Category: Motherhood

ode to slow

30/3/2017

is not so much the speed
as the mind and heart moving in sync -

and sometimes its a brisk pace
of farm chores, jobs to be done,
a juggle and a tussle of needs and wants
and hats and bananas and clean nappies -
laundry hung to dry, eggs to be packed,

or the steady pace of a toddler who stoops low
to notice a small beetle scuttle across the floor
or in the grey of the morning
the flapping arms and open smile
of a babe, just awakened -
ahhh, in the carefully savoured sips of hot tea,
and the smell of verbena leaves crushed,

or the time we woke up earlier than usual,
and finding ourselves with time aplenty to
draw after breakfast, he working on squids
and me on a sketchy hen -
how good it felt to my weary eyes,
to see that old friend, familiar blue!

a tuning in
on car rides to school;
confessions of a five year old,
questions asked, ideas posed -
"how many days will you be alive mama?"
or to a well-written book propped open on a pillow
while breastfeeding in bed
(instead of scrolling on my phone)
to shed a tear for the beauty of the afternoon sun
against the kitchen wall,
and tuning out
to the inner-critic who
so easily finds fault, or worries,
to the temptation to keep scrolling
on social media, and to all the cheap news and fluff,

is choosing to live with less,
or make do, mend a thing,
borrow, go without even -

taking time, when we can, to do just one thing -

is being rooted
unquestionably
in belief, in the
treasures of the heart;
gentleness, compassion, love, grace, celebration -

is being exactly where I am at this moment,
contented

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Motherhood is

10/1/2017

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motherhood is
two scars on my belly
like lightning bolts or wings perhaps
reminders of a body
that's been stretched:
an ancient tale
of one growing another -
it's the nuzzling face
of a newborn,
mouth and eyes rooting
for sweet nourishment -
it's the kisses on my neck
of a two year old
who just climbed into bed
and whispers something softly
about toast or trucks
it's the five year old in the back of the car
that asks:
what is mist made of?
how many sleeps until you die?
it's where I let go of self
and find her again,
with softer skin, a fuller heart
and hands that are always moving -
who cares less about the perfect,
surface of things
and bends into beauty
that's offered in the everyday
in faith, in messes -
to love deeply
and keep on.

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ode to slow

Motherhood is

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