And so here we are, on the edge of putting some normality back into our routines and life again. On the edge of finding the margins once more, of the boys going to another space for 6 hours a day, of learning how to live with space and openness, learning how to order time to enable us to lean into how loved we are so we can love with open arms of expansive love.
Here we are.
I breathe in deep. These weeks have not come easy, they have been full of slow walking on, riding the waves of times when I felt I could cope and times when I felt myself sinking low, sobbing into my pillow whilst my eldest stroked my back saying it’s ok, it’s ok, I’ve got you (my words repeated back at me, reassuring me that sometimes we get things right in parenting and that if he knows how to soothe a sad person he’ll be ok in this thing called life).
We’ve had times where I’ve loved the endless cuddles and love which pours out from my two puppy like beauties. We’ve had times where I have wandered around screaming ‘GO BACK TO SCHOOL’, as if that would help the situation. Times when the endless talk of poo, the fights, the more fighting, the screams of IT’s NOT FAIR have got too much. No it is not fair. Nothing about this is fair and we have it way better than many others and that’s not fair either my son.
I breathe in deep, stretch my back out each morning, remember to breathe from my stomach not my chest, my stomach not my chest. I breathe in deep through my nose and expel air from my mouth feeling my back get back into some kind of sensible posture as I do so. I breathe in deep.
And still the days rolled on, walks, lunch, audio books, films. Walks, lunch, audio books, films. And on and on and on we went. Some days brought warm sun and we remembered that we loved being outdoors, bikes and scooters, trampolines. Evenings running up and down the street. Then the cold hit again and we ached for certainty of warmth in our days.
And still, somehow, time rolled on. I see the cycles of flowers, so deeply enjoyed this past year start again. Snowdrops, crocuses, daffodils, wild primroses and now the blossom is starting to emerge and I cannot believe it has been a year now, a year of this uncertain strange disconnection keeping me far from those I love feeling. I can’t believe we’ve been in this place for a year. A year.
We sit on the edge of change.
As we wait it out we find ourselves as containers of huge emotions, sometimes we can’t help but be sponges and end up spiking out on each other. Snapping and hurting in the overwhelm.
So we sit on the edge and look to hope.
Hope in the sunrise each morning, in the green carpet beginning to overtake the woods where I walk each morning. In the green shoots coming out of the buds which have been sitting there all winter, reminding me that we are never truly dead. In the sun streaming through windows, the lighter mornings and evenings, the endless swooping starlings swirling at dinner time out our back window. In the cuddles, the repair after the rupture, in the reading of stories, in the lego models adorning the window sills, in the quiet moments when our feet touch in the morning and we remember we are together in this, in the snatched kisses, the coffee in cold parks walking around and around whilst they play away from us for a few moments.
I look to hope in the here, the today.
I need it here as I notice and sense and feel the weight in my body at the moment. As I look to a few days time wondering what space will bring, wondering how much of a crash will come. I look to hope now, to tasting now the wonder of this world. To knowing whatever comes on Monday that I am held. Known, seen and loved. Whatever this next stage looks like I am loved. There are loving arms to fall into this coming week, to hold me as I sit on my grey chair and drink tea, to hold me as I walk dazed around our quiet house, as I read books and walk out on my own around our local area. There is a love that will put me back together again, breathe life into my aching bones and give me strength for this.
We sit on the edge and breathe. We have made it through this stage. I smile wryly, glad of all the mess, joy, pain and wonder of these last few weeks, grateful, thankful and relieved that change will come on Monday morning.