“The screen is the empty mirror where the simulated shadows of things relentlessly replace each other. In our craven fear of being forgotten, we remain glued to the empty window” 
​- John O'Donohue

A year ago I decided to quit instagram and facebook. To delete my six year history of posts and catalogue of carefully curated squares of lovely and hard life: things baked, clothes made, babies birthed, eggs cleaned, poems penned, plants tended to. I wrote a blog about the decision to quit here. 

Thirteen months has given me room to ponder what it was I needed in that decision. 

First and foremost it gave me a sense of agency to let go, and in actually letting go, I noticed how good it felt to make a decision for myself that other people wouldn't necessarily want or accept or even need for themselves. A friend said leaving instagram was like "coming home to herself" and I couldn't agree more.

I also needed the gift of space it afforded me. What happened in the space freed from spending hours every day on instagram and facebook? It was simply absorbed in the day (and night) as little pockets of moments between the chores and doing and going - to simply be: to pause, to take more care or a deeper breath. These pockets, like the best placed, generous pockets of a beloved dress or coat, are warm and homely. They are essential to being comfortable, safe even, in the middle of the mess and clamour and unpredictability of life. I am sure there are ways to carve out digital pockets that are relaxing and constructive, and perhaps writing and reading blog posts and long-format news pieces is mine, but it still pales in comparisons to the real life sun-on-your-face pockets of pause and breath. I wouldn't cut them out now for anything. 

It has also given me a renewed appreciation for waiting, that easily neglected, yet necessary part of being human. I love Marnie Kennedy's reflections on waiting as a kind of prayerfulness:

"Instant knowledge, instant gratification, instant success are the messages of the media. However, waiting is of the essence of creatureliness and is the characteristic of genuine prayer, for it helps to purify the heart of impatience and consumer addiction. Waiting is in itself a deep place of revelation and leads to the unmasking of illusion, prejudice and fear"

I realised I could wait before taking a photograph of something beautiful or sharing something with friends or family. I could also wait before purchasing a new knitting pattern or ordering beautiful fabric to recreate something I'd see someone else make. I could wait before writing something that others would read in my newsletter, for ideas to come and go more gradually.  I could also wait for feedback which didn't come very often and was perfectly alright to keep creating and contemplating without instantaneous feedback and encouragement. I can wait for relationships to simmer and grow in real time. I can wait - and am still waiting - for my body to heal from illness without any guarantee or when or how. I can wait with less instead of impatiently craving and cramming in more. 

I'm sure you've come across these famous lines by Mary Oliver from her poem "Sometimes": 
Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it."

But what is she saying here? What does the whole poem speak of? Is it a glittery prompt to document our lived experiences for all to see? To labour over photographs and catchy descriptions on our digital devices? Or is it simply to remind herself - and us the readers - to sit with the present moment, however mundane or extraordinary, and drink it in. To savour the sublime ordinariness of grasshoppers and afternoon light, and the gifts of idleness and solitude, the messiness of faith and relationships. What if telling about it was just bearing witness to our own senses? To the stories and feelings of others in real time?

Down by the river
no boys playing,
banks submerged with rain -
everything rushing,
gushing, gurgling,
sodden and soaking,
debris caught and foaming. 

I watch the water
mesmerised,
it's a funny kind of sympathy
she reflecting me:
that spilling out, forcefully, 
an overflow of feelings
days of rain and howling winds bring -
of wondering, half-sleeping,
weeks of lockdown and isolation
familiar paths, unsettling us
again and again.

I'm a mess of worry and relief
we know we're the lucky ones
with animals safe, with house in tact 
that's dry and warm -
spirit within us, hovering,
rest and disturbance. 

Down by the river
I'm a woman lingering, 
listening to the flow -
birds are singing,
darting in the trees
and on my face
blessed sun, shining.

Down by the river
three boys barefoot
looking for fish, frogs,
and yabbie claws

We marvel at the shallows,
green and weedy,
banks covered with reeds
willows flowing with leaves
poplars tall and shimmering,

the littlest boy is
crouching on a rock
watching water bugs
he sees me watching him
and grins,

It’s a mud pie heaven
a place to sit
watch rocks sink,
forgotten fence posts
stick up like rusty thumbs
dragonflies land on them
we notice tiny blue moths,
flies and native bees.

Three boys rivering,
above them galahs flying,
their mother revelling
in watery reflection, thinking,
we seem to come on
the days we most need it.