Aaaggghhh….
the little girl is always there,
fully open to the world,
light blue eyes wide with wonder,
drifting, floating, with boundless curiosity,
as if she’s never grown up.
She is afraid, but also full of love,
a love she gives, even when she perhaps should not.
Five years old and she comforts her distraught mother,
banished to the outside step,
standing behind her,
wrapping her in the warm snug and embrace of a woolen quilt,
and holding her tight.
Her mother, for once, receives this tenderness,
this act of care from her youngest daughter.
For at this moment,
she is cold, desperate and vulnerable,
and needs her daughter’s love.
At the same time, she comforts her irate father,
consumed with an ogre’s anger,
staring at him through the window into the drawing room
and offering him a sweet smile,
as he looks on,
shame-faced and full of regret
for what he’s done.
Her smile,
it is blessed with a child’s innocence and acceptance,
it is full of grace,
and dissipates his rage more than any other remedial stimulus,
even a dry martini.
Her heart beats and flutters, as she feels compelled to run now,
around the perimeter of her family home,
in the depth of winter,
away from this torrent of familial discord,
all this pain and heartache.
She’s unsure where she is going,
but finds comfort and relief in her movement
and the dance of time,
as she skips from one slippery paving stone to the next.
The fear and love are with her as a rebellious teenager,
a young woman in search of adventure,
a committed wife,
a devoted mother.
The unease, the dread, persist, but slowly dwindle,
replaced by a growing resolve to no longer be dominated,
but be free,
no longer living in someone else’s shadow.
Still, she finds herself giving love when perhaps she should not,
but now a middle-aged woman,
there’s a growing conviction in her
to defend herself,
love herself,
be kind to herself,
as she’s been to others her whole life.
For she is more deserving of her own love than anyone else’s.
A greater sense of calm descends on her,
as she finally takes flight.
She can hear the child in her again,
the one who delights in the ease, innocence and simplicity of life.
Life starts to happen to her, as it did when she was a little girl,
and she is carried by its natural flow.
She loves lying in bed at dawn, electric blanket nestling her,
and gazing out of the window,
surrounded by trees,
marveling at the multiplicity of life before her…
squirrels scurrying,
crows cawing,
leaves rustling,
blackbirds warbling,
rain pattering,
pigeons cooing.
The psithurism almost hypnotizes her,
as does the mug of Yorkshire tea she cups in between her hands,
which warms and comforts her
while she floats into milky reflections of her precious children,
Ayesha, Adam and Scheherazade,
who she will love and protect to the very end.
The snap of a ginger biscuit,
and her mind meanders somewhere else,
to all she must do today,
delighting in the list of tasks at hand,
which she will perform with care, attention and gusto.
For is this not all we have?
She gets up and sits at her dresser,
applying verbena cream to her face,
her skin soft like porcelain,
those beautiful hands caressing her cheeks,
as she rubs in the remnants,
the sweet, sharp scent of lemon hanging in the air.
She is happy now,
as she puts on her black jeans and woolen poncho,
and heads for her lair,
a vast attic full of vintage clothes, jewelry and other artifacts.
Adept with her hands,
and in possession of an engineer’s mind
and artist’s heart,
she can create or restore anything.
To the kitchen,
where a chicken carcass has been simmering in a slow cooker overnight,
stewing gently amidst a sea of garlic cloves,
and the smell is as if from heaven… chicken broth.
It is food for her soul,
and she will eat this later,
as often she does not eat until evening.
Afternoon,
and she finds herself lying on the giant, sweeping trunk of her favourite tree,
a cedar,
which she has known and loved most of her life,
that curves and darts upwards like a great bow reaching for the sky.
She does not quite know how she even got here,
as if in a dream,
but feels an immense peace,
behind which there is something else.
She suddenly starts to cry,
her body pushing down on this tree’s great limb,
the thick bark pressing against her skin,
but also holding her, nourishing her,
as she wished her mother had.
But these are not tears of sadness or regret,
but of wonder, of where she now finds herself…
freer, stronger, wiser and happier.
At home, and after she has eaten,
she lies in the darkness, in candlelight,
in a piping hot bath rich in magnesium
and other salts,
losing herself in a mix of different music,
which transports her to another world.
She hears the words of Rumi,
spoken by the many friends who love her,
being whispered in her ear.
And then she chuckles loudly, mischievously,
overcome with impromptu, uncontrollable giggles,
as she recalls an impersonation she performed,
which had her children enthralled.
She cries with delight into her hands,
which she instinctively puts to her face to conceal her joy,
even though there’s no one there to witness this enchanting spectacle.
She is alive, finally, she is free.
The love still persists in her,
the pure love she had in her heart as a child,
but it is unrepentant now, it is defiant,
no longer residing in the dark of fear.
Aaaggghhh, there you are!