Picking up the pieces

The next time that I'm asked, it's what I'll say. 'What have you been up to?' 'I've been picking up the pieces'. I've been sweeping them up, not in a broken glass, shattered life kind of a way but in more of a searching out all of the good bits, I've gone a huntin' kind of a way. Reflecting, remembering, finding buried treasure, covering up old wounds and burying familiar worries, asking for help which by the way, I hate to do. I HATE asking for help. I'd rather bite off my own paw and then lick and lick and lick my wound in the hope that it will heal just like my childhood dog Sheba would do. As much as she tried to work it out all by herself, those wounds of Sheba's never would heal until my nurse mother would tenderly bandage those gnawed at paws and knot the bandages so cleverly that Sheba would struggle to use her teeth to untie them for a day or so at least, long enough for the wounds to heal a little. Sheba was utterly her own person, not really led or swayed by her companion Snoopy. She was on the difficult side, she was challenging in that way that non box tickers tend to be. She was as stubborn as can be, hence the gnawing of paws. She demonstrated this stubbornness in many different ways, she was and still is the only labrador I ever heard of that would sit in the midday baking west african sunshine, tongue out, panting and gasping for breath and refusing to come into the house when we beckoned her. She would wait. When it either became unbearable or it seemed like moving from the sun was her idea, she would return to her water bowl, take a drink and temporarily find shade. As a young girl I would listen to my mother chastising Sheba, like she was another of her children. She would say things like 'Ooh, you silly thing you're just so stubborn. You couldn't listen to me could you … No! You have to do things on your terms, just when you were ready. Don't you?' My mother would have her hand on her hip and be glancing down at Sheba. Sheba would refuse to look at her. Eventually my mother would lean down and pat her on the head and say tenderly 'You daft apeth!' Sheba would then finally give eye contact and would smile back at my mother. I think Sheba and I are a lot alike.

This is what it is

From time to time, I crave the city. Needing hustle and bustle and people speeding by, faces gazing ahead only focusing on their destination. Sometimes when I'm sat on a bus and I have heard the voice of the person behind me unfolding their bus journey conversation, I wonder what they look like and whether I'll be disappointed when they get off and I finally put a face to the voice. Sometimes if they're especially interesting I wonder if I should follow them and see where they take me. A long time ago I did just that and when I told a friend she looked disturbed. Deeply disturbed! Sometimes I just want to sit at home alone ignoring the dirty dishes and the next load of laundry that needs to go in the machine. Sometimes my longing to do just nothing is so overwhelming that when I get the chance and I finally sit down, I cannot bare to get up to open the windows and back door to let fresh air into the house even though it's a warm day. Sometimes I feel guilty when I spend time indulging my artist self when I know that I could be stripping the meat from the chicken that I cooked last night and preparing my twice cooked chicken stir fry so that I can spend extra time with the kids once they're home. Sometimes I smile at how much pleasure I derive from looking at drawings by illustrators who share my cynical, sarcastic and often sick view of the world whilst simultaneously listening to Gillian Welch and thinking about riding a horse at speed in the Arizona desert even though I have never climbed on a horse before. 

Sometimes when a stockpile of dishes has accumulated, to deter my heart from sinking in a bucket of icy water, I find something really exciting to listen to like an episode from the back catalogue of desert island discs  and I make my chore into a 'moment'. I have my hubby to thank for these 'moments', he does it so well. Sometimes at night, I open my children's bedroom door and cock my ear to hear two different breaths and right there I think of all the other many times I have done the same thing and I think of all of the many days these little people have been in my life and how precious they are. Sometimes I whisper I love you into the eldests ear just so that I can hear his sleepy drawling retort of 'love you too'. Sometimes I tell that youngest of mine stories about 'Master Bobbie' at bedtime and watch in delight as his eyes grow wider waiting for the next instalment and it makes me think of my dad and the stories he used to tell me. He would tell me that one day a coconut fell to the ground and cracked and when it opened, there was a baby inside and that baby was him! It messed with my head a little but I loved to hear this story and its subtle variations over and over and over again. 

Sometimes I go against my natural inclination and I tell those in my life that I care for exactly how I feel about something that hasn't been sitting right and then I begin the painful process of overanalysing what I said and trying to pat myself on the back for being honest and verbalising my thoughts whilst all at once wondering if I should have 'smiled and waved'. Sometimes I think I've let something go and then it leaps back in and I feel disappointed and sad and let down and the worst thing about this type that leaps back in, is that the person who has caused this let down has no idea and if they do have an idea they don't care. And, maybe if the hurt was yours alone you'd manage it but it's the hurt that impacts on another and you have to witness it and it makes you want to scream and do this. Sometimes I realise that the films that my children watch are impacting on my philosophy, I wonder if it is normal for a 38 year old woman to identify so closely with fictional characters in a children's film. That said, I understand that studios have to make films with a multiple demographic appeal so I guess it's ok. 

Sometimes I forget to look into my soul mates green, green eyes and when I find the stillness to do just that, I remember the journey, I remember it all and it is an amazing story, one that I treasure. Sometimes it's ok to not have the words and to not really care. Sometimes it's ok to have african food for breakfast. Sometimes it's just not enough and once I've said so aloud I feel so much better. Sometimes you just feel heart sick, all of a sudden with no announcement or forewarning it's there and won't go away and you have no idea if you're just premenstrual or if it's something buried a little deeper and you catch yourself sighing, again and again. I think it may just be called 'homesickness'. Sometimes all it takes is to pick up the phone and hear the voices of loved ones miles and miles away in deepest, darkest Africa telling you that you are always welcome, that they are simply waiting for you, waiting for that day, just waiting for that day because that's what counts. 

Sometimes life is still enough to notice the dancing shadows

Sometimes, life is still enough to notice the dancing shadows and I love it when it's like this even if it's just for a little while. To feel heat on the soles of your feet, to drink in the smell of the head of your little ones, to sit side by side in silence with each party deeply caught up in their book, their story, digits  and skin occasionally touching, making happy goosebumps as they make contact.

We've had many seasons in a short time. A nasty tummy bug took the eldest boy out for five days over half term. He wanted only me close by his side and he talked and talked, through fever, through pain, he talked and talked. We found a rhythm of old and I quietly enjoyed the memory of early baby days. Waking to check them. Waking to check them. Waking and being woken.

Rediscovering a joy toy from my childhood - the speedball. The eldest and I played this for hours in our backgarden on those generous sunny days we were bestowed as he regained his strength. Those other members of our clan escaped the confines of our house and headed out on adventures of their own. Apparently that youngest boy of ours smiled the biggest of all smiles when he got to ride alongside his papa in the front seat of the car for the first time. He made his first trip to the tip and completed his first solo weekly food shop with his dad - no mean feat I tell you, initiations into manhood for sure!

There was an impromptu mother/son date on a rainy day when two boys were experiencing cabin fever. They were circling and dancing round one another ready to attack like two cocks in a sand pit readying to fight till the death or at least in the moment it felt that intense and in any case there's nothing quite like a little one to one time and especially when it involves maple syrup and american pancakes!

There have been quiet times. Some time all alone with my man, plotting and hoping and chatting and praying about the future, precious soul time with my soul mate. Quiet times alone, reading and writing and taking notes and thinking, processing. Lots of time with dear friends, catching up, listening in, being supported and leaning some their way too. Time spent considering the hardships and trials either faced by me or those around me. I started to think about all of this and I realised that sometimes life is still enough to endure the hard stuff. The stillness leaves enough room for you to step back and notice all the of the crop that is ready to harvest. There is plenty in the fields and plenty more to gather and there will be a feast people, there really will be. So go and gather and bring the feast to the table and share it with those around you and with those that you hold dear.