if only we remember the presence …
Growing Young Souls
I woke up the other morning with a ridiculous sense of glee and somehow managed to blow my own mind. What I saw may not mean much to you, but it bowled me over and opened my eyes to something I hadn’t seen before.
For the past eleven years, home has been the place where my three still rope-anchored and wrinkly water babies had their first fill of air, screwed up eyes blindly gazing upon a brand new world, the passage from darkness to light softened by the sounds lovingly (pre)spun by their father.
Thoughts of the undertow crashed through my mind. I caught myself watching them – braced, breath held – as if my intense stare had the power to keep the tide from tripping them off their feet, pulling them under, dragging them out of my life. The pain of their imaginary passing came alive for me.
My children see a different world to me. Maybe it’s the size of them; not yet full measure. Maybe it’s the eyes of them; always seeking treasure.
When I was ten I lived in a tiny cul-de-sac at the top of a hill in a little red-roofed home, which used to house railway workers. From here, when clear, you could just about glimpse the shimmering sea. From there, the roof was a beacon amidst an ocean of grey slate.
I bumped into a friend the other week and we had one of those snatched chats that happen during those in-between moments when we are hurrying to someplace else. The nub of the conversation was that, often, our mental busyness gets in the way of our business.