Commonground

Originally published in Elke Magazine

Hindsight is both a curse and a gift. Mistakes made are so obvious when a slightly older, slightly wiser version of you trawls through old memories. But that’s the thing; they are memories and nothing more. That time has passed and all we can do is grow…

 ***

I fell in love when I was eighteen to the boy that is now the father of my children. It was like any young love, only it was ours; fierce and bright and strong with no thought of the future, until we realised that life was taking us in opposite directions. He was Swedish. I was Australian, our lives separated by a world in between. He was going back to the north, to his home and I was staying. Being away from him was only half living. My thoughts wandered to him always. My heart had already left with him and before long, with nothing but my suitcase, the rest of me followed too.

When I arrived on the frozen ground relief spread through my bones like nothing I have felt before. I could breathe again. I felt at home, not in Sweden, but with him. I was shy, young, attached to my lover like I was reliving an ancient love tale. It was infinite and all consuming. My first child grew slowly inside my expanding belly and for a time I felt complete, blissful in knowing that my baby would be joining me in my love-filled dream, my little world.

Months and months went on before I realised how much I had drawn into myself. I hadn’t made a life for myself; I had created my own world inside the walls of my apartment, away from the newness beyond. My baby boy was perfection but as he grew, I grew too. My ambitions and my loneliness slowly eating away at my euphoria and then suddenly I was lost. After almost three years I longed for home, but the boy I had fallen in love with had his life here, his friends, his family. He had a history, familiarity and a comfort that I yearned for.

We had three different homes in a matter of months and four weeks after our second child was born we left the grey Swedish Winter for Australia, the promise of the burning sun too tempting to resist. It was both wonderful and heartbreaking. We were together with our small ones but we were leaving behind half of our family. I had been too busy, too blind to realise that we were so loved and that each time we moved it meant we would be taking a part of their lives away. It was both misery and elation. We felt torn. We learned quickly the consequences of our spontaneity and wanderlust. The hardships that we thought we had left behind were only the beginning.  After weeks I could see the same struggle that I had gone through, only this time I was observing. It was ferocious and dark and then nothingness, like waves in a storm. Somewhere, in the ceaseless moving, our emptied pockets and the broken beginnings of friendships, we had forgotten how to live. We became lonely and bored and started to forget each other too.

For the first time we stopped. For the first time we were honest with ourselves. The mistakes we’d been so blind to became obvious. In the night, when our beautiful babies slept, all the truths and faults and naivety flowed from us and in the end we discovered that the life we had chosen was never going to be easy. Home for us could never be one place. His home was there, mine was here. We needed to make our own. We needed to find our common ground. Where it was didn’t matter, as long as it was a place where we could build our lives together. Somewhere we didn’t need to feel torn, somewhere we could discover ourselves without one of us feeling left behind.

We are on the verge of that adventure. We have found our common ground. We are young and reckless but broken and now will be the time and place to right our wrongs, to catch up with ourselves and each other. We know it will take time and work. We will have to be brave and patient and accept the hardships we have created for ourselves and continue on regardless. But most of all, it’s our blessing; an opportunity to learn, to live and to thrive and for that, I will always be grateful.

                                                                                          FOLLOW US ON: INSTAGRAM

Letters for our children

Originally published in Elke Magazine

“I showered for the first time in days, sweet ones, and I was not alone. Your small, pink bodies dancing around my feet while water trickled down invisible paths on your bare backs. You are sleeping now and I can be alone. I am sick and exhausted and I am happy to hear your breaths in the dark so I can take a moment to just be. I wish I could describe how blissful it is to just sit still, in ease and in silence. Without one eye on you, ready to leap to save you or any number of our belongings, as it always is in your waking hours and of course, as my thoughts are finally free to wander they find their way back to you, my little ones and all I want to do is fill these blank pages with words about you both, because no matter how much I write it will never be enough…”

I write letters.

I steal quiet moments during the sunshine hours or stay up late into the night and I write to my children. I write my love for them, my wonder. I write my frustrations and my joy. Some letters are never finished, interrupted mid sentence, never to be continued. Others are just scraps, small tastes of the people they’re becoming. I write letters and it heals me. When my bones ache from guilt and I can’t run away from it, I turn it into words for them.I don’t write as often as I should, life happens instead, and with two small people life can be an orderless rambling of graceless moments. But when I open my journal I become giddy from that sweet sensation of ink-covered pages beneath my fingers. It’s beautiful, the way the paper takes on a different quality and as I admire with warm eyes, a word I’ve written weeks, months, maybe even years ago, catches my attention and I read. My heart lights up as pages filled with my loves, my fears, my dreams, my stories and my heartaches leap out at me and I remember.  I remember with such raw freshness sometimes, it hurts.

“You are my beautiful nature boy. You are calmed by the colours and the movement of the trees in the wind, fascinated by the noises that the world makes. As soon as I take you outdoors you are calm, at peace and truly satisfied. It is humbling to see you like this and I am so proud to be your mama. At three months you are as bright eyed as ever…”

Shivers run cold beneath my skin when I think of my children reading my words when they’ve grown. Maybe they will be waiting for a child of their own or maybe they will take comfort in having an insight into our lives as young people, as young parents. Maybe they will want to remember where they came from, all the places we travelled and all the love we shared. Maybe it will help them through their own darkness or to piece together missing parts of their own story.

What they find in these letters, is something I will be waiting a long time to know, but I can only think of the joy to come, for me and for them. My sweet ones, that will grow out of their baby bodies and fall into life as children, as teenagers and then as adults. To think that they are on the same journey that I am on, only they are just beginning. And even though I might not always be near them I hope in some small way I can help them, encourage them and guide them.

Write letters to your children. Be honest, open and heart felt. Pour love and gratitude into them. Collect their words and moments and beautiful, little things that surround them and turn it into a book or send a bulging envelope filled with ripped out journal entries to them. It is a gift I cannot wait to give.

“…So sleep my little ones and when you wake I will be here to wrap you in my arms and kiss your sleepy cheeks and then we can eat and dance and sing and play like we so often do. I will try to not to get too grumpy and I will try to understand. Tomorrow I will try the best I can, I promise, and I hope that even though I’ve messed it up so many times before, you’ll be happy. So sleep.”

FOLLOW US ON: INSTAGRAM

Honey Dawn

It was a jet lagged morning that we climbed out of bed and drove in the darkness to a little clearing away from the road. Elder slept on his favourite, thick blanket in the long grass and August stayed close as we explored. Slowly the world expanded as the light spread across the landscape. What had been a wall of night turned into rolling hills and a wide body of water, still and bright. The grass turned into a deep honey colour, gold and red abundant. We climbed trees and danced until it really properly felt like day time and then we went back home wondering why we didn't welcome every new day like this.

FOLLOW US ON: INSTAGRAM

Retracing

My hands smell of fresh, succulent lemons as I prepare breakfast, lemons that were picked from my parents' farm. It's so strange that a scent can be so much, could carry so much meaning. I am giddy from the very thought of it, as it lingers on my hands.

We are in an old, new place. Back to my roots in my childhood town and the farm I used to call home. The people I used to know are here still, unchanged in many ways and kind like I remember. As I have grown this place has remained still. I look the same as I did before I ran away too but beneath my skin, every part of me is different.

Familiar faces on the street come as a shock to me. Introverted, in my own made up world, I forget that here I am forced to meet people from my past. I am so happy to see them but I become a little bashful and say silly things, scolding myself for being so ridiculous as I walk away red faced and slightly embarrassed. 

My small boys flourish here. Already I see so much change in them. Before the sun has emerged above the horizon we are awake, jet lagged and anxious to see the sun we walk through the shadowed garden and wait for its impending glow. August runs, giggling. He is ecstatic, like an imprisoned bird set free to soar again. My parents' dogs, black and white and wild, follow August eagerly. They are almost always by his side, like his animal guardians. Our days spent here are spent outside. I follow August with my camera and Elder sleeps peacefully against me in his carrier. We collect eggs and pick raspberries, strawberries, cherry tomatoes and snow peas from the garden. August learns quickly and knows how to find them. He walks satisfied from the garden with sticky hands and his plump lips stained red.

Elder is like sunshine on a dull day. He is happy and giggling and patient, content with his world. It is a relief to be the mother of such a calm and gentle creature. Adjusting to two children is tiring and my busy mind slips easily into distracted frustration. I will be forever appreciative that loved ones are near enough to save me, that the incredible task of loving and caring is shared with my family.

Life's dynamic has changed now that Elder is here. The slow, easy days when August was so tiny have changed to organised, regimented ones or complete chaos, mostly the latter. It's hard to accept that those bliss-filled days are gone now but this new tempo is ripe with possibility and has taught us to strive for bigger, better things. I wish we could decide on a path to take now. I remind myself that it will come in time and if not, we will carve our own way.

Each night a weary August pulls me to the door as he rubs his eyes and I pick him up, wrapping my warm arms around his tiny body and walk him outside. The stars here are brighter and more beautiful than any other place I have been. We are drawn to them. They call to us, just as Sirens would entice sailors by their deceptive beauty and promise. I sing 'Twinkle twinkle little star' as we stare out to the never ending universe above. August waves to the sky as I take him inside. I wonder sometimes how he can contemplate such an extraordinary sight.

When my mind wanders from reality, daydreams are filled with fresh food and a garden of my own. I am more lazy than I would like to admit when it comes to food but I'm hoping that a working garden created by my own hands will be the encouragement I need to dedicate my time to making wholesome meals. While we're here, with space and support I would like to turn my day dreams into reality.

How long we plan to stay is unclear. We are lost, as we so often are and life here is insecure. Tomorrow we might have to leave but maybe we will stay and discover something incredible. 

                                                                     FOLLOW US ON:  BLOGLOVIN   FACEBOOK   INSTAGRAM

 

Journal finds

I found this on my phone the other day as I sat and breastfed my little bear. I remember vaguely when I wrote it that I wanted to spend the day being thankful and full of gratitude and when I read it again now my smile was wide and my heart grew happy. And so it goes...

I love Rasmus because he is wise and honest. He knows things about the world that most people will never know. He is pure and he knows who he is to the deepest level. And yet underneath the burden of knowing the truth of the universe he is young and childish. He plays and lives as a child does, in the moment. Unlike me he sees time enjoyed as time well spent, even if it means spending the day in bed. I like to cross things off a list, and only then I am satisfied with my day. I have many things to learn from him but I think I can teach him too.

I love August because he is my exceptional baby boy. His smile is indescribable and warms me to the core. I could live off his smile. He loves church bells and dancing and he loves me unconditionally. I am beyond thankful for that. He has my temper and stubbornness and can't fall asleep without being wrapped in my arms. He has his father's rough playfulness. He is an experimenter but he is careful too and he is mine, for now.

I love my swollen belly because inside lies my unborn baby. I know nothing of this baby aside from movements and a strong heart beat. I am already in love and to be there at the beginning of a new life is inspiring and scary. Responsibility weighs heavy on me but it makes me better, it makes me think. I want to be happy and honest and inspiring to my children. I want them to feel loved and protected and yet free to live their own lives, to choose their own path.

***

Document your thoughts, they will come back to heal you, warm you and remind you of a time in life that was more beautiful than you understood.    

                                                                     FOLLOW US ON:  BLOGLOVIN   FACEBOOK   INSTAGRAM

 

The birth of Elder

I lie in the dark and listen to my newborn moan and squeak in his sleep. I listen intently, soaking up the noise that breaks the silence that the darkness brings. I giggle to myself as he squeaks once more, almost as if he was talking. 

***

Bringing Elder into the world was so different from the images that blissfully skipped through my mind when I first found out I was pregnant. I wanted to be at home, in Australia in my parents' living room when I gave birth. I wanted to see the sun or the glistening stars and stroll through the garden as contractions came and went. I wanted my family nearby this time so I could share those first magical hours with them all. I was sad for a long time after we found out the birth I had wished for couldn't happen, but failed plans opened doors to new plans and I was reminded of the uncertainty of what life provides, to let go of my need for control and welcome the things I couldn't change. Bringing new life into the world can't be any less wonderful and exceptional... and it wasn't.

***

The days leading to Elder's birth were filled with an anxiety. I felt unprepared. I was already packed and had spent most of the day preparing healthy snacks for myself during labour. I was nervous about giving birth. I was tired before I had even begun and I doubted my strength. 

As most days had been, the day of Elder's due date was dull and gray. I didn't expect him to arrive. For some reason that doesn't matter now, Rasmus and I were angry at each other. We had gotten on each other's nerves and we fought. That evening we were both in tears, exhausted by waiting, exhausted by our wild toddler, exhausted by how hard things had been and we stood in the snow with our frustrations and let them go with our tears and our apologies. Weariness weighed heavily on me but I was happy and Rasmus and I talked excitedly, late into the night. It was the early hours of the morning when we both gazed at my heavy belly in wonder. It seemed bigger than ever, bursting almost. My body yearned for rest so I curled myself around a sleeping August but before sleep reached me my first and very strong contraction came.

I panicked for a moment, not wanting to go into labour before I had slept. I was too tired and wouldn't be able to do it. I told myself to trust my body and my strength and I calmed. Rasmus and I both lay awake waiting to see if more contractions came, to see if it was really time. More did come, strong and painful as I lay curled around August in the darkness but they were irregular, undecided. We got up, not able to sleep I started pacing through the house, my mama woke too and we waited. More pain came and I felt cold and sore. I dragged myself into the shower and let the water pour generously over my body. I swayed side to side, rolling my pelvis as if belly dancing. I never wanted to leave but when the contractions stopped coming I forced myself out only to be greeted by the next surge of pain.

We started preparing for the long night ahead. Rasmus carried our sleepy baby to the car and to his grandparents' house nearby. My mind was distracted by the pain and by the enormous task of getting myself dressed but I remember the fleeting thought of seeing him as an only child for the last time, my tiny baby no more. It made me both excited and nervous and I sent all my love with him as he headed into the the cold, wrapped in blankets in his papa's arms.

On the way to the hospital my contractions were intense and regular, coming only minutes apart. My body tightened and convulsed as the car hit each bump and I squeezed Rasmus's hand as if passing on the pain. He didn't flinch, no matter how hard I squeezed. I swayed my hips as best I could while sitting, moving through each surge. The pain from my contractions became so intense that I vomited into a towel several times. Thoughts of numbness crossed my mind then, as I stared blindly into the black countryside. I began to doubt my strength again. I had been in labour for such a short time and my contractions were so strong. I wondered how I would be able to labour so intensely for hours to come, maybe I will have to be numbed, drugged. The taxi took 45 minutes to reach the hospital, although it felt as through only minutes had passed. I was thankful.

Despite my pain and inverted concentration I smiled and shook the hands of the midwives waiting for me as I arrived at the hospital. The two kind strangers led me through brightly lit corridors as hospital lights glared down on me. I missed the darkness and the hypnotic motion of the car. It had been peaceful and private. The midwives waited patiently as I stopped when the next contraction came. My breath was deep and as it left my shaking body I let a long chant like hum escape my lips.

Self consciously and with an audience I undressed and put on a small white robe. The birthing room was cold but my body forgot as the next wave of pain washed through me. I felt unsettled, the initial check of my contractions and progress meant I had to sit in bed but I wanted to move, to dance again. My contractions were monitored for a short time and then they checked how far I had dilated. I didn't expect it to be very far along having only been in labour for such a short time. The midwives looked at each other and nodded satisfactorily before telling me that I was already fully dilated. I laughed in shock. I thought I would be labouring for hours to come. Overjoyed and relieved, my whole body relaxed and on my next contraction the pushing urges came. I asked to go to the bathroom but worried that I would give birth while I went, they brought a toilet into the birthing room instead. I sat still on the cold plastic and for a moment I felt normal, my breath was calm and my body painless but without warning the most incredible urge to push charged through me. I had no power to control it and I pushed with all my strength. My skin stretched and burned as I was pulled from the toilet and rested over the bed, a small head was already entering the world. Rasmus kissed me excitedly, telling me how close our little one was and how much he loved me. After two more pushes, I looked behind me and saw our tiny boy for the first time. In shock at how fast everything had happened I just wanted him in my arms. I lifted myself onto the bed and they placed his soft, warm body on mine. I looked at him in awe. He was perfect. I was so aware, so awake and smiling. Weariness hadn't reached me yet, just a calm euphoria as I traced his tiny features with my fingers.

With a concentrated tenderness, Rasmus severed the last link between us and as I held my sweet baby tight in my arms I birthed the healthy placenta. In disbelief I realised it was over. Elder was here.

So recently it seemed, I was holding August in my arms for the first time. But this little boy, this tiny being was someone new at a very different time in our lives. After months of struggle and heartache, after disasters and trying to hold everything together; this tiny boy arrived a bundle of joy and love to rekindle us.

Each day his small cheeks grow a little rounder. His wide eyes stare at mine and slowly follow my movement. I stroke his fuzzy hair, it feels magic to touch, like velvet on my fingertips. August's tenderness towards his brother warms my heart and I think of the future adventures they will have together and the love they will share.

Elder's first moments were spent in my arms, his first months he will gaze into my smiling eyes. He will feel my warmth seep into his soft skin, my voice will calm him, my scent will reassure him and my milk will nourish him. I will be his world, his comfort and his protector. I am a mother renewed to two beautiful boys, from now until my dying day.

For my mother and Rasmus and my family whose love I felt from the far side of the world, thank you. Thank you for your kind words, your trust, your well wishes, your forgiveness and understanding and mostly for your unconditional love. I will be forever grateful.
             

                                               

                                                                     FOLLOW US ON:  BLOGLOVIN   FACEBOOK   INSTAGRAM