Over (and out)

I am eating the remains of a New Year's curry. Me and her stayed in and ordered a saag bahji, saag panir, cauliflower bahji, brinjal bahji, a tarka dall, and chowed most of it down with a portion of pilau rice between us. Younger Dad, only not so young anymore (psst, he's 38 this year), saw in 2016 with his mates in Norwich. I don't do New Years Eve - give me a warm bed, a grand novel and my bed socks any day.

And today, the first day of the year, I've been rewriting this post over and over in my head, over being the salient word.

I'm throwing in the towel, taking the decorations down, closing the door. But carefully. I must take care to wrap the baubles in finest tissue, not to tread and crush out the fairy lights. Everything must be dismantled gently, stowed away with love, as I may need it all again, yes - I'm sure that I will... someday.

...this blog, this blog, what it has given me, or maybe I should rephrase that to what I've given myself.

Never thought to write, it was all a ruddy great accident at the time. But light is so often found in the darkest of corners - thank you post natal illness, thank you anxiety, thank you fear.

And I was in a muddle when I started this, when I wrote the first words. A mother to an eighteen month year old. A mother. A mother who had forgotten herself, saw the curtains drawn instead of the stars, who couldn't see beyond the bridge of her nose, the future and the journey.

One post followed another and then another.

And now... and now I am a writer, a therapist, a yogaholic. I have cut off my hair. Had a tattoo. Plan another. I am not sad or anxious. I'm in a pretty good place. I have finally made peace that I will only ever be a mother to just one beautiful child, but the decision feels right - no more doubt and vacillation, and anyway, my body clock has ticked on, and I have been lucky, so very lucky. I have clarity, the fog lifted on the road ahead. Illness has moulded and shaped me. The person I was before my daughter seems unfamiliar and unmade, just a different person I guess.

I don't call her Little A anymore. How can I? Little she ain't, the height chart, the marks on the wall confirming otherwise. She turns six at the end of this month, and I don't feel as comfortable writing about her anymore. Or maybe I've simply run out of ideas.

I am about to take a greater step back from the blogging community, a community that has supported and nurtured me and my writing. And this I do feel nervous about. I will try to read blogs when I can but I can't make any promises; time has become a squeeze, two enclosing walls - Han, Leia and Luke in the garbage room - and I must organise it wisely.

So I need to create room and sharper focus. I feel split having my creative writing divided between two blogs, and now I need to narrow this down to one.

Closure is important to me. It releases energy, expectation, while granting new ideas.

Thank you dear reader for reading Older Mum in a Muddle, for commenting - your thoughtful words and encouragement have meant the world to me. I wish you a wonderful 2016 and fulfilment in whatever projects lie ahead.

And if you wish to adjust your television set, you'll find me twiddling words on my other blog, Sadie Hanson. But never say never - a moment may arise when I'll need this space again.

My word for 2016? Bold.

Over and out.

The Listening Walk

It was such a strong urge, to get out, clear my head, find the rhythm in my soles; they were squeaking. The overwhelming need to feel underwhelmed. Sometimes it all gets a little too much, sometimes I just have to stop, to quit the thinking, to shut down the task.

I'm dressed in lounge wear; black yoga pants, neutral sweatshirt, a blue jacket and raspberry crocs dusted in dried earth from weeding the borders. Casual clothes for a casual walk. There's a slight chill and the lightest breeze, but in the sun it feels good and warm, like I'm wrapped in an eiderdown of yellow feathers. The streets have that dozed-out feel, stationary and quiet, the tuned-out lull of a bank holiday weekend. I close my eyes and walk slow, with purpose, filtering the life around, stealing the detail, all the sounds and smells, trusting in my feet as they scrape against loose and buckled pavement...

... Husky wood pigeons and a crow, its caw-caw'ing like a shrill firework. Children's voices behind a garden fence, the bounce of a ball, the lower tones of parents, library murmurs, and the charcoal aroma of a BBQ. I stop to take pictures. A dandelion head, an iris, the pink tree. A woman is vacuuming her car, dried blossom crunches under my shoes; I love the crisp sound, the disintegration, the brown powdery afterthought. Some driveways are precise, manicured, while others are overgrowing in weeds and sky-blue forget-me-nots. I close my eyes again, hear water slosh and music thump, the guttural rumbling of a light aircraft over head and a bus engine's old-aged strain as it climbs an easy hill.

I need to make more changes, prioritise my yoga practise, cut down on sugar and wheat. I've been thinking about a fundamental change in my diet; I'm drawn to the paleo way of eating, I was thinking of trying it for a month over summer. I like the thought of hormonal equilibrium. I used to wake up at dawn and meditate for an hour, a graceful beginning that assembled me for the day. Then I had a baby, and motherhood became the eternal contemplation. On my shelf sits a book, Buddhism Plain and Simple, perhaps I need to read it.

Another walk, this time early evening, a dusky walk in melon light. Again in yoga pants. Again in squeaking crocs. I close my eyes and think of the moment, full of birdsong and the smell of spring warmth rising. I open them and watch a pigeon fly low over telegraph wires and bungalow rooftops, like a fat grey missile. I have my camera, and take another picture...

What do you do to chill?

I have been shortlisted in the Writer Category of the Britmums Brilliance in Blogging Awards (BiBs). If you enjoy my writing, please vote for Older Mum in a Muddle; I would love to make the final six.   

My seasonal linky, #oneweek, returns 19-21 May, and it's spring! For more details, take a look here.

Green Fingers

"So then," says Younger Dad, "the garden is your responsibility, I will mow the lawn."

"Oh," I replied.

My fingers certainly aren't in cahoots with the earth. No, definitely not green. I don't enjoy the gritty sensation of soil particles under my nails. The idea of worms wrapping around my fingers. Slug spittle gobbed on stems.

I can't remember the last time I had a garden. I think it was nine years ago. Brambles and nettles. Nettles and brambles. Before that? My home of origin. Sycamore trees. Bluebells. Fat peonies.

When I surveyed our new garden, all I saw was a massive tangle of overgrown weeds. When was the last time this poor garden received care and attention? The previous owners had let it go somewhat, the scene before me mirroring my dark chocolate habit...

Out. Of. Control.

Creeping buttercups - advancing armies of assaulting yellow - choked the flower beds, attacked the gravel pathway. Gangs of dandelions glared with 'what'ya look'in at luv' malicious intent. Tall green villains bullied the remaining shrubs maybe once planted with an 'English garden' vision in mind.

Tools were bought. A pokey prodder thing. A shovel thing. A fork thing. Little A had her very own yellow bucket and blue watering can. Then a week ago, project weed began in earnest. I donned my gardening gloves and began uprooting the green invasion with fervent abandon, hacking away a few feet every day. And while my hands dug in, pulling out wiry white roots, dismantling the intruding infrastructures, Little A collected snails in her bucket, named the ants crawling around her ankles, made brave attempts climbing the silver birch.

And then I made a delightful discovery. One that took me by surprise.

It turns out I love gardening. 

And it works wonders for PMS.

My gardening gloves grew holes. And I didn't mind the crumbs of earth that fell inside. Or the worms my flowered-fabric fingers touched. As each unwanted weed was thrown in the bucket, another bad thought was tossed away. Turning the soil grounded the hot coals in my toes. Cool, calming, stable earth.

The flower beds are now cleared. The soil, dry and naked. A big shop at the gardening centre beckons.

I can't wait.

So far, I have placed the gift of a lavender tree beside the garden fence, planted French lavender papillon - their feathery heads like Native American head dress, potted burgeoning tomato and courgette plants.

Next week, Little A's Jack-and-the-Beanstalk sunflower will find a new home in the borders.