I am tidying the mess my three children have made.Motherhood has broken me, today.It has hurt me, it has hurt them, and all because I have failed to be perfect.And so have they.
But as I am down on my hands and knees, moving toys from here to there, I understand that I am in two places at once. I am here, among the chaos, among the evidence that three uncontrollable children live here.
And I am also seven years ago, when I paced around the living room, my stomach contracting with a baby that I would never actually get to meet.
Tonight, I know the gift of my children, despite the chaos they sometimes bring.
Tonight, I understand the beautiful silence of that night seven years ago. The same silence as tonight. A silence that asked me, then, to be fully there with my baby because we deserved that time to know each other.
A silence that lives imperfectly, now, for my children.
How often have I done this, since the birth of my blog? How often have I just been here because being anywhere else hasn’t seemed like an option? Many a time.
I feel as though, for a very long time, I’ve been in between here and there. Not quite knowing where here is, and not even willing to guess where there might be.
I get the distinct impression I am meant to find here and stay here, without even a thought or wondering of ‘there’. After all, when we get ‘there’ it will become ‘here’, just as today will always be today, and tomorrow will never come. (I wonder if that makes any sense at all. I am running on very little sleep. I do hope you will forgive me.)
All this rambling makes me think of a moment I had today as I sat upon a picnic rug in our yard, with my baby crawling around at my feet. In my left hand I held a large ball and in my right, a small ball. It occurred to me that without the presence of the other, neither could actually be called ‘small’ or ‘large’. The terms large and small are always relative to something else. How would I know I was holding a large ball if I’d never seen a small ball in my life? I marvel at the wonderful nerdy goodness of that.
And it makes me think of all the other ways us humans have framed our world in order to communicate clearly. What would happen, do you think, if every ‘large’ ball was just a ball? To take it even further, what would happen if every ball was nameless; just an odd sort of circular object that sat perfectly in your hands, without a preconceived idea or purpose. What might we think to do with it if its possibilities were not as clearly defined?
Gosh I’m rambling. I really don’t even know why, or what all this is about, so I will say goodnight. Goodness, I’m tired.
I hope the world is being kind to you, bloggy friends.
I am drinking night-time tea, writing, as if to write to a lover of feelings yet to be spoken.
I’ve been in the garden today. I sometimes wish my Nan was still alive so I could ask her: ‘Is this what it felt like for you?’ She was a big gardener. I thought it must have been because she liked gardens.
I want to ask her if she, too, felt the whisper of the earth and was afraid to tell us. I want to ask her if delicate roots intrigued her, if rose buds felt like dear, sweet children.
Such beautiful voices have been suppressed. Beautiful voices of truth and earthly wisdom, voices of absolute love and dear, dear compassion.
You will not silence me, fearful past.
I will speak of this beauty.
I will shout it, and the world will know its truth.