Life is busy and overwhelming at the moment. I’m better for the tools I’ve found to bring me back to softness (walking, gratefulness, meditation) but it’s a mammoth slog I’ve been through.
And a mammoth slog that lay ahead.
My husband and I are merging two houses into one. House work must be done. Small children must be both survived and parented beautifully, given the monstrously high standards I set for myself.
And I need to write, or create (more than I have been) or I might die. No one is dramatic here. No one at all.
I’ve never been through a period of life that has been so truly exhausting, from all angles, for so long. A million different balls hover in the air around me and I do not know which one to reach for in order to catch it and bring it down.
Not only that, but my spirit is quite literally breaking free from my body, shouting (well, more buzzing and glowing, really) to be let out, to be set free. From something. From everything. The energy that moves through my body so often brings such beauty to my life, but I can also hear it asking to be apart of something more. I wish I had the time, clarity, and grit to give it what it is asking of me.
What did I actually do for others, apart from give them my love? What did I do to help lift their burdens, to help them maximise their true life potential by easing (or helping to expand) life for them in some small, practical way. There were openings and offerings on occasion, of course, but I never did figure out how practical kindness worked when it was outwards facing and flowing.
The practical part was where I tended to get stuck. I’d have a beautiful, heart-warming idea and then I would find some excuse not to follow through. Partly it was because I was (cough: am) a massive procrastinator. More often than not, though, my practical kindness was thwarted by selfishness.
During the time I was separated from my husband — during the very little money part, during the very little time part, during the depression part — I found myself needing to accept the help of others, really for the very first time in my adult life. And, finally, I learned the importance of being there for others.
I did my Pop’s garden, today—I’m ashamed to say, for the first time (usually I’d leave it to my aunties and uncles). But today, I bought the most beautiful statue I could find at the gardening shop, plonked her in the garden bed by the back door, and pruned until a lovely halo of flowers surrounded her soft-grey concrete. Here I was using my kindness and creativity to practically help my most cherished humans. And I knew it was right.
Usually I’d just sit there on family visits, and we’d have tea, and we’d chatter and laugh, and I’d go home feeling beautifully fulfilled and very much loved. Quite selfishly fulfilled, I would say, looking back, now. Today, though, I gave back. And it truly did feel like I had come home.
My Nan was the gardener of the family. She had the softest, kindest heart, with a great big burst of generosity and passion coursing through her soul, and she loved that garden just as much as she loved her family. Roses were her favourite. And now they are mine, probably because they were hers.
So I’m going to make it my mission (well, one of them) to put all my heart and soul into that garden. For my family. Because I love them so dearly, and because they’ve given and given and given to me, in more ways than I’d ever be able to recall.