Already you are fixated on remembering what you used to be like when you were younger, in your early twenties, when all-nighters were effortless, and you could drink hard and not feel it the next morning.
I was so glad, looking back, to no longer feel that angst. To feel instead the grace that comes with sticking with things; with letting the edges soften a bit. As I said to my friend: it’s not about doing more, it’s about being more. Quietly, subtly, within the very small orbit of your ordinary, extraordinary life.
That said, when I turned thirty, I had no idea how I’d feel now, at this mid-point of sorts, at the beginning of descent. I can remember my optimism and anxiety cocktail perfectly.
I was obsessed with the idea that I had missed the boat already (for becoming a writer and an artist; I missed my chance to dance with the international ballet troupe; for doing any kind of adventurous travel)
I was sure that I was saddled for the long haul, and that in fact, it would be a haul. I was already a single mum. And everything that could go belly up went and did not just that but blew to smithereens; with the baby and me in the eye of it all. Like the eye of the storm but quieter.
I went from being a hopeful 20 something to a coiled ball of electricity without any earthing. It unsettled me, and sucked the creative energy from me in a way that left me frazzled and certain that I would never amount to a single thing in the world. Yet miraculously I began, to see how being more means being in the moment. It means discovering the day, wholly, with joy and wonder, and living into it as wholly as possible. It meant looking at the post-partum squarely in the face, it meant bouncing back every time you found yourself flat with your face to the ground, it also meant learning to insulate your child from the mutating mess.
I discovered grace in the midst of sadness; wonder in the thistle-sweet heart of despair. I grew disciplined.
Years were unfathomably hard. If my twenty-five year-old-self could have seen these years she would have been terrified by the repetition (the laundry, the dishes, the endless responsibility of making food and enforcing bed times), the perpetual noise and lack of privacy, and the endless, endless worry. But she would have been missing the point.
I have a kind of tempered, hard-earned confidence now that I never had in my twenties. The kind of confidence that comes from trial by fire, through doing the difficult, painful parts of life. From giving birth; from loving a small tiny extension of yourself until your heart splits; from fighting and wincing and feeling small and reactive and growing from it, to become richer and deeper, like soil made from the decomposed refuse of last season’s garden clippings. I traded muscles and determination for all the thinness and whimsy I had at twenty-five.
It’s about loving him hard: my boy with his sweet sticky grins and laughter and innocence, and about wanting the best for him and also wanting the best for me. It’s about wondering if those are mutually inclusive or mutually exclusive. It's not about getting ahead or falling behind but about hopefully ending up right where I’m supposed to be.
And I’ve begun to discover how contentment can come slowly with the unfolding of a day: with changing diapers, sleeping baby, eating chocolate cakes or a quick sandwich and a frothy coffee for breakfast; with folding sheets fresh laundry; with the sound of silly laughter and home brewed ginger beer and lemonade; and later, story swapping after dinner. Of perpetual tiredness.
It’s about giving yourself a permission to be hot-blooded woman.
It’s about letting yourself entertain the idea, of your curves and the nose complete nose pin being attractive!
It’s about knowing what Christopher Robin knew – today is my favourite day!
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