Today she goes away

Today she goes away

I am sure she only just arrived.

Back and forth she moves

Between my home and her father’s home.

Her Homes.

Two houses. Two parents. Four hearts.

A mother a father a son and a daughter.

Loving, sharing, giving, wanting, to-ing, fro-ing, missing, filling, living, BEing, Loving.

Doing it as best as we can. As well as we can. A well home. Two well homes. As well as human homes can be, filled with their perfect imperfect humans and their perfect animals; the crazy cat and the memory of a dog, Marx, who is buried in the garden over there under the Japanese Cherry blossom.

Someone once commented to me, with the best of intentions and the worst of mindful insight:

“Considering your kids are from a broken home…. they are doing really well.”

I felt like I had been hit in the gut with a sack of potatoes. My heart cracked.

The thing is you see, I don’t consider it a broken home. “Broken” implies something is damaged. Broken presupposes that the broken thing no longer works. The word suggests The End.

After that comment I did what I do so well, and I mulled over the words. I chewed on them slowly and “fastly”, I repeated them over and over. “Broken home” became a Broken record in my head, stuck on repeat. I digested the words and gave myself indigestion. I created a whole story around my badness, the guilt, the shame. The what if’s. All of which were of course sitting there already within me, at easy reach if I felt like a bit of self flagellation. I didn’t need the word “broken” to make things any worse. Oh how the mind loves to make stories. This story is still repeated at different volumes every time the children/young adults move from house to house.

But the story that predominantly sits in the centre of my heart is one of gratitude. A feeling of wholeness and joy because we have a family that is so tight knit that the needle can not unpick the woolly stitches. They can be loosened though, of course, so we can breathe and be our own separate stitches. All of us looping together yet also creating our own lives amongst the fabric. And when we step back and look - WOW! What a big colourful warm and textured blanket we have created. And it is still being woven. It is an ongoing process. It is our life. We are a family who share and talk. About all manner of things. Philosophy and psychology. Dreams and dreads. We ask what is the purpose of a wasp, how does the moon move the tides? We ask, what can I do to support you today? We watch our cat and smile as she joins us for dinner on her own personal bar stool. No, she does not eat with us. She just likes to be there, looking at the two young adults as they talk and laugh telling of their days. The Cat, known as Pumpkin, tips her head to one side and appears to nod. Oh what an example of active listening she is. We watch sunsets together. Look look look at this one! Ohh look at the sky over Black Peak mum. It’s on fire. It’s changing every moment. Oh look now, it’s, well, I don’t even know how to describe that colour! I tell my offspring of my sunRises and they listen ever so politely and say “I would like to get up early like you mum but for now I will stick to sunsets”. We pause and appreciate. Because when you don’t have something all the time it makes you realise what is important.

Today you go away.

People came to me when my husband and I separated some 13 years ago. They asked, “How do you do it?” I wasn’t sure if they wanted a user manual. Or if they were wondering ‘how on earth could we possibly do that?’ It appeared that many considered our separation to be a “good one”. Whatever that means. I like to think it means that there is no speaking negatively about the other parent in front of the children EVER. I like to think it means that there is love and respect. I like to think that we can still do birthdays and Christmases and sport days together. I like to think that it means that the children are considered in every decision. I like to think that these same people saw our marriage as a good one. Because it was.

The People wanted advice as if I had paved the way. As if I was some guru of Separating well. I would rather be a guru of being married well to be honest ( and I believe I can be if you like. Oh yes I have all the answers ;-)). But shit happens and if I am an advocate for separating well then so be it. They asked me what it was like? Is it hard? It must be quite nice on the weeks you don’t have the kids they would assume and presume. “All that freedom” they said, and still say, as their eyes get a far away sheen. “I want to……but I can’t”, say some. “I just start drinking as soon as he gets home, say others, “It helps.” “I can’t afford to leave” say many. “How could I afford to live in this town as a single mum…?”

But I am not here to advise you to get separated or to stay in an unhappy marriage. I am here to celebrate my family and to celebrate what I do have, and did have, and will have. I am here to do my thing as best as I can for my family. May I invite you to see your therapist if you want further advice. You do what you need to do for your life experience to be rich and healthy. I bow to those who are in life long supportive and loving relationships. That is certainly the intention I went in with.

Of course it’s hard. At times. But it doesn’t mean it’s all broken. It’s just different from the fairy tale. Whatever that is. It’s wonderful in it’s own unique way. Its bloody beautiful.

I remember the day when we told you. You were sitting on my knee my blonde haired girl. Just a little tot. I tried to hold it together whilst knowing we were pulling it apart. We all sat there together on the brown leather couch. The tears insisted though, and they rolled down my cheeks silently in big warm wet salty pearls. You knew, my son. You knew, and you looked at me and looked at your dad with your big beautiful brown eyes. The trust, the confusion, the reflection of us in your eyes. And you my daughter. You looked to all of us as you sat there on my knee. But most of all you looked at your brother for understanding and for a suggestion of what you should do with this news. As you still do with many things in life. Your brother, his first year away at University this year, he is your buddy in all of this. Your moving pal. Your companion, your confidante. The two of you share this experience. Only you two know what this is like. What a beautiful relationship you have, deepened probably because of this. We are different homes and your parents offer different things. But what is always there in both is: Being there for you and With you. And Unconditional Love for you.

Today you go away.

Last night I lay down with you on your bed when I said good night. You were reading your book. I lay curled up foetal like, your warmth radiating from you into me. All was quiet but for the sound of our breath and you turning the pages. Turning the pages. The turning of days into years into what is this life. I lay in this moment. You stroked my hair with the hand that didn’t hold the book. Oh me oh my. You. That you should stroke me like that. Heart overflows. Your book has a blue cover. You said you seemed to be attracted to books with blue covers. I stroked your arm. You wear the bracelets I gave you. Citrine and Gold. What a delicate, beautiful wrist you have my child.

Today you go away.

Right now you are asleep. Your bags are packed and sit at the end of your bed. They are bursting with everything from hair straightener to socks, a full array of hoodies and trackies, tees and toe nail clippers, pieces of flimsy material that teenage girls consider to be called clothes. Favourite comforting soft toys of earlier moving years have been replaced now by Greenhill seltzers. Elderflower. Oh does that mean they are good for you? I ask, with a wry smile upon my face. Oh look how clever those marketers are. Look at the cute spaceman on the tin. No, she does not go home to her father’s and drink a sparkling vodka as she curls up in bed at night with her blue book of the moment. There is a party this weekend. I know I know. We talk. I suggest just listening to the beat of the music and enjoying the joy of her friends. Feeling the buzz of the moment un numbed by the shiny spaceman seduction. She looks at me like I am crazy. Which I probably am. Whatever crazy means. On the nights when you pack quietly my heart aches my darling. You just do it. You do it quietly trying not to think about it too much. Its the unravelling of something, the slight chaos of it all, that I think is one of the biggest pains for you. I can’t believe what you fit into your day my love. A long day at school with extra activities and then home to do exam revising, then out to hip hop class, back home to fill in forms for school committees, PACK, and then finally you are able to just rest. Just doing one thing after the other. One thing at a time. Present moment attention when dealing with what is a challenging situation. You are the guru around here. I look to my children and learn always.

I know that when you go I will cry. As I always do when I stand in the space where you were. That empty space. The tears may roll down my cheeks or they may sit at the edge of my eyes teetering. Grief is loving. I may begin to feel that horrible old emotion of guilt and self loathing. But these days I don’t immediately run from that very uncomfortable suffocating feeling. I don’t immediately shut the door on my home and race out to be around the distraction of friends/people/anyone who will divert my attention, and start downing and drowning in big glasses of golden sickly sweet Chardonnay. These days, instead, I sit with the tears. On your bed. Just for a bit. I hold my hand to my heart. And then I rise. Again. I rise again holding you in my heart. I smile with the gratitude of what I have. I then go about my life, pursuing the things that fill me with deep joy and purpose. And at some point in that week I will clean your room, holding up each item with with love, dusting it with care, and then placing the treasure back where it belongs. This has become a self soothing ritual. Thank you for allowing me this.

We will chat and send messages over the next week or two.

I will no doubt see you when you pop over to get forgotten items.

And then you will be back here again as the weeks roll around.

I will have unpacked everything in preparation. So you don’t feel like a traveller as much. I will have tried not to wash every item. I will try and remind myself your dad does things differently. The process of unpacking can take up to an hour especially when it’s ski season and there are boots and skis and poles and quite literally a car full of LIFE. I unpack and re fold each item with care and place on your shelves.

I have to be careful on that first night to not ask too many questions. To try and not fill in the gaps and catch up on all that has happened in the last week or two. It is too much for you. I have learnt to just try and let you slowly immerse yourself back in here. To readjust. To recalibrate. When you are ready you can talk to me. Often this begins as you look at my humble dinner offerings and dreamingly tell me about the amazing juicy meat casserole your father made you last night. I smile and say that is good that we each bring our own talents to the table.

I look at the beauty of what we have all created here in this imperfect beautiful world. The team of three in that house and the team of three in this house. And the team of four when need be.

You have learnt resilience, and adaptability. You have learnt how to pack a lot better than me that’s for sure. You have literally learnt how to pack a lot into your day. You have learnt self responsibility and prioritising. You have grown to be the most awesome humans.

I also have learnt a lot. Much of it from you my dear children. I have learnt a lot from others too. But most of all, I have learnt from those moments where you think that you are about to break into a thousand pieces. When you stand there and see the pieces of yourself starting to fall and smash to the ground. And suddenly in the depths of that despair there is peace. A nothingness. An Everythingness. And I look up from that space and I see a glimmer. I reach out and say Take Me. Guide Me my soul. I take hold of that light and follow it, my feet on the ground and my heart to the sky.

We have redesigned and rebuilt the broken cup. We have filled the cracks with gold. We have taken up the art of Kintsugi. We are even stronger now. Our perfect imperfections are there for all to see - highlighted and shining bright. We are whole and glittering.

To all families glued with gold. Keep shining.

With love

Jo xx