MORNING EDITION
I started cooking
yesterday so my kitchen smells of garlic and combination of a few new
spices. It's quite early to be awake with my unhealthy routine but
holding onto a hot mug of chamomile tea sweetened with a little honey I
contently dive into this settlement thinking what today will be like and
what Nadia will come running to tell me first thing when she wakes up
kissing my eyes open. It's quiet (and I can just recognize the shapes of
trees outside from where I'm sitting), just how I like it - content and relaxed
for as long as my tea is hot and I can tell the arrangement of toys on
the table across from me by heart. The floor looks tidy but the somewhat
mess of a few crayons, plastic toys, a stapler used for yet another book she made using Stabilo pens and her imagination, pair of scissors,
her empty water bottle with Elsa and Anna looking at me curiously at
first seem impossible to come to terms with. Abundance of paper and
plastic that feels like growing unintentionally overnight. I take it for
granted, a view that needs no special explanation filling me with joy
there's an artist indoors that lays dreaming as I type this, a
personality yet not shaped but loved unconditionally, still a lot
unknown yet proving excellent in its making. I know I'll find all of
this scattered here or elsewhere for the mornings to come. I fool myself
the dawn will always come with familiar repetitions - the presence of a
child will not be fading, how could it, not yet, not for a long, long
time. I glance at the pebbles she lined up on the windowsill last night
and can't help but smile. A satisfying smile I don't have to search for it through the alcoves of my memory but take it in with all five senses
right here, right this very moment. So happy.
It's
beginning to get brighter, I can now see the stilled leaves perfectly.
It's unusually dry, calm and inviting after days of rain and dreariness.
My eyes are brimming with excitement for once looking out the window. I
drank my tea, sneezed several times assuring myself there's nothing to
worry about and keep warm socks at bay for little longer. My back
doesn't ache as most mornings that I can barely put my feet down and
begin the race of time. I don't handle pain well even though I put on a
brave face at witnessing my sciatic nerve collapsing. It yells for a
plan of action, ongoing treatment or just occasional acknowledgement
this body changes and becomes less predictable. I've no idea what I
could do about it other than let my child climb over me with her arms
pulling and slender legs wrapped around like a pretzel countless times
every day. This is something one cannot let go away easily. The bending,
the twisting, the ordinary. My back goes through a lot in a week but as
things turn out it's a combination of everything - satisfying and not, such life. It's something I haven't learned to
do well, to take good care of myself the way I look after multiple
things without even realizing. Through energy put skillfully in crafting each word, folding laundry with neat and precise movements, applying
second, more defined coat of mascara, in things important but not
crucial, I thrive. A packet of crisps beside me, essential.
It's
almost morning, time spent on writing becomes less productive. Busy
mind starts its daily race bouncing off idea after idea, chore after
chore. I still have those quiet moments to myself for less than an hour
so it's worth squeezing them like wet hair. I like this room a lot.
Particularly I like to stay indoors (though you may not believe me
seeing this excessive amount of outdoor escapades I document) so a place
requires nice areas to occupy my eyes with pretty things. Not always
useful or easy to reach but so attractive to the eye at each passing
that my life could be easily spent on doing just so - silently
applauding. It's the spots, corners or shelves that keep this abode
together. It's not plain magnolia walls stained in ink or unattractive
carpeted floor that gets rearranged in my head daily. Those we've never
come across to tackling. I have no idea why. Those are our walls after
all, this is our home - rented or owned, this is insignificant. What's
truly important is to make it ours every way we can. At 6 years old I
believe Nadia is incapable of telling what's changed here
apart from the arrival of new sofa and a bushy rug in a happy hue. It's
almost like we've been tearing along on our own not merging with the
dynamics of this space and yet it will define Nadia's perception on a
happy place, lively place, a home.
My
mum let me draw on the wall of my tiny space when I was 10 or 12 - I
still remember the sad wing of an angel I drew way too close to the
ceiling disappearing under the leakage every time it rained. It kind of
developed its own features over time - the old house was collapsing
gradually allowing all kinds of deformations in plaster, faded paint and
the leakage blurred out the lines. It was far from pretty but I was
happy to add a signature to my place no matter how temporary my
residence or how poor the resources. And I kept adding a touch of
personal wherever I went over the years. Sometimes it scares me how
easily this idealistic, happy child inside is pushed aside once we
grow older, how what we've learned to pursue with persistence and
eagerness is given up without fight. Nadia's bedroom walls are adorned
in her artwork, images of princesses or heroes she currently resonates
with. It is busy. It is a happy place. Today I'm worn out of dreaming of
organizing a space once it's mine. Tomatoes will grow anywhere, rented
soil makes no difference to the ripeness of fruit and if she
remembers a crazy wallpaper her mama tweaked between meals, the better
(already bookmarked a navy one with drawings of boats, talk about the
urge).
It
takes time for me to implement a new idea into a well-known routine or
philosophy but I'm eager to try even if I may only be great at trying.
The present is all we've got, the pebbles I will not move from the
windowsill but to dust around them, the over-talked about plain boring
paint that keeps me in a state of panic - this is happening.
I've reached the point I no longer want to explain why a coffee lover
like me is not in a possession of a high technology piece that comes with 16 capsule-assortment -- yes, those cabinets
are frustratingly low to accommodate one but let's do it anyway.
Let's look for friendlier kitchen and make it work. That's the
plan. But first the coffee because days centered around a good brew are essential.
I
get up slowly, that first perfect stretch. I hear the bed next door
creaking and the rhythm of a new day entwines for good. Upon typing up
the last words I smile gently at the thought how lucky I am. To not only
dream of changes but to make them happen. Right now because it's all
we're in the possession of.
4 comments
Another masterpiece revealed to our eyes only, but please remember the words of wisdom :"You can't improve on perfection". All of our imperfections are perfect in their own ways. Make friends with them, be comfortable, be happy!:)
ReplyDeleteThank you. It's true what you're saying yet the urge for change is stronger than anything. And improvement is not a bad thing after all... x
DeleteI'm in awe what can be done and said and typed while I sleep. Each word perfectly describes the way we walk this path of life together. All thumbs up!
ReplyDeleteThis reminds me of each night/early morning I spent out of bed and was satisfied with the productivity even if a little more tired and sleepy. I hope you don't mind it in days to come xx
Delete