The morning spring

A day

Kia ora, e te whānau. Thank you for all of the love since the last newsletter. I’m doing well but I’m struggling with the creative side of things. Writing is hard - I’ve been re-reading my favourites. Here is a little musing on life for me right now…inspired by Mary Oliver’s poetry.

They went back to school, rushed out in a flurry, door slammed and then silence. I’d craved the silence but when it came it felt so strange.

The day yawned and I sat at my desk and stared at an empty screen. Tried to drag my thoughts to the surface, but the screen stayed blank.

3.08 the house erupts with life. The door flies open - shoes and socks are thrown, half off as they begin their calls: MUM MUM MUM.

The quiet corners fill with noise and before I can turn away from the screen I have my two boys fighting for space on my lap.

I ask Eddie how his day was. How was school? The usual response is just good. And then a quick snuggle into my neck and he’s gone searching for food or the rusted pick axe that belonged to his great-great grandfather. He leaps the fence as his dad yells “grab a box of juice!”

I’m hungry for his thoughts. It’s like I’m at a buffet but I’m only allowed a bread roll. I want to gorge myself. I want to taste everything. I want my stomach to ache from knowing my son so well.

Yesterday, he searched for his brother who is usually attached to me at all times. Seeing my arms free he took his chance. In a flurry he said my stupid blood tests are getting in the way of my creative writing I only did six words and it’s meant to be a long story mum. I seize my opportunity, I could help! Do you know mummy does creative writing? But he’s gone, just like that. I call out “I can help!” but I catch only the end of a yelp that he’s ‘fine mum thaaaaaanks’.

My youngest has no time for trivialities on something he sees as unimportant as school. Not when we could discuss the seventeen years of the Secretariat of the Antarctic Treaty. Or that the ocean covers 71% of the Earth’s surface. Or that Colorado is 10% larger than the United Kingdom.

I try to find an entrance to ask how his day was. “I don’t remember” he says. And he’s back to mum, mum, Greenland has the northern most capital city in the world mum.

And then he’s tumbled into the shower and as I dry his little body I notice the streetlights flicking on.

The bedtime routine begins. He chats away as I try to keep him still. I brush his long hair and begin to plait. The sliding door opens and Eddie races past us, he smells like the wild. He’s into the shower before the water runs warm enough and you could set your watch to his familiar squeal.

I finish the plaits, breathe in his hair, it smells like honey. And when I’m finished I turn him to face me and he closes his eyes. He knows what we do. I pretend to count his freckles, give up at one billion, one trillion… We put on a sleepy story and I climb into bed with him.

He sighs dramatically every time the even voice on the phone tells him to breathe.

I answer a few emails and then just like that he’s asleep.

Eddie returns but only long enough to say night mum and kiss me on the cheek.

I read a little. Write a little. Fall asleep with the light on.

The house is so quiet. In the silence of the night I can scarcely believe they’re mine. They’re so precious. And I’m theirs.

Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers*.

I hold onto the peace. I look forward to the dawn.

I read Mary Oliver. I am reminded that she is quoted so often - Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? - but they don’t know the rest of the poem.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day.

I try to pay attention. I try to be idle and blessed. This is my wild and precious life.

*From the poem Wild Geese by Mary Oliver.

You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting - over and over announcing your place in the family of things.