So, sometimes I wonder if my neighbours will report me to DHS.
Raising small folk can be both exhilarating and terrifying. There are days when I do so, stepping lightly on the earth. When all I see are rainbows and smiles. Then there are days when I stomp clumsily, heavily. When I cringe at the words that come from my mouth.
We’ve been quarantined for these last 10 days of winter. The calling of the waking birds of Spring smothered by hacking coughs, like a call and response, echoing from the front if the house to the back. It’s been musical beds. Swimming in dreams of panadol, neurofen and redi-pred. My fevering, sweaty reds have been smashed. Leaving us all strung out and raw.
The water in the house can’t stop crying. The fire in the house can’t stop yelling. The earth can’t get up. The air can’t come down.
And when we’re all this out of kilter, peace keeping is just bloody hard.
I have tried the gentle soothing explanations. I have tried the Steiner sing-song words. I have tried the cuddles, the tickles, the soft guiding hands….
But after a week of watching and trying to be patient as I watch them implode – I really just want to punch them in the face.
Punch them. Those that are most dearest to me heart. Those that are my walking heart.
In realising that this is wrong, so very wrong (and a wee bit illegal), there has been frustration. Bringing with it yelling, door slamming, crying, collapsing and on occasion ignoring. All this done before 9am most mornings. On my behalf towards my sick small ones.
Making me feel like shit parent one-0-one. As I suffocate when they need me the most.
Illness, whether yours or that of those you love, can be the most unforgiving and rewarding teacher.
Think twists, throat openers and metta meditation.
We can beat ourselves up continuously over things we say and do that don’t align with our aspirations of how we’d like to be. If only I could be little more ‘yogic’with my smalls, with my lover, with my world off the mat. Coming more from a space of higher self. Of truer self. Of lighter self.
The journey inwards is one of wisdom, one of strength.
The journey outwards is one of of compassion, one of courage.
One of love.
There is a magic that comes from yielding to life. In recognising our whole flawed selves. The thoughts in my head, the words from my mouth – sometimes so distant from who I think I am.
But so much a part of the whole of what I am.
While demanding as they are when they are unwell, my small folk never cease to teach me about their amazing experience of what is theirs.
And inspire me to learn from what is mine.