Nourish Me:: Week Ten:: Putting Myself First

I found this beautiful artwork here

I've been thinking about this post for a while now. I had lots of different nourishing things I wanted to talk about and to share with you. I have been busy doing all sorts of things and thought I could write about some of those but then I realised that I had been putting this subject off. *Sigh*

It's really hard for me to write about attachment parenting without coming up against all of my wants and needs and hopes and dreams for my children. It's hard for me to contemplate letting some of my hopes go but it's harder still to be here struggling, as I so often do, to do the right thing, but ever at my own expense. Does that sound selfish? Then I'll explain.

Right now, I am sitting in my bed at home choking my way through my fifth bout of bronchitis since last Winter. I have asthma so bad that I can't take an in or an out breath without rattling which leads to more coughing, coughing so hard it makes me gag. Coughing so hard I can't sleep. And so finally, at my husband's insistence, I started taking the cortisone that I have resisted taking in all the other episodes I've enjoyed. I started taking the damn cortisone because antibiotics were having no effect. I started taking them even though it meant abruptly interrupting my breastfeeding relationship with my wee Bear. It was not an easy decision to make but I hope that it was the right one.

The house is empty. As in, without the balls of funny, furiously active and beloved energy that are my babes. It is empty because I am worn out, completely run down (despite vitamin supplements and immunity tonics up the yin yang) and struggling to look after my babes with no voice (literally - I have laryngitis too), no energy and no patience . So my ever practical husband called in the reinforcements and his parents stepped up (as they always do - I am amazingly lucky to have the second family that I do) and the wee ones were whisked away to stay with his mum and dad for three, yes THREE, days. So that I can sleep, rest, get well, stop spreading these godawful germs around and find health, if it indeed still resides in this house of lurgy.

My little Finnamon Bun

The children and I have been consistently sick for a year now - since Finn was 2 weeks old and he got his first cold, followed swiftly by his first chest infection and his first dose of antibiotics. As each cold/infection/chesty episode went, within a week a new one was arriving. The children and I have spent more time at the doctors this year than I have at any other time in my life. I even joked to my GP that I should just camp out in his waiting room. Har bloody har.

So the house is empty and it feels... well barren actually. Devoid of life and energy. I can feel how alone I am in this big house that is normally so warm and full of them. I miss them terribly, particularly my wee bear because I keep feeling like he is so small and must not understand what is going on. Part of it is, of course, my ever present anxiety/PND/neuroses, but the other part is the loss of my connection to my babies. No little greedy face smiling up at me between drinks from his beloved boobie. No needs having to be met. No-one trotting in in the night for 'a quick snuggle' before being tucked back into her own bed. No sleepy, pink-cheeked, grumpy little face surrounded by fluffy bedhair, crying softly with eyes still closed, for cuddles, comfort and a return to sleep. Nothing. Just me and my man (even though that is always comforting) and the quiet of an empty house. And in the night I dreamt that I could hear Beanie calling out for me. "Mamma, mamma, no - I want mamma." I woke thinking that she was in the next room and was then stricken because I realised she was far away and I could not comfort her. Could not fold my tousled, long limbed, thumb-sucking, still so young, Beanie, into my arms and give her a mamma's sleepy late night kisses that let her know all is well. All is well.

Yes, she is asleep.

This is why I struggle. I struggle with the need to sometimes put myself and my needs first without feeling horrible guilt. I struggle with being with my kids and being without them. I struggle with wanting needing space and time and rest, and feeling resentful when I don't get it, the need to be there for my children when they need me to. Something has to give, doesn't it? And I've come to the, somewhat obvious, conclusion that it just doesn't always work out the way you want it to. Someone occasionally has to lose, if only for a little while, and up until now that has been me. I have consistently put myself second and have dragged myself through the days bone weary and tired beyond belief. I have done it when I have wanted to and when I would have given anything to be in a galaxy far, far away. And it has taken it's toll on me mentally and physically.

And this is where I find attachment parenting a little unyielding (and I am prepared to admit that the unyielding part may be just my interpretation of its ethos. I do set my own parenting bar very high). The co-sleeping I love right up until the part where I can't turn over because I have about a square inch of bed to myself and nowhere to put my arms, or I'm getting kicked in the back or boobs, or hit in the face by small arms and legs. Or, God forbid, there is a delicious warm sensation underneath me which suddenly and inexplicably goes cold and wet. The breastfeeding I love except where I get bitten and pinched and where I worry that I am going to affect Bear's health long term by giving him boobie milk tainted, no matter how minimally, with anti-depressants or the fact that he needs to stay attached to the boobie long, long, long after he has fallen asleep and immediately wakes up if I try to disconnect him. The carrying I love (and do a lot of ) right up to the part where my scoliosis plays up and the hip displacement joins in, just for funsies. The gentle discipline I love right up until the part where I want to tear my hair out and scream because trying to get my girl to do ANYTHING without a major meltdown is seemingly impossible, to the point where even my hubble is losing his cool and this man is second only to the Dalai Lama in terms of being peace. I love it all right up until the part where I am worn out, run down and in need of sleep and rest and peace.

Photo by eikei

Don't get me wrong. I don't intend to give any of these things up entirely. I love carrying the wee man for the most part. I love having him in bed with me and have done up until recently when I realised how much I missed being able to stretch out and not worry about accidentally walloping the wee man in the head. I sleep so lightly that its become almost impossible to have the bubs in the bed for any length of time. And you know, I want to be able to put him down in his cot and have fall into a much needed sleep, without me having to stand over him for 45 minutes. And I've noticed something interesting about this. Sometimes he'll be in my bed and restless, grizzling and turning over and over, so I scoop him up, pop him down in his cot and he goes straight to sleep. Perhaps even he needs a little space to himself now.

I guess what I'm trying to say, and what it has taken me over 4.5 years to learn, is that I have to take what works for me and leave the rest. Even if that does make me feel like a 'fake' attachment parent (and honestly, what parent isn't attached to their child?). I have to accept that in order to give them the best of me, I need to put myself and my needs first when I can. Mamma needs her body, her mind, her sleep, to herself sometimes. I need to trust that I am enough even in those areas I fail seemingly every day. Who gets it totally right? Even attachment parents who do everything by the book get things wrong. We are fallible human beings and it has taken me a lot of time and sadness to realise this. I won't be the 'perfect' mamma no matter how hard I try. I can only be me - a woman who stumbles and falls all the time, but still gets back up and tries again, tries harder. I have spent a lot of time wanting to be other people. It's probably why I studied acting. Yet, comparing myself to others never made me feel any better about being myself. It just gave me a whole other box of reasons to dislike myself and to question hate myself as a parent. I do want to get my issues under control. Of course i do. But I want to do without beating myself up all the time. I DO hold myself accountable. I DO take responsibility for myself and my actions but I don't need to exacerbate the problem with unkindness and a lack of compassion for myself. In some ways, I am still a child too. I need to put aside the fear based thoughts of what will become of my children in the future because what I have 'done to them' in the past, and trust, really trust, that their innate goodness, their own unique light, will shine no matter what. And that loving them, as deeply and as overwhelmingly as I do, will be enough. That I will be enough.

So my nest is empty and I am trying to drop into this new space and take care of myself without my thoughts consistently swinging towards my Beanie and Bear, wondering how they are, if they want to come home, if they are needing me... and concentrate on getting well. I'm not used to it. Normally I relish my time alone simply because it is so fleeting. Now I have three days of it and I don't know what to do with myself. My hubble insists that I sleep. He has told me, in no uncertain terms, that 'resting is not the same as sleeping'. I guess he doesn't get how restful crafting is for me but he's also got a point. Sleep is the one thing that has been consistently missing from my life for 4.5 years. Nourishing, deep, deep, restorative, dreamless sleep. Is that possible for me I wonder? I am so attuned to my babies sleep rhythms that I suspect that this kind of sleep may still elude me.

In my immediate future I forsee lots of expressing (not quite ready to give up feeding the wee boy yet, just while I am on nasty cortisone), knitting, sewing, napping, eating maltesers, reading, napping, watching movies, napping and then some of the aforementioned sleep.

I will leave with my sweet nourishy bites because everyone needs something cheerful at the end of a long rant.

:: watching :: Game of Thrones. If you haven't, you must. MUST.

:: loving :: crafts, crafts, crafts. Oh I have discovered dry needle felting and I cannot be stopped! Show and tell next post.

:: longing for:: this illness to be gone and to feel truly well again. Punching the air and leaping into the air kind of well.

:: looking forward to :: being rid of the old man 60-a-day phlegmy smokers cough, to finishing Finn's sheepy pants and starting on my 'Tea Leaves' cardigans for me and the Beanster (thanks DocWitchy!). Oh and starting on a little project for my lovely lady Sol-Y-Luna - she of the big heart and healing hands. She gave me a massage and now I am giving her something soft and warm and knitted, just for her own self.

:: heading towards :: adventure. Maine being the focus of that adventure. We are seriously looking into moving to Maine for a few years, just so that I can enjoy some snow and some time in the Northern Hemisphere, where everything makes sense to this northern girl again.

:: enjoying :: the cold, the mist, the bare trees, the occasional hail, the spare simplicity of Winter in the southern hemisphere. Audio books - fiction mainly because I have overdosed on non-fiction in recent years. It feels good to just sit back and enjoy a different kind of yarn (often with my yarn!). My creativity being stimulated by the lovely Goddess Leonie's e-courses and Goddess circle group. Don't be put off by the hippy look of the site, the woman is sharp as a tack and gives an amazing package for those creative ladies who want to delve further into their creativity or start up a new business. There is even a Goddess Circle which gives you access to support from other women and a chance to make connections. It's awesomeness. Chai, mocca lattes, Kate Bush and her wonderful album The Hounds of Love. Now that's winter in an album. The link takes you to my absolute favourite track from the album. Listen to it and you'll understand why I love it so much.

::making:: more wool roving summer fairies but this time with embellishments (piccies to come), sewing little birds for summer swaps, winter things for winter swaps and the beginnings of a daily rhythm chart for Lily, so she has some idea of what is happening next. It makes our days more peaceful if we have our path illuminated somewhat.

:: surprising myself ::  not at all.

:: feeling :: weak and tired but at least I'm resting.

:: hoping for :: good health, energy and some time with good friends.

:: grateful for :: my supportive hubble and his amazing family.

And I've added a new nourishy bite - 

:: just for funsies :: Funniest video on YouTube - I'm afraid that this is why people of the pagan persuasion are not often taken seriously. And where are they running to?

A Question of Faith

So, today I went to my first PND/Positive Parenting meeting and discovered that I am not the only one who is often ashamed, mortified, saddened and generally depressed about aspects of my mothering.

I discovered that I am not the only one who regrets her words the instant they leave her untamed mouth. Nor the only one who struggles under the weight of all this guilt. I discovered that I am not alone on this fiery path towards motherhood. And it was good.

Still, I found that even as I recognised myself in the other women present. Even as I felt that shiver of relief in our shared experiences, I felt set apart. Maybe we all did. Maybe, deep down, everyone was still thinking, 'Yes, I agree. But still, if you saw me when I (fill in the blank) you would see how bad/how hateful/how childish/how vengeful/how resentful/how evil... I really am and you would judge me.' Maybe everyone still thought that they were the 'worst' mother in the room. But not me. I'll admit that this is definitely what I normally think. But not today. Instead I felt blessed to be me. I felt blessed that my life was not as contaminated with sadness and anxiety as some of these other women's were. I saw their pain on their faces. I heard that tremble in their voices as the struggled to speak through all that self-anger and hopelessness they often felt. I felt myself reaching out to soothe, to offer words of support, words of comfort - even though I myself struggle with the self same issues that they do. I wanted them to feel better. I wanted them to know that just being there, in that group, offering the gift of their honesty despite the shame, put them streets ahead of other mothers. Being there was one big neon sign of love for our children. We want to change. We own our problems and we want to deal. We need to. I felt humbled and I wish these women could see what a gift their journey was to me.

I was beautifully reminded that despite my shortcomings, I have support. I don't have a husband who dismisses me, who comes home after work and offers nothing but criticism for those shortcomings. Or who spends all of his time belittling my struggles and pointing out everything that I am doing wrong. I was blessed by that reminder but I wished I could have hugged the mother whose story this is.

My empathy for other people's suffering runs fairly deep. (The one and only time I ever did coke, I spent the entire time weeping and crapping on about Tibet and the plight of the Dalai Lama!). This is not always a good thing. I can so easily put myself in someone else's shoes that it can be a bit of a burden. I get depressed/upset/angry for them. I want to fix everything - make everything better for them, which is really not my place. Still, the good effects outweigh the bad I think. Often it makes me realise, as it did today, that my struggles are not so bad. That my struggles don't have the bitter sharp edge that some of theirs do. It reminded me that if I can show compassion for their sufferings, their struggles, then it should be just as easy to show the same compassion for my own. After all, they are the same struggles for the most part! That was also comforting. It was like being given a 'Get Out Of Jail Free' card for my bad days. 

That's not to say that I won't still spend my time analysing, reflecting, and yes, often beating myself up, about those bad days. It's more that I can now draw on that  experience and try to remember to treat myself as I would treat any one of them, without hesitation. Which is kindly, respectfully, gently and with understanding. One of the women said her sister, who had also struggled with motherhood, had a badge made up that said 'Hello. I Am Trying My Best!' I think we would all wear one because we all want people to understand that we really are trying our hardest to deal. We are embarrassed and often ashamed of ourselves or our children's behaviours. We feel the eyes of judgment shifting in our direction and we feel more stressed as we try so hard to get it under control. What wouldn't we give for a knowing smile that says, "I've been there honey. I know how you feel," or "don't worry, this too shall pass!." It is so very rarely there though and this is a great shame. Motherhood seems to come with a lot of unnecessary judgment. Each one of us makes choices to raise our children to the best of our ability and with the best of intentions. It doesn't always run smooth. It doesn't always run at all! But the truth is everyone is doing their best. There are not many truly awful, careless, cruel mother's out there and so this is not so much of a sweeping statement as it is an acknowledgement that everyone, even those mother's who do things that make us take in a sharp breath every now and then, are doing their best. Or are trying to and maybe what they need most right now is a hug, or a kind smile or a compassionate comment rather than hostility and judgement. I know there are days when I feel like screaming. Days where Beanie seems to just have her compass set to 'naughty little minx' and turned all the way up to 11. I can hear my frazzled voice, my irritation, a feeling of wanting to just run away and leave her in the store whining about yet another Easter Egg and trying to sneakily pick away at the chocolate without me knowing. And all it takes is another mother to smile and say, 'they are cheeky at this age, aren't they?' and it allows me a pause in the moment to know that I am not alone. Sometimes that's enough. Sometimes.

In all this struggle and particularly at the end of (very long) days like this, it's really all about finding my faith in myself as a mother. Trusting that the decisions I make (and agonise over) will be the right ones for my children. That if I can't go with my first choice, I can go with my gut. That I won't be making life-long, soul scarring mistakes if I choose wrongly occasionally. And that is hard for me. It's hard for me to make mistakes. It's hard for me to know that I am not perfect when I am a perfectionist. I actually think that many of the women in my group suffer from the same malaise and maybe that's another reason we are all there. We set the bar so high that we can never hope to attain it and then punish ourselves over each and every fail. It's hardly a recipe for good mental health, is it? So, how do I go about finding my faith in myself? How do I manage to stand in the midst of all the chaos (inner and outer), and still find the self-belief to know it will all be alright? To trust that there is a divine inner guidance operating and to allow that to lead the way? I honestly don't know. I do know that finding some inner, if not outer, quiet would be a start but then that's a subject for a whole other post.

I would love to hear how faith operates for you in your lives, as mother's and as people. Where do you go to find your own nourishment, the sustenance you need to continue to be a good mother, partner, wife, employee etc? What do you put your trust in? Or who?

  

Nothing Compares To You

Wonderful (but just the tiniest bit tiring?)

Reading through other people's blogs gives me inspiration. I love the colour, the thoughtfulness, the raw edges exposed. One of the reasons I trained to be an actor was because I wanted to live all those other lives. Lives that were not open to me, that I would not choose or that I would. Lives that I admired and despised. And so it is with blogging. I visit, I enjoy, I swoon, I covet, I crave, I am inspired. And yet. Sometimes the very blogs that give me the most pleasure are the ones that can make me feel the guiltiest. Strange really. How something that can give you joy can make you feel bad about yourself.

Paint my skin with the poetry of truth.

I realise that for me it is in comparison that the folly lies. I compare my life to the (seemingly ideal) lives of women who, to me at least, are doing it 'right'. The women who grow their own veggies, make their own clothes, knit with love, clean their houses naturally, recycle, reuse, repurpose. All things I do or aspire to do, with varying degrees of success. Our veggie garden being one of my failures this year. Most of what we planted didn't grow and I didn't have the energy to give it sufficient attention. See, I WANT to be someone who loves gardening but I'm not. It's just one more thing to do. One more responsibility in a life that already feels over full. I WANT to be a grounded, down to earth mamma with nothing more pressing in my life than raising beautiful, happy children. Sometimes I can feel myself getting closer to that ideal but then my Rooster self pops up with a 'What about me?' and I slip into resentment and yes, guilt. It seems I can never convince myself that I am enough. I know myself only in the failures of my mothering journey. Never in the successes. It is a slippery slope of wanting to be more than I am and never quite getting there.

Comparing myself to these wonderful women is not inspiring. It is depressing quite frankly. I love the lives they lead. The quiet purposefulness of their approach to living and loving. I love their brilliant creativity, their beautiful prose, their still souls. Yet. I am unlike them. My soul burns with this restless fire. I long to create but when I do get the time, I waste it with seemingly important tasks which do not feed this creative fire. I am permanently dissatisfied. I have so much gratitude for the life I live and the people in it, yet it never seems 'enough'. I am part of the universal malaise that is a constant craving for 'more'. More what exactly? In lives that seem simpler, more profound with less - what is there to want, to need, to buy? And yet, there it is. In all it's shameful glory. This ache within me that wants more. More recognition, more time to myself, more time to create, more skill, more patience (oh yes please God - more of that), more wisdom, more stillness, more life, more passion, more money, more freedom, more space, more, more, more. I am never satisfied with what I have. Worse - with who I am.

I am an open book, in want of a reader.

I try. I do. I have come to this place time and again. I know myself to be a Rooster. A bossy, loud, disorganised, funny, colourful, lazy, impatient, sarcastic, know-it-all Rooster. But I want to be a swan. A glidy, quiet, silken, peaceful, compassionate, patient swan. Why? I crave peace. I crave silence. But when you go into the silence - hoo lordy - the noise that emerges could deafen you from 20 years away. And I ping pong back to reality and lose myself there with a million excuses so that I don't have to truly sit with any of it. And so, instead of 'doing' well, anything actually, I lurk around other people's blogs like some creepy cyber-stalker with one hand down my pants, and dream of being someone who home-schools their progeny, cans their own produce, eats well and takes fantastic photographs. Someone who exercises and loves it. Someone who loves their kids and never gets frustrated with them or swears bilingually at them. Someone who is splendid in her mothering and spectacular in herself.

Coming up for air.

But that's not me.


This is me:

1. Overweight but too feckin' tired to do anything about it.
2. Eats badly and craves too much salt, sugar and chocolate. And I'll admit it. I LOVE McDonalds. I do. I hate the business but love the food. Please don't hate me. 
3. Is frequently impatient and grumpy with her beloved children and hubble. 
4. Whinges frequently. (Well, I am British).
5. Is never satisfied because the grass is always greener...
6. Spends too much money (even though it's on charity shop buys and books).
7. Says 'fuck' a lot. A real lot. With 'bollocks' inexplicably making a reappearance recently. (I do like that word though. It's satisfying in the mouth - if you'll excuse the horrible double entendre).
8. Is driven crazy by her willful, beautiful, funny but seriously stubborn and feisty daughter. She  make me want to tear my hear out, cry and laugh all at the same time. Every. Day.
9. Has a terrible, unseemly obsession with books. Library books, second hand books and new books. It's an addiction. Relentless Book Sluttery. I buy them and then they sit on my shelves unread. I currently have over 65 library checkouts (though some of them are for my girl). I think I have OCD.
10. Am chronically sleep deprived yet often sit up until 1 or 2am being aforementioned online stalker of superior blogs.
11. Hates cooking and is frequently found slumped in front of pantry bulging with 'stuff' unable to come up with any kind of creative combination that is edible. That hasn't stopped me buying beautiful 'wholefood' cooking books obviously.
12. Loves the cloth nappy idea (and my gorgeous colourful itti's) but detests scraping retch inducing poop off nappies, before putting them in the washer, (over and over again), until the stains come off. The smell of ammonia is unbelievable and it is not water friendly in our drought ridden state.
13. Loves plants. Loves the idea of homesteading. Hates gardening. 
14. Loves to write but just doesn't.
15. Has grand dreams and ambitions (and is often jealous of other people's successes even though she is glad for them) but does buggar all about them.
16. Is a good friend most of the time but doesn't seem to have that gene that disposes one to be really thoughtful. I wish I did. I think of things after the fact and then am sad that I didn't do more.
17. Is often creatively inspired and excited about some new idea or project, but then gets bored or discouraged if its too hard or if I can't 'get it' immediately.
18. Is lazy.
19. Irreverent.
20. Judgmental.
21. Loves her bed more than her husband and children. Almost.
22. Let's her girl watch too many movies in an effort to have a moment to herself. (Or to sneak a nap with the wee bear).
23. Is guilty of setting the bar way too high for herself in just about every area of life.
24. Doesn't know how to adjust bar.
25. Hates reading manuals. To anything. But has more parenting books that Barnes & Noble, Angus & Robertson and Waterstones combined.

The Naked Truth

However, this is also me:

1. Funny.
2. Excitable.
3. Fun (at least, I used to be).
4. Loves Nature and yes, that now includes camping. Who knew?
5. Loves books.
6. Loves poetry, literature and writing - even if she doesn't have time for any of them.
7. Loves her man and her babies. A lot. A very lot. An inescapably, frighteningly, overwhelmingly lot.
8. Hates letting people down.
9. Gives generously when the mood strikes.
10. Loves op shops (thrifting) and would throw them down by the fire and make sweet love to them if they were people.
11. Is eclectic and let's face it, a wee bit eccentric.
12. Is passionate about many things but mostly about being a good mamma.
13. Is very creative. Even if what I make is shit by my own standards.
14. Talks a lot but is learning to listen well.
15. Occasionally takes great photos.
16. Loves craft of any type.
17. Is deeply spiritual but lazy.
18. Always has the best of intentions but frequently falls short in their execution.
19. Is soft hearted, kind natured and compassionate.
20. Cries easily and often.
21. Is dramatic.
22. Is very adaptable and quick to pick up new things.
23. Isn't afraid to try new things.
24. Is charismatic, charming and engaging.
25. Is inspiring.
26. Is brave. Often. Because life often scares me.
27. Tries really, really, REALLY hard.

So - there you have it. The truth in all its gory or glory depending on your perspective. I know that there is a way to find the balance and to not be so hard on myself all the damn time. I am not saying I know what that answer is but at least I'm searching for it. I'm trying. Even if some schools of thought think that trying is wrong.

The Doors of Perception

I am calmed by the sea. The flow of the water reminds me to breathe in and breathe out. And that really, that's all there is. Breathing, watching, walking, eating, loving, sharing, talking, listening, reading, hoping, wondering - it's all just one long extension of the whole breathing thing. And so I lurk and I read and I compare and I feel sad and then I remind myself that this is not all that I am. I am also the second list and that I have parenting wins sometimes. I remind myself that no-one could ever say I didn't try. I know that my roosterness will come in handy one day, I just don't know how yet. And I promise myself to spend less time looking through rose tinted glasses at other people's lives and spend more time living mine. Imperfect as it is.

So there.

Now that's more like it.

All photos courtesy of Bohemian Shoebox 
Please go there to see where the originals came from. Thanks.

{this moment}

{this moment} - A Friday ritual inspired by Soulemamma. 

A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

A Samhain Shower

The Altar

It was a beautiful day. My mother shower fell on the festival of Samhain (Beltaine in the North) and we began with all the triumphant beauty of a sunny Autumn day.

All of the women gathered in the red tent that had been set up in our lounge room. The red tent that has been the backdrop for some many rites of passage, so many brides, so many mamma's-to-be and so many celebrations of lifes gifts. The red tent that my hubby and I had created with our own two hands, that has been embellished and seasoned by the hard work and love of Lausy and Tracey during the many years that we have worked together, and that has meant so much to so many.

Flower Crown

I was welcomed into the ruby womb space through an archway of raised arms, my little Beansters included, while two of my women drummed for me. It was funny and sweet and symbolic of returning to a safe, pre-birth space where I was held and loved in total and absolute joy. I was welcomed and smudged and crowned with flowers as I contemplated the imminent arrival of a second precious little flower into our family. I was given the opportunity to share my fears and to offer my gratitude for all that I have and to let it all go into the perfection of the moment, knowing that there is only one way out of this journey now and that is through it. Trying to find that trust inside of me that knows how to live this birthing journey and trusting the baby inside of me to tell me when and how to move with the tide when it eventually rises.

Becoming a Big Sister

Lily was honoured with her very own flower crown (and totally outshone her mother in it's wearing) and was gifted with her very own Big Sister ceremony. A simple outpouring of love from my big hearted sisters with a blessing on her changing status. Nothing fancy or difficult for a little one to understand, simply an acknowledgment that as my life changes, so does hers.

And then the time of the pappa arrived. He read out a letter to his beautiful wife (that's me) and to his new, as yet unknown, baby. It was beautiful, moving and eloquent as only my man can be and reminded me yet again of how very, very lucky I am to have such a man at my side and in my arms (when he fits!).

My Man, My Child, My Belly and Me

There was not a dry eye in the house for most of the proceedings and I surprised myself by how much I could cry in company. I wouldn't say it was exactly a comfortable experience to be so vulnerable, even with the women who love me and whom I love so much, but it was a cleansing. I think, in some small way my inability to control myself, as I spend so much of my life trying to do, broke down barriers that have needed breaching for a long time. Indeed, when asked about what fears these beautiful women had for me in life and in labour, 'not reaching out for help' was definitely at the top of the list. They reminded me that they know when I'm struggling, even as I try to hide it or retreat in the face of it. They reminded me that I am held even when I think that I am alone. They reminded me that my community of women is so much more than the individuals within it, it is a place to be healed and to be seen, even when you are at your worst and cannot even face yourself. A deep and wonderful blessing indeed.

Beautiful, beautiful Beanie

It was an unforgettable day. Chanting, playing, creating, honouring, sharing and feasting together. Samhain could not have been celebrated more joyfully or more poignantly. And the ripe round bellies of two others of my circle, added to the beauty of the day. I know that I will be just as blessed to attend their Mother Showers when their time comes, as I have been to sit inside my own sacred circle of women and be blessed by their warmth.

 

The Circle is Sacred

And to cap it all off, my mum had flown all the way from the UK at the tender age of 79 to share the day with me and to be a part of this monumental journey into the unknown. She's hoping it's a boy.

Three Generations

And so, as the full moon wanes, as the heavy rains flood the gardens, as autumn takes of hold of my senses and my rhythms I find myself, if not at peace, then at a place of acceptance. Trusting that when my time comes I will be ready, I will find strength, I will be enough. I am able to ride the occasional tide of panic, I am able to sit with all that is and not try so hard to change it. I am able to be here, in this place of suspended animation, waiting for the door to be flung open and for my descent into the unknown to begin. I am able, despite my flaws and my often graceless handling of life's difficulties, to acknowledge how very blessed I am, to see the beauty and the wonder of my life in it's unfolding because this IS my life happening. I am a part of it unfolding whether I am willing or unwilling to participate fully. The 'what is' IS and I am here, witnessing, uncomfortable, afraid, stoical, unready, willing and waiting for it all to unfold into it's inevitable perfection. And I am grateful.

After all, look at what I already have.

Mine

All Mine

One Little Word

Photo by G-Square

Sara over at Mammacraft has a lovely post all about how she chooses one word that sets the tone for her year and it got me thinking. Thinking about what my word might be and how, if I choose it well, it might help me to remember to breathe and to let go when things are getting tough.

I had to think about it for a little while. So many great words popped into my head like LOVE or PATIENCE (sorely needed) or SURRENDER, which, lets face it, is the word that haunts me like the ghost of Greyfriars Bobby. It is my LIFE word. But in the end I chose COMPASSION, which is a lofty word but also a simple, easily understood one.

I am not as compassionate as I would have thought. In delving into the meaning of this word ('awareness of the suffering of another coupled with the wish to relieve it.'), and what I think it can bring to my awareness this year, I realised it had the potential to be truly transforming. I also realised that the two people who needed my compassion the most are the same two people who receive it least often - my beautiful Beanie-girl me and me. And that was both surprising and terribly obvious.

I am aware of my own suffering, some of it needless - a case of suffering over my suffering if you will. I am acutely aware of my daughter's suffering, even though she is not and aware that I am the cause of much of it, even when I try so hard not to be. I am aware of every mistake made and every wrong choice. What I need to be aware of is every right choice made, every kind word, every good decision and every time I get it right, as opposed to so very, very wrong. What I need to be aware of is her smile, her curiosity and her unbelievable awe at the world and allow myself to be more often humbled by them. I need to remember that there is no time for us but now and that I can't afford to waste even a second of it because it will never come again. Hence compassion. When I am angry or frustrated, if I can breathe and unclench and remember that I am, fundamentally, a being of love and grace, then maybe I can bite my tongue before I lash out verbally. If I can remember to be compassionate with myself, then maybe I won't be so bitter about my mistakes or so ruthless with my imperfections. If I can remember to be compassionate to my child, then maybe I won't take everything so personally and I will stop trying to escape from the 'what is' in favour of the 'what I wish was'. A tall order I know, but then maybe I need a small but lofty emotional ambition this year because without it I fear I may drown.

I don't think that this word/heart journey will be easy. I have gotten so used to being hard on myself and my child that I know I will forget more than I remember. But I have hope. Hope of a change in the dynamic of our relationship to one of gentleness and tenderness instead of aggravation and struggle, because it is only a lack of awareness in the heated moments that prevents me from being the mother I long to be. And it is only my desire to change this that allows me to face each new day.

And so, I invite you to choose your word for the year and, if you want to, share it with me. You can do a link back to this post if you like and we can take a gentle little journey through all the simple words that touch our hearts and inspire our journeys.

Inner Child - Free To Good Home...

Pic from here

So - I've been AWOL for a bit. I've been feeling a bit Eurgh! and definitely a bit Gah! and so I've been trying to flow gently through each day without needing my usual Cafe-Mocha-Vodka-Valium Latte. It's been fine and challenging in equal measure. The PND Fairy is getting a bit blase about all the mood enhancing, calming, balancing herbs I've been on, but I have at least been able to avoid the anti-depressants, which has pleased me muchly, even it makes things a bit hard sometimes.

I've been having a bit of counselling and it has mainly focused on a lot of inner child work. I am strangely resistant to it. I guess I feel that I left my childhood behind a long (looong) time ago and I don't particularly want to revisit it. I'm also not at all convinced that revisiting it and 'rescuing little Kat' is going to help my present situation all that much. Of course I don't know that for sure but it just feels a bit weird, even by my hippy dippy witchy-poo standards. So yes, bit unsure about this one. I've been instructed to 'play' with my inner child, both with and without Lily. That's an interesting instruction. Don't get me wrong - I'm totally the sort of parent who will willingly fling herself onto a jumpy castle the moment the attendant isn't paying attention. I will happily squeeze myself through squashy rollers at the indoor play centre and I climb ladders and whizz down slides with the best of them. The problem with all this 'playing' is that I have no idea how to do it 'with' my inner child. Little Kat has been suffering, one would suppose, from a lack of attention from me, just as Beanie sometimes does. I guess just as I detach from Beanie when emotional overwhelm threatens or when I simply need a 'time out', I have detached from the inner Kat too. But how do you then encourage the inner you to show up and 'have some fun dammit!' I'm not sure. I am sort of combining it with my Artists Date from the Artists Way by Julia Cameron. (This is a wonderful book on creative recovery. It asks some wonderful questions that really allow you to expand out of your narrow world view and re-enter the world of fun and of possibilities. I highly recommend it to anyone even a tiny bit creative and for people who want to grab fun by the balls again.) It seems logical to me that when I take my fun dates, I take the little Kat out for a spin too. I'm planning on going ice skating next week and I'm also planning a trip to Lake Mountain for some toboganning. I managed to score a padded suit for $5 from a charity shop. It's from the 1970's but then so am I so, you know...

Anyway, part of the counselling involved me taking myself off to see the wonderful Jane Hardwicke Collins, a wonderful shamanic midwife and wise woman, for a spot of Birth Trauma work. It was very interesting and I found it very helpful overall. Whilst I don't want to bang on about my childhood or my birth (which, as it resulted in an 'alive and well' status for both myself and my beanie-girl, i'm relatively happy with), it was good to have some time to sit with the disappointments and the grief that comes with any kind of trauma. It also helped me to see where I just have not been willing to take the necessary steps to get well. I know. Eek! It's behind you and it smells of burning flesh! Moi - not stepping up to the plate - surely not! Well, yes. Actually, I have rather been ignoring the totally sound advice regarding my appalling eating habits and have been continuing my total abstinence from any kind of exercise. I also have not meditated. Not once. So - when I say to myself (as I sometimes do) that I am trying very hard and not getting anywhere - its not strictly true. In fact, it's not true at all. I am not trying the three things that would have the most impact on my mood. Now, I am totally dedicated to getting better yet I have been unable, or unwilling, to get stuck in to the very things which everyone recommends for women (or men) suffering from PND. Why is that? Is it the same reason I have trouble connecting with my mini-me? And if so, what is all this resistance in aid of? What am I trying to protect myself from? Is it simply laziness and apathy?

My work with Jane really made me realise that I have to actually take control of this thing. To take the keys, open the door and walk through. If I am truly committed to being the best mum I can be, however uniquely that displays itself, then I need to stop moaning and get on with it. To that end, I have joined a gym (ARGH!). I know. It's a bit hideous but they have a creche and I know from experience that home exercise and Beanie don't mix. They also have a pool - and I like swimming. No doubt I will look like this...

Oh the deep, deep joy of sweating in a room full of other equally sweaty people. And I have mentioned before that exercise makes me angry haven't I?

I know that I also need to find exercise that I do enjoy doing. I have realised that I have censored myself around dance for instance. I LOVE dance. I cry at 'So You Think You Can Dance?' I am entirely moved by great dancers and there is a spiritual quality to movement that I cannot fully express, except to say that when I am in that zone, I am free and I am happy. However, I have not been allowing myself to dance. I realised that this was because I used to be very good at it. Medals and Examinations good. I had actual talent and everything. And now? Well, now I look like the Venus of Willendorf . And strangely this does not make me feel like dancing. It makes me feel heavy and tired and lumpish. Somewhere deep inside of me there is a tiny thought that has latched on like a slimy leech and it tells me that I cannot dance now because I have neither the body nor the talent that I once had. In my mind I may be graceful and light, but in the living room I am like a dancing Jabba The Hutt.


Still, I have to get over myself eventually. It is entirely ridiculous to censor myself in this way. I cannot do anything about the body I have created for myself until I start to enjoy the way it moves. Dance may well bring this comatose body back to life. So I will be attempting to shake my groove thang in the coming weeks.


So it continues to be an interesting journey. It comes in waves and is undone in layers. I feel as if I am in a labyrinth, slowly working my way to the centre of myself. I am becoming increasingly more aware of the areas where I feel I lack something and find myself trying to simply let go. Allowing the stuck places to unwind a little and tell me what they are all about. It's not easy, or particularly pleasant. And then there's all the Inner Child stuff to deal with. But I guess I will continue to unravel slowly and eventually there will be nothing left but me. The authentic self butt nekked for all to see. Perhaps it will be beautiful. Perhaps it IS all beautiful and my struggles with it are merely my distorted perceptions of the what is. We all come from the Divine Mystery and so really, we are a piece of that, no matter how mangled we allow that piece to become. Perfectly imperfect - myself entirely. Now that's a state I can aspire to. A place I'd be happy to stay.

So tune in next time folks for the latest episode of 'Where'd I Put My Mind? I know I left it around here somewhere...'

P.S. Rather than some dirty, snot nosed little whinger in ragged clothes - I'm rather hoping that my inner child looks more like this!

And just for a moment, I am fully present…

I feel the soft sweet warmth of my daughters’ breath, the slow swell of her breathing, her thumb slipping out of her tiny mouth as she soothes herself to sleep. I feel her tiny perfect fingers with mine – they are warm and long and tapered, like mine. I kiss her clammy brow and her hair and cuddle her small, hot body against my cooler, heavier one and I breathe. I breathe her in.

I ask myself to really be here – to be fully present to this moment, resting in the big family bed with my sleeping daughter curled in tightly to me. I ask myself – no thinking – what do you feel? And at once I feel both a staggering passionate love for my child and a huge sadness. I feel a terrifying fear of loss. And a realisation comes to me. Could I fear bringing another child into this world because I fear I would not survive the loss of them?
And from a deep, dark well inside of me, a small, frantic voice says ‘Yes!’ And I weep.

I weep for the child within me that was abandoned – is still abandoned and alone, down there in the deep dark. I weep that my anger is caused by a fear so sharp that I refuse to be present in case it is realised. A fear that my love for my child is so fierce, so all consuming that I would not survive if I were to lose her. I weep because that very fear prevents me from fully feeling the immensity of that love I have for her. And it is a colossal, fiery, passionate, angry, joyful, heart-breaking love that, when fully held within me, threatens to split me open like a ripe bruised fruit and spill the seeds of my very soul onto the ground. I am only present for a moment and I am undone.


I know that with great love comes the possibility of great loss and if we are not willing to lose it all, we are not able to love it all. We do not really hold love as much as we are held by it – love as much as love loves through us. I do not know if I can surrender myself to such a possibility but I know that I will stop trying to create safety in this primal love I have for my child because there is none. She is a gift to me for as long as she chooses to stay and I am not the one in control of that. She is.

I realise, strangely, that I am afraid of love more than I am afraid of being alone. I have been sitting with little fears that I will lose my husband to another woman, or death. I fear serious illness in my child and whisper, ‘Please don’t take her away from me. Take me but not her. Never her.” And mean it. I bargain for the healthy baby I have so that I may never have to experience the excruciating pain of losing her. Yet I use my fear as a shield to prevent that love from ever overwhelming me, which prevents me from fully feeling it, which prevents me from loving her the way I long to. Loving my husband the way I long to. With passion and ardour and complete submission to the Divine Mystery of each other and that breathes through us into one another when we open the doorway of love even a little. Instead, I prefer to live down in the deep dark well of sadness that exists inside of me, where loss cannot touch me because I am not near enough to be seen by it. Or love.

She moves heavily in her sleep – little dreaming grunts and tiny snores – an arm flung above her head, which ducks in towards her mother’s warm lap. She nestles and sighs, snoring into the safety she finds there. I am present again, for a few seconds at least.


There is no mother I know that does not understand that fierce, primal love for her children. That certain knowledge that you would lay down your life for them. That they are precious in a way that nothing else on earth is precious. I wonder if there are any who, like me, fear to love because they live in fear of a greater pain and loss than they could possibly bear. Where does that fear come from? Is it born in us before we are ever mothers? Does it arrive with the ovum when we are mere cells being knitted together by our own mother’s love? Or is the result of the fear DNA felt by my mother when I was a little bunch of cells marking the very surprise arrival of an unexpected and unwanted pregnancy. A pregnancy in a marriage that was volatile and violent and a pregnancy that did not belong to that marriage or to the man that made that marriage such a living hell.

When I look back, fear is there from the very beginning. I see it land in me and I see it play out in my life in a million different ways. Even in my pregnancy with Beanie and then the huge, uncontrollable fear based pain of my labour and birth. Followed by the utter fear that this tiny child, who was now my responsibility - for the rest of my life, would wake up and need something I was completely sure I did not know how to give. And so, this wild, animal love I have for my child and which overwhelms me with it’s ferocity and strength – is stuffed down, at no small cost to my emotional wellbeing ironically, by the fear that if I let it take over, if I surrender to it entirely, it will be the end of me. The ‘me’ that I am entirely in control of at least. The ‘me’ that I know and feel safe being.

Then I am here, in this moment, and the love rises again like a tidal wave and threatens to drown me and so mind kicks in reducing the impact, increasing the distance, keeping me ‘safe’. Safe from love? Safe in fear? Safe in the deep, deep dark? No. I am not safe there. Have never been safe there. There is only one safety and that is in unconditional surrender. To stop this fighting with myself that causes my own mind to drown within me. I cannot mother her well if I am not letting myself feel all of what this mothering journey brings. I am not being true to myself if I do not let this sweet fire of love spread through me and come bursting out of me like a bushfire. I will not be renewed and made whole until I have let it consume me and am reborn from the smouldering ashes. I need to let go and that is the one thing I have not, until now, been truly willing or able to do.

And so. I surrender to you, my precious Lily-Bean and all that love that you bring. May the Divine Mystery burn the fear right out of me until I am only love and can see and hear and give only that. Split me open and let the seeds fall where they may. I am not afraid any more.

(And to think, I was going to write about trees. I took pictures and everything.

Maybe next time).