I remember after my breakdown, how I kept reminding myself that as time passed the hurt would not be there.After I gave birth, how my caesar scar would heal and that I had to move so slowly. Crawling on the floor attending to my pelvic floor, I went really slowly. When I tripped over my laces and hit the pavement right shoulder first to shield my head. The X-ray revealed a broken shoulder. I kept going, numb in spots, though slowly.
Like the snail, like the turtle, like the worm- I made traction.Looking to the sun, looking to the moon, looking up and knowing that the sky is clear on a clear day and clouds mask the view sometimes and for good reason.
Amazed by my bodies ability to heal itself. I revel in it.
The notion of suffering and my observation of others. The notion that:
I suffer, I suffer more than you and therefore I am worthy of more attention, and therefore your suffering could not possibly be suffering.
I wondered about this because I observed this in my family where hurt was often dismissed. You did this to yourself.
I can see this play out in relationships and dynamics. I observed and have noticed new Mothers are a bit like that, and may be prone to comparisons and notions.The role of Motherhood can be isolating – so important to have family around, to compare less and to allow things to be as they are.Essentially we are all doing our best. As a new mother I felt alone in my experience. Here I am.Just writing, wondering and trusting I provide insight.
I wrote about nappies the other day and cleaning clothes.
See what COVID does. See how small the world has become.My intention was to show the beauty in the simplest of things.And I shared it with a friend, who I assumed would appreciate it.I shared it via text and the link.She wrote back to me.
“What possessed you to write that!”
“Oh I have wanted to write that one for a while.”
Who is your audience?” Came her reply.
I wrote “ Women- Italian women”. “ You did not like it? ( Friend’s name). I aim to blog once a week, a story about my life.”
She wrote back: “ Blogs are not my thing, I generally find them boring and a waste of my time, similarly with so called influencers.”
Then I wrote back: “ So my blog was boring and a waste of time. I will not share it with you again and I will not take this personal.”
She wrote back defending herself and called me to check in. I reiterated in words that I would not take it personal.
And then I thought about what it means to be a friend to someone and I thought that at least regardless of whether you like blogs or not, that because I was a friend that there would be something in sharing what I had written because it meant something to me. I thought it might mean something to her. What I had written. It did not mean anything to her, and she still considers me her friend.
I questioned what it means to be a friend? And I wondered about COVID and how insular we have become to be so caught up in our own self. I take the feedback on board. I remind myself that I like to write, though to impose that on others is not my place. I choose not to suffer. I allow things to be as they are and I consider most people ‘friends’, in the spirit of friendship. A smile opens the heart. I sit with this.
It’s a small thing to be able to write, to reflect and to hold it up and out like an offering. It’s there without expectation.
I aim to judge less.
I aim to take things less to heart, though it is my heart wide open here in words.
I want to live with more purpose and intention and to be able to support in a small way.
I enjoy the act of crafting words into meaning, what it means to others is not what it means to me.
I write to steady and ground myself in knowing that I live.
It brings me joy in knowing that I have an opinion.
I offer this humble expression to the world.