Back again

Eight months have past since I spoke here last. Words dried up as motherhood grew. I've been unable to get to that creative, clear headed space I need to form any sentences. But I feel a shifting in the haze. As I walk through crisp leaves and watch Queenie running before me, my heart longs to create collections of words, I speak internally, a procession of paragraphs, a pouring out of my heart.
I always struggle to maintain this space, or to keep up with my diary throughout the summer. My heart's outside. My creativity spent on the growing of food, in the garden digging, planting, reaping, learning. We're at the beach, in the sea. Mind free from thoughts, just experiencing. The camera roll on my phone is constantly full. Summer's beautiful and fun and fast.
And then each year, autumn falls. The darkness creeps in on both sides. We hibernate more and the burly sea winds rattle our windows and the rain is thick and vigorous. And with it, a need to create emerges.
A short walk with the children is vital -whatever the weather- but those endless days outside are few. I am looked at to form activities. Art projects. Baking for little fingers. And my hands are twitchy to knit, draw, quilt or paint.
This week Queenie began nursery. A new stage in our lives. More about that for another time, but as I look on at her growing independence, a little more headspace returns to me. 

Now, I will not make any promises. I won't even set goals. I shall let my heart guide my head and see what words befall me. When I can, the ink will soak paper, fingers tap keys, and if it feels right, here I will share. It's exciting but I am not putting too much weight on it. Life is full and I don't want this to become a burden as it has on the past, but as the pleasure it feels now. 

A change

11 . 2 . 15

This morning.
We are incredibly languid for the state we are in. Hardly packed and moving in just over a week. The cold makes us lie in late, pouring over books and cuddling. We procrastinate,  holding no confidence in ourselves, how are we ever going to do it, get everything ready in time to move?

I eventually crawl out of bed and pull on as many clothes as I can bear. While Liam reads the babies stories, I decide to tackle the unusual paraphernalia found on our bedroom windowsill. Football trophies, wooden pots of jewellery I detest but can't bear to part with JUST incase Queenie wants them to adorn future costumes. Then perched among the dusty books, I find this old friend. A bird I most likely illegally acquired while in college, he's travelled with us from house to house. It breaks my heart to say he won't join us on our move onto the next one. His eyes have shrivelled, his beaks yellowed, foot broken, the tail is hanging on by a thread, and his feathers are laying about the windowsill. He is irrefutably disgusting, and Liam has decided its time for goodbye. Bitterly, I agree.

When we do finally get round to packing, the children unpack as we turn our backs. We stop far too often for coffee and food breaks. We run out of boxes and realise the packing tape has also gone. We really are the worst at moving house. As we 'work', my thoughts go back to this funny old bird, I persuade myself to delve him out of the rubbish, I could do this or that to restore him, or work this and he would remain the current state, no longer slipping into disrepair (ok, lets face it, he's reached that, but my mind won't stop battling).

A little later into the afternoon, as if wound up by little keys slotting into gaps in our spines, we have a flurry of energy, of activity, finally it feels like we are making progress. We wrap and pack, tidy and let go, boxes pile up in the hallway. The rooms feel bare. Queenie's a caged animal, turned stir crazy among cardboard, her singing echoes in the empty spaces we have previously called home. Jarvis sleeps unbelievably long into the early evening and I begin to cook soup, distracted with more purging I could do to unused, dusty cooking items.

Chanted loudly in our every being is a new phrase, 'We can do it.'