Summer is finally here. And the new playground is finally done. So this afternoon was spent discovering all the new ways to climb, slide, spin and swing. Afterwards my muscles informed me that it became its own kind of workout. And my phone informed me that I had taken thousands of steps more than a normal day.
Discovering play A magic colourful world Seen through a child’s eyes
The simple yet priceless pleasures of children. Of their hugs and laughter. Of their pride in having made a drawing or a pearl plate just for you. Of their happiness for an excuse to have berry juice and cinnamon buns. Of their delight to have picked a bouquet of flowers to give. Of the spark in their eyes as they say, – I love you Mommy! Happy Mother’s Day!
To share a child’s joy is to grow heart-young again to remember love
Don’t react if they bully and tease. Turn your other cheek and say please. Don’t hit back! No one likes a girl who attacks. Don’t show you’re smarter than the boys. It will them only annoy. Don’t talk back to adults. Even if they are wrong it’s an insult. Don’t show you’re smarter than men. You’ll just be a bother again. Don’t speak up for anyone’s rights. They’ll just think you’re picking a fight. Don’t claim any self worth. What? Do you think it comes with birth? Don’t state your opinions. You’ll just get shun. Don’t stick out, it’ll break Jante’s law. Remember you’re just another bah, haha! Don’t pursue creative dreams. You might as well chase moonbeams. Don’t be a nuisance girl. Do you think you’re a precious pearl? Don’t be a disturbance. No one wants to see your brilliance.
Or.. Do the opposite of all that! Better be called a hellcat than live as a trampled doormat!
Wednesday and time to wander the archives. This is the second most read post from GloPoWriMo 2020. It’s both a story and about me as a child. Books and pets where my only true companions.
What did you think would happen to a child left on my doorstep? Free to roam the the shelves. Delve into the dusty archives. A whole childhood to read whatever took her fancy.
She learned everything she knows from me. I always accepted, comforted and nurtured her. When no one else did. She felt safe spending hours. Within my booked lined walls.
Of course she’d find. Fantastic stories to immerse in. Hilarious verses to laugh with. Poetry as steamy as any video. More facts than you know. Opposing ideas and new wisdom. Philosophy and all the religions. Mystical traditions founded in ancient history.
Curious children do that you see. They search for and soak up stories and facts.
Of course all that. Paper and ink. Facts and fictions. Millions of words.
Put her under my spell. Made her seek my sanctuary. Endeavour to write stories of her own.
Wondrous worlds of strange beauty. The nature seen through loving eyes. Sensual stanzas that arouses desire. Horrifying tales of death and suffering.
Yes! I confess! That bright discarded child. I made her mine by love. Of knowledge and words.
Now she lives in the apartment of the head librarian. Spending days and nights with words. I think she’s happy!
A dark stairwell. My cat meowing and howling in his box. The grownups swearing over the scratches they got when forcing him in. My mothers volatile mood. Grief flashing to rage, flashing to confused numbness flashing back to grief.
My aunts and uncles have strange whispering voices. Walking on eggshells. Afraid to do or say anything that reminds us. Like it’s possible to forget. Like it’s possible to step out of the endless loop of grief and confusion.
I did not understand. How could daddy just be gone forever? And who is that stranger looking out of my mother’s eyes?
Like a plucked flower A rootless child drifts astray Unseen and unloved
I’m one of those that might have opted out of this one, knowing the punch in some of my memories. Also knowing I do not have them all. Nearly everything before my fathers death, two months before my sixth birthday. And two months before my younger siblings birth. Are built up by photo albums and my mother’s stories. And those stories tended to shift over the years. Even today, if one of her children mentions a story she told us over, and over, and over again – only to be met with a blank stare and a totally new story.
Both of us have long ago lost the sense that we will ever know the truth. We have our own memories, as far back as they go. Beyond that we will never know.
And I, again, ended up with fragments so small I don’t know what the memory is about. And this memory, of the dark stairwell, in the house we’re moving out of just weeks after my father passed away.
I have no pictures of that time. But I do have this from what seems a happier time then I can remember.
It’s the holiday season and not much time or room for writing. Mostly it’s playing or hanging with the kids. Building a train of chairs and traveling to outer space. Acting different plays with cuddly toys. Reading books. Watching movies and series. Playing board games.
When evening comes my mind is overwhelmed by their energy and fountains of ideas. :-)