, chasing, jumping, clamouring, and the very special place where our alter egos - Piggy (me) and Bunny (Little A) - come out to play.

Until a couple of weeks ago, that is, when upon returning to our favourite playground after a brief hiatus - I don't enjoy being coated in damp drizzle - we were greeted by this post apocalyptic sight...

Apart from a lone climbing frame, everything had been excavated, dismantled, removed. The toddler swings. Gone. The big children swings. Gone. The round-a-bout. Gone. The small climbing frame. Gone. Our wobbly bench. Obliterated. All that was left were heaps of upturned tarmac and rubble.

"The swings have gone Piggy."

"I know Bunny."

"Look, the big slide is still there."

"For the moment."

"Are they going to build new ones Piggy?"

"I hope so Bunny. I hope so."

The workmen eyed me with suspicion upon clocking my taking photos of their bombsite.

"Can I ask what you're doing love?" A fluorescent jacketed workman asks taking large strides in earth covered boots towards me.

"Erm, I'm just a mum, I, err, I'm taking pictures for my blog" I reply sheepishly.

"No worries, we sometimes get dodgy types taking pictures."

"Oh, okay. Fine." I'm left wondering why a 'dodgy type' would take a photo of a building site.

The playground is under renovation, which is a good thing, but according to mister workman, a job that was supposed to be completed within a month is now - surprise, surprise - taking longer than originally anticipated. Apparently the council is averse to footing the bill for digging up the tarmac. I just hope we have a new playground by next spring.

In the mean time Little A and I will have to kick leaves in another park.

R.I.P wobbly bench.


This is the first day of the seasonal linky One Week. Over the next five days (Monday till Friday) I'll be posting a photograph(s) and a few words that diarises and distills my experience of autumn '12. Take a peep at the details here. You can join in for one, two ... or the full five days. And don't forget to add #oneweek on Twitter, and comment on each others posts...

Badge Code ...

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S.T.O.P.

The red traffic light tells me in plain language. STOP.

The slow cooker hints at a life in third gear, not fifth.

I've been told on a number of occasions now that I'm looking a little pallid.

The mirror confirms my skin isn't in the best of shape.

Yet again, I've neglected my wardrobe. Two pairs of jeans are in the bin, the third is cultivating a significant breach in the right knee.

Recently, I've fallen into a pattern of three posts a week. I don't know how this happened, although I suspect a latent desire for a surge in stats. I convinced myself writing practice is the overarching drive, which I'm sure, overall, it is. Or maybe superstition is tugging at my taupe jumper; I'm simply averse to the idea of an October tally of thirteen posts!

Still, something had to give. I can't keep up the pace I've unfairly set myself. So it was with sweet relief (and worry) that at the beginning of this week, I found myself clueless as to what to pen. My head, a blank. My imagination, in a stupor.

Between you and me, I was secretly pleased I was unable to join in this week's 100 Word Challenge as the prompt, a ghoulish recipe - in keeping with Halloween - didn't feel suited to the short story I'm telling. Then I did something liberating. I have a back log of memes I've been tagged in dating back to the beginning of this year that, embarrassingly, I haven't responded to, probably never will, and barring a chosen few, I just deleted them all. Yes, all. I do feel chastened by guilt at my impetuous action - and I am very sorry to those *bloggers who kindly thought of me - but it was the right thing to do. I felt relief. Maybe it's the time of year? Like nature in her current riotous dismantling, I'm offloading baggage. (*Please don't let this put you off tagging me, I just needed a clear out).

You see, this week, I've needed a little space, some downtime, some small separation from my laptop.

On Tuesday morning, whilst delighting at crisp blue skies, Little A and I decided an outing to Kew Gardens would be a jolly fine thing to do. There, we busied our time in the children's outdoor and indoor play areas. Apart from an alarming few moments where I thought I'd lost Little A, my feet frozen to the floor, waves of head spinning panic wracking my limbs, we had a deliciously wonderful mummy and daughter time together. We luncheoned on fish pie, ham sandwiches and a necessary slice of lemon drizzle. Little A befriended an older girl who clung to a cream teddy. And, to my surprise, she conquered the big curly wurly slide; "again, again Mummy, let me go again," she cheered triumphantly with rosy zeal in her cheeks.

But it wasn't until we strolled peacefully down paths lined with fiery autumnal bursts and the odd Japanese Pagoda Tree, that I found myself attuning to a more peaceful rhythm. And then, in the quiet, in the moment's chill, ideas for posts greeted me like welcome friends.

When my inner voice tells me to S.T.O.P, I need to pay a little more attention. Having a weighty expectation of how much I should or shouldn't write is no good for my creativity. "Just stop Older Mum", I hear the voice gently prodding. Okay, I will. Besides, I need to conserve energy for One Week!

So in an effort to trim my ambition, this will be my one and only post for the week.

Do you respond to every meme you've been tagged in?
When do you like to take a break from blogging?

Season(s) of Motherhood

The other afternoon, I found myself quietly watching and wondering from the rectangular frame of Little A's bedroom window. Her room resides at the back of our flat. The window looks out onto the neighbouring street lined with cars, fallen leaves, and the half eaten rejects, the only visible clues, of stringy, malnourished foxes. I enjoy looking out of this window. I love the simple past time of watching people go about their day. I just hope that no one spots my voyeuristic curiosities as they pass thirty feet below.

On this particular afternoon I view mothers and minders pushing rain coat laden buggies, frowning and smiling by turns, hurrying dawdling toddlers on yet another school run. The local 'old boy' is carrying far too many shopping bags than his stooping back will allow. Over the road two parents are unburdening their car of two dogs, three children, and a weathered buggy. This family have always intrigued me. Both parents work, and I assume are doing 'well', as they have not one but two live in nannies. Their children, all under five, are very close in age. Their little boy is only weeks older then Little A - I can remember his mother stepping out of the backseat, hobbling towards the front door, with the tell tale infant carrier in hand, my thoughts focusing on the scene - how this could be me in the days to come.

My eyes search the top of the road where it meets the main thoroughfare, commuter traffic quarrels, buses hum, cyclists roll by. Then my gaze is robbed by the trees. Their tops are painted in splashes of fiery colour that seem at odds with the seamless green below, like a hairdresser has dyed one half of his client's head. I am clearly reminded that it is Autumn, the season of reduction, that nature is effortlessly undressing herself, while I remain the same, untouched by transformation, fully clothed in yesterdays foliage. Is Autumn really here? Where's it all gone? What have I been doing?  

Sometimes, I feel stuck in the same season. It's not Spring or Summer. They imply newness and life. It can't be Autumn. Too much colour. Too much change. That only leaves Winter. Motionless, never ending Winter. Days and weeks can feel like an undying loop of 'same'; same breakfast, same games, same park(s), same casseroles, same shopping list, same clothes line... I try to find sparks in the mundane detail, "look at that bright yellow car over there Little A", "let's go collect some leaves today," "does the dinosaur hamster live in that bush?" I do my very best to add colour to the daily routine; I play the googly eyed monster, I play giddy up horsey, I am most things Little A requires of me. But so often my enthusiasm is found wanting, caged by the monotony...    

Some days, I fly away to a different destination, an alternate reality, a childless fantasy of career, sleep, and free will. I pine for the old world, a time bound place of structure and daily definition. A world where I wasn't constantly on watch. A world where I wasn't perpetually worrying about safety. A world where my head wasn't invaded by frightening thoughts of suffocation, abduction and death. I revisit the shades of grey I felt about having a baby. Do I, daring to say the word, 'regret' having Little A? No! Not in a million galaxies. Not in the space before time existed. A world without Little A is no world at all. I love her with blinding ferocity, from the furnace of my core. The ambivalence's I feel confuse, upset and coddle in guilt. I never realised the work of a mother meant embracing so many conflicting feelings - am I alone in this experience? I like to think not.            

But when I look back upon the past, to the days before Little A, I also realise these too were filled with prediction, banality, and boredom. Was my life really more interesting, more stimulating, more fulfilling? In some ways yes, but in many more ways, no. The difference now, the burden of life as a stay at home mother, is the solitude, the lack of mature company. So recently, I dusted down my diary and filled our weekends with adventures with friends, especially those with children, in a bid to satiate my need for social connection other than my darling daughter. My blog is a great friend too but it's not the same as face to face chit chat over a slice (or three) of lemon drizzle cake and a cup of finely brewed tea.

I need to remind myself that although Winter might appear inert, fixed in silence, underneath the cold mossy bark, the icy mud, the sodden grey grass, lies dormant potential, the longing for reinvention. Soon Little A will leave her toddler years behind her. I don't want to wish these precious years away but I am looking forward to a new season, one where I flower again. Life may seem static, paused on red, but I also know that in this unmoving there lies a paradox; underneath my tired expression, underneath the faded jeans, the woollen jumpers, the ageing underwear, I'm changing, the person I once was is no more, can never be, but who I am set to become is for now a blank page...

This was inspired by a recent post by Sara Bran that really resonated with me.