Mother and Daughter

and a reluctant muse

I arrive

at my desk at 5.35 am. Stars glitter in an inky 1 degree sky. Anticipation rises for my carved out writing time.

And there on my computer in the dark I see a square of light. White note paper with words written in pink.

Morning Sunshine. Happy Writing. 😊 🩷 xx

The tears come quick and fast. Warm and salty. Good tears God tears. Heart Melting. Running quietly on tippy toes for tissue box. Tissues which are described as Soft and Strong. The tissue box design is a Limited Edition. Just like us; one offs, special design, not around for ever. Unlike us; who are unlimited at our essence. Tuis in emerald greens and midnight blues flutter about the box. I use tissues a lot so it’s nice to enjoy the packaging. Don’t you think? Regular tissue use occurs when you are soft and strong. When you feel the raw beauty of Life.

The note was written by my daughter. Eva.

I imagine Eva’s graceful wrist. Pale in autumn after the bronze of summer. Her beautiful hand and fingers curled around the pen as she writes me the note late last night after I had well gone to bed and she had arrived home after a 13 hour day. A day in the Life of a student in Wānaka, New Zealand: school, a marmite scroll for a quick snack, followed by rock climbing cliffs surrounded by tumbling waterfalls and fresh clean air, back to town to watch the Prems play rugby, and finally to finish off - a netball game. Kiwi as bro. Fucking lucky bro.

Oh right now. Right now. The sky lightens. Look up. Look up. Silhouettes of mountains. Apricot and pale blue. So grateful.

I hear your murmurs and mumbles as you sleep. My heart glows. My writing desk is a few breaths away outside your door.

Thank you Eva. I am blessed.

Today you go to your dad’s after two weeks here with me.

You can read more about these transitions in a previous post of mine:

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This week I taught you to mend with cotton and thread. Needling and pricking guilt that I have not done this years ago, for my nearly 18 year old sleeping beauty. I dig in for some self compassion to soften the sting. We sat that evening side by side on your white sheets. The warmth of your golden glow. Your head down concentrating, licking the cotton, threading the needle. A focussed attention. A surreptitious meditation practice to take one away from the worries of the day. You expertly and carefully sew up the hole in your favourite work shirt. The one you insist on keeping because you refuse to wear the even uglier new uniform. Breath by breath. Stitch by stitch. Arms touching. Heart expanding. Life here Now. After a time of quiet concentration, “chats?” you suggest. And I guess this is what women have done for ever - mend and talk, share and unload, cry and laugh. And there in that space she talked and opened up and the needle went under and over and under and over and our hearts went beat beat beat.

This week I remembered. I remembered that there are times when you have to just stop. When you have to sit down with your daughter to watch LaLa Land. No matter how much you have on. Nothing else matters. Being and not Doing. Cuddled up under the yellow blanket. Together. “Do you think he’s hot mum?” she asks. Well it’s all about how someone holds themself, the energy they give off. It’s so hard to know unless I met Ryan in person. “Oh mum why can’t you answer anything straight up. Why do you go so deep?” We laugh and are grateful for the depth we know and the depth we go.

This week we had a car trip. You drove. I sat in the back. Funny how things change. We played games. I needed to reach for my Tui tissue box regularly as I laughed until I cried. “Mum we’re not team mates!! We’re opponents!” “Mum! think in your head!” “I’m going to Italy and I’m going to bring an icecream and a mountain: That’s the clue mum.”“Oooooo pointy things,” I offer. “No Mum you just don’t understand!”

Suddenly she takes a big gasp and then all is quiet. I know now not to be alarmed at this common occurrence. My 17 year old driver is holding her breath as she drives over the seemingly 10 minute long Cromwell Bridge. It’s a thing apparently. To hold your breath over bridges.

She exhales. Ahhhhhhhhh

I inhale. Haaaaaaaaa

So much goodness.

Thank you my Sunshine.

I love you.

Mum xx

ps “I KNEW YOU WOULD WRITE ABOUT MY NOTE!!!!” she said as I read my muse my story over breakfast. “I AM NOT YOUR CONTENT!!!! What if you become famous mum! Everyone will know the kind of notes I write.” Well wouldn’t that be wonderful I say. Wouldn’t that be wonderous. ❤️

Thank you for being here dear readers. Thank you. 🙏