I am late to the party, because
I always am
what with one thing or another, but
here I am at last,
and I bear cake.
What is saving me is this:
space of my own to
say what I’m thinking
think what I’m saying and
somehow align the two.
Wise words, beauty in strife,
small moments captured
in the hecticness of life.
The Small Boy has
refused to leave my side.
I strapped him on and wore him until
my back muscles cried, working
in the warmth of a pre-spring afternoon,
sunshine gilding his hair, like
yellow Labrador hair, and
the smiling eyes of our dogs.
I moved, and
used my body
the way it was designed, and
carrying a child so close felt like the small
Heaven of quiet-soul moments,
the sunbright warmth of
connected people, like
happy dog fur, which is both
happy-dog fur, and
tumbling freewheeling spiralling in the breeze as I
scoop and shovel, scoop and shovel.
No one knew that dog poo could be spiritual.
(Well, possibly they did, but my soul had never heard it.)
It’s putting him to bed, forced
into slower rhythms
of twilit rooms, of
soft white humming, of
the washing machine and droning
from a far-distant TV.
It’s knowing I can’t leave because
he wants me close; it’s realising that I
need him close.
When I have nothing better to do, I love
these night time rhythms.
I have nothing better to do.
I lie on the floor, still singing, still humming, and
for the first time all day
I relax, and
putting him to sleep is no longer hard work
but solace in a frantic day, and I
thank God for a small child who needs me,
even though I am tired of need,
because I need need, and he
needs me, and it because of this that
I am lying on the floor soothing
as much as him.
One day, I will remember these lessons
learned in soul-quiet moments.
The moments will run thicker – like
a sweet glaze over a life
and luscious and dreamy.