There will be pain.

There is a stone house at the end of our driveway. It is immaculate in every way. The grass is perfect, green, mowed. The trees are aligned. The gates are beautiful and detailed. The windows reveal fine glass and china and ornate picture frames. I haven’t been inside although I imagine it to be perfectly spotless and a perfect combination of neat and homely. From the appearance of the house I can assume (perhaps dangerously so) so much about the lives of those within. Steady, regular careers probably with the same company for 20 years. All the tools in the tool shed work, all the kitchen appliances are clean and the bin cupboard smells nice. The spare room is ready for visitors and devoid of junk or spare boxes. Bills are paid on time and kept orderly in a file out of sight. There are life insurances, estates in order, lock boxes and savings accounts. Holidays are planned, packaged and extra insurance in bought. There are spare toiletries in the cupboards for when the ones in use run out. There are shopping days, steak days and the fridge is clean. The dogs are routinely wormed, fed the same food – brand and amount – each night. There is order, predictability, and stability. I walk past the house when I walk faith to sleep and each time without fail I feel a stirring inside me. I cant quite put my finger on it, but it lives in the sphere of fear, jealousy and panic.

If there are two camps of people – one camp of those who buy a house, get pregnant, renovate, buy a family car, get paid maternity leave and decorate the house, once, maybe twice…

Then I live in the other camp. Hell I am the scoutmaster of the other camp. As I’ve written before, regardless of my efforts for normalcy, I have lived in over 30 homes, I have had probably that many jobs. I have no idea when my bills are due and I often drive without having remembered to renew my license. I am the antithesis of stability.

So as I walk by this perfect stone house I think of Faith and the life she will lead with me and her dad – co-scoutmaster. I get lost in a world of maybes and stories and examples. I feel scared when I think of her wishing for the same family home and the same bedroom and the sense of security this might provide. I wonder if she will feel envious of her friends or wish for the same sense of normality. I wonder if she will be always having to make new friends and if this will hurt her. I wonder if she will hate us and want the other parents. As I picture her being an insecure and uncertain girl as a result of the constant upheaval I feel it in my stomach and I hate us in that moment wanting more than anything to be different and something I am not. I picture her in therapy hating me and blaming me for her unsettled childhood. My thoughts spin out of control and I churn inside with sadness and self-loathing, guilt and fear.

It hurts me so much to think that something I do or say may one day be the root of pain and suffering for her. That she will be sad or resentful as a result of something I am doing, or not doing. That she wants for something I cannot provide. I know in my heart that I serve to teach her in ways that I don’t know of – that she chose me as a parent to challenge her and that I will perfectly fulfill her soul’s desires.

My saving grace is Dharma – yes from Dharma and Greg. And Brook, a girl I once knew. Maybe she will grow to love our lifestyle? Maybe she will flourish with life experiences and travelling stories and love that she is different to the norm. Maybe she will learn skills as a result of having to meet new people, and adjust to an uncertain life. Perhaps she will learn trust and adventure.  Brook would tell me of the amazing fun she would have with her family living in huts and vans and picking fruit for dinner from neighbors’ trees. She cherished the experience and although she never quite fit in at school she felt richer and so grateful for the life she had lived. Would faith feel that? Would she and her dad and I be a tight threesome of love and adventures and travel the world exploring and following whatever path lay ahead at any given moment? Could she possibly grow to be well-rounded and worldly as a result of her experiences?

Yin. Yang. Black. White. Victim. Power. 50.50. It could go either way I suppose. Maybe it will be a bit of both? Maybe some days she will be so grateful for this life and some days she will hate it. Maybe it will depend on whats happening in her life at that time. Of course I will never know. And in moments of clarity I wonder, does it really matter? I have learned that the best way forward is to set the goal and then forget it. Set the end goal and then approach each day’s steps in getting to that goal as individual little goals. In doing so the end is not so daunting and one day I inevitably arrive. So I question my anxiety and fear and focus everything on each day. If I want a close and bonded relationship in 20 years then I need to have a close and bonded relationship now. If I want Faith to share with me and be open in 20 years then Its best I teach her how to do that now, and show her how that looks by doing it myself. The challenges will be there I am certain but I remind myself that the ground upon which they are fought can be solid and nurturing. There can be security within us as a family. There can be stability and consistency in our love and communication. There can be routine within the days which can occur anywhere, at anytime; kisses in the morning, books before bed. I can consistently be there for her when she needs me. I can be her stability when she feels uncertain. My love for her will remain constant and the effort I put into being the best mother I can be will remain my career forever, regardless of whatever I choose to do.

In essence I think for me the message is that if I am confident in my decisions then she will learn that confidence in herself. If I am clear and stand by my decisions then she will have the opportunity to model that behavior. If I embrace being different and being unique and who I am, then at if she repels everything I have taught her and wants the complete opposite of what we have provided, then she will do so with confidence and will embrace her individuality too.

Will Faith hate her life and blame her childhood? I hope to teach Faith above all that it comes down to choice and whether as adults we assume a victim mentality or a position of personal responsibility.  Either accepting the childhood we had and using it as a basis of learning and change or being resentful for what we didn’t have. As hard as it can be when life gets tough and I feel completely overwhelmed I know that the best way for faith to learn this is to witness this in me.

Mother guilt can be absolutely engulfing and can tear the toughest of us down. And I do think that it’s inevitable to feel some form of worry or concern or remorse for what I do or don’t do. Whether it be for yelling at her, for not hearing her cry, for not knowing the best thing to do in each and every situation, for not making the perfect cake or dress or present. As unrealistic as it is to try and be perfect I want nothing less of myself for Faith.

This message is to myself and all I ask is that I remember it in the moments of complete meltdown. These are my tools for sanity. This is the small list I have comprised to help me get through to my end goal. This is how I am combating mother guilt….

Number 1 – Knowing that by accepting my imperfections I teach Faith to accept hers. In turn this allows her to accept those around her, which fosters a heart of compassion.

Number 2 – Not being afraid to apologize to her. When I explain that I am sorry and that I was feeling frustrated, upset, angry, confused, tired, I teach her that I am not above making mistakes or admitting them. That I seek forgiveness and that it can be a humbling thing to do. I teach her that its ok to make mistakes and to communicate them and the thoughts and feelings around the decisions that were made. I teach her that I am human too. I give her unspoken permission to feel sad, angry, frustrated and to express her emotions.

Number 3 – I remember that I choose my experiences and thoughts and that I learn from them. And so does she.

Number 4 – I write to her, in her journal and express my remorse for things I have done or for situations that may be less than perfect. I explain my feelings and what’s happening and my fears and concerns. I explain that I am doing my best and one day I know that she will read this and feel some comfort in knowing that perhaps the thing she remembers or feels sad about was something I was battling, or something I felt sad about too and I feel that in that I will be understood and she will find healing. I do this because its not so much an event that hurts long term as the lack of acknowledgment or remorse for the event by those involved. I remember the pain I carried with me for so many years over small things my mum would do when I was little, and that as an adult when I asked her about them she would tell me she was sorry and in that instance it was healed and forgotten. It was magical to me.

Number 5 – I know that as I walk away from her as she cries and feel regret for doing so that I will not do it again. I know that each thing that happens serves to teach me and tell me what I value so that I can choose differently in the future.

Number 6 – I write to her that I love her immeasurably and that I am learning each day and doing the best job I can. Filled with firsts and trials and not so perfect results. I write about my struggles and what I am going through. I write to her of my guilt and ask for her forgiveness – not from a place of neediness or uncertainty but from a place of self-compassion and love so that she might share it, for me and for herself.

Number 7 – I remember that our children are our teachers, in all the obvious ways and in just being. Without Faith I wouldn’t examine this place I am in. I wouldn’t question my lifestyle or my feelings around it. I have always been happy with my gypsy ways and loved the spontaneous, uncertain, carefree way I have lived – trusting the process and free-falling from grace.

Number 8 – I remember all the small but important things I do each day. Not all of them everyday, but some of them, some days.  Climbing in the sandpit instead of saying no, reading the same book 20 times on the couch together, stopping at the park instead of driving by. Letting her put my makeup on. Chasing her through the park and making speeding car sounds with the trolley, despite the looks I get. Its all the little things that add up to that big picture in the end.

Number 9 – I remind myself of the pain I have experienced in my life and the great learning that I have had as a result. I remember that it is through our pain that we grow and develop and gain depth and that we need the dark, to appreciate the light. I know that through hardships I have developed compassion and wisdom. As will she know all of this.

And most importantly,

Number 10 – I surround myself with compassionate and caring people. Supportive, nurturing and kind people. I haven’t always! There have been times when deep in my pain and questioning as a new mum that people would jump in and affirm my failings, tell me how wrong I was doing it. Hell one women told me I was damaging Faith – that I should be given a spanking for the poor parenting that they had to suffer through. When I can be surrounded by this or by people who share their mistakes to comfort me, who admit they aren’t perfect either and that all new mums make mistakes, it becomes an easy and necessary choice.

Tonight I will write to Faith about my feelings and concerns for our future and about how I have loved my way of life however much it feels scary at times. Ill explain that my current fears and worries stem from a place deep within me that wants only the best for her; that wishes her the best life I can give her full of love and confidence and opportunities.  Ill write about what she did today and how we spent our time together, how she made me laugh and the new words she mastered. Ill let her know its Easter soon and that despite having hand-made her chocolate Easter eggs amidst a week of hell and chaos, that I felt so disappointed with myself for not being a perfect egg-foiler. Hopefully she (and I) will laugh as we read it together one day, as we read together everyday.

It’s a tough gig this parenting thing.  The toughest for me as yet. Im going to try not to think about the ‘what if’s’ and the ‘mights’. I’m going to approach this mother guilt thing like the true gypsy I am and face it day by day, as it comes, using whatever tools I have within me at the time. I suppose if Im being honest, I don’t know that I love china or glass or ornate frames much anyway. I find having the same job for more than a few years totally boring. I LOVE jumping in the car and having a roadtrip with no destination. I hate suburbia. I hate family wagons. I love that I sold my family car to buy a huge big campervan just so Faith could sit up with me. I love that our lack of anything stable allows me to teach Faith to trust in the process. To have Faith. I love that we would jump in the car and head off to something without packing properly or thinking it through perfectly. There is always a shop open somewhere for when I run out of stuff and whats wrong with eggs for dinner every now and then anyway? ‘Nothing!’ I tell myself, ‘Nothing’.

surround yourself with women who aren’t afraid to admit they too have made mistakes.

On a Gypsy holiday

Our family car – Stopping for a sleep en route – the beach was a beautiful view that day.

nurturing trust

The week after mum died was obviously horrific. It was emotionally cutting to depths I had never imagined. Being the oldest child and a woman, and given my stepdad was showing little signs of taking the emotional reigns, I felt compelled to take on the role of nurturer. This meant making the tea, preparing the snacks for guests, answering the phone, calling all mum’s friends and clients to tell them that she had died, even while still grappling with the reality myself. There were times when I was good at this and times when I dismally failed. There are two stand-out moments. One was standing in front of about 400 people at mum’s funeral with my brother and losing my feet. Little did anyone know that he had caught me and I was resting on him for a good couple of minutes before regaining my composure and continuing to read the speech I had written the night before. The words were coming out of my mouth but I was nowhere to be found. The second moment of not so awesome nurturing of those around me was when I decided to take us to a movie to just zone out for a couple of hours and have a break from all the crying and the mourning and the unrelenting pain. I had been given free tickets from work prior to this nightmare and I figured we should go and escape reality – for an hour and a half. Wow.  What a disaster. The movie was about a family and in a nutshell the mum dies. Of all the movies in all the cinemas this was the one I took us off to see. I don’t think I’ll ever quite get over the fact that I led them there to sit confined, during the hardest time of our lives to watch pretty much a rerun of the preceding month. In full colour, big screen surround sound torture.

As tragic as the movie was and my dislike of Diane Keaton aside, I have always taken something else from that day. Once the pain subsided and the ‘I cant believe that actually happened’ comments ceased, I was left with another kind of sadness that has affected me in differing ways over the past 7 years. The estrangement of my dad and his family from me was a reality that I had battled for the past 5 years. The details are stranger than fiction and still have me more than somewhat baffled but the essence of the pain was missing the larger family unit. I loved the family dynamics in the movie – the many siblings and the ups and downs. Mum had always held that warm place for my brother and I – home was wherever she was and although it was only the three of us, it was loving and funny and loud and up and down and we each had our characters to play. Our movie was a beautiful one. But when she died there was needless to say a hole that I thought would never be filled. In recent years memories of the movie had me questioning my decision for only one child. Craig and I were desperately trying to make sense of our emotions and wants coupled with the reality of our ages and health situations. I had wanted a child so desperately and we were mostly set to have two, but 3 years of illness pushed the time factor that little bit too far and IVF means a second baby is a conscious decision stolen from the hands of serendipity. Faith’s birth was perfect, my baby was amazing, healthy, beautiful, peaceful and happy. My step children were thrilled and enveloped her with love, it was perfect. It IS perfect.

Back in my television watching days I would find the occasion to watch Deal or No Deal. Why, is still beyond me. I have yet to watch a show more frustrating and stupid in my life – I would find myself actually leaving the room for fear of watching and feeling so uncomfortable for the idiots making ridiculous arm gestures betting on family holidays and taking chances with money and thus opportunities they will most likely never see again in their lives.  “Well we came with nothing!’ they would say. Yes you moron, so why not leave with the 10,000 and have a magical family holiday – the holiday “you have always wanted” instead of risking it and leaving once again with nothing. Contestant after contestant would come on and say they “only wanted $xxxx” and they would be happy. Yet repeatedly they would be faced with what I can only call greed and BAM they would lose the lot.  Upon reaching their initial goal they squirm “just one more… NO DEAL!!”

I remind myself of this all the time – ‘Be the smart woman on the show who got what she wanted and leaves happy. Be the woman who says what she wants, gets it, and is satisfied.’ This may seem like a strange antidote yet it’s what I keep coming back to when I think of my situation.  As I said, it IS perfect. I often hear myself saying “yes but I would love Faith to have a sibling her own age, they will play together, she will be a big sister, she will have a best friend forever….” Before I had Faith I begged ‘god’. I want a child, I need a child, please I will be happy and satisfied I just want a child. And so daily I remind myself – take the DEAL.

Ahhhhgh but the movie – The big family, the mixed characters and the chaotic dinners. I had to create this, I had to make this happen because mum was gone and there was no other way to fill the big family void. Didn’t I? Don’t I owe this to Faith? I worried that in 20 years I would regret my decision to dispose of my 8 frozen potential characters. I pictured us sitting around the dinner table, classical music playing, the three of us quietly eating and politely smiling at each other. Nonetheless, Craig and I decided to leave it to fate, despite our ages and health complications. If a (nother) miracle happened so be it.  If not we would always be grateful for our precious miracle and live the comparatively easy one-child life making it as full as possible for her and doing our best to spice up dinner-time with just the 3 of us. I let it go.

And then the strangest thing happened. The most astounding and inexplicable sequence of events took place. Dominos began to fall around me and as I stood there watching this story unfold I found myself in the most frenzied and extraordinary place. Standing in my dad’s kitchen, making dinner, stepping over and around my 2 year old as she zooms through on her bike – she is being chased by my sisters, who love her and make funny noises at her whilst laughing and joking with my step son. My dad and Craig are outside having a beer and making jokes. My brother and his wife walk in and I greet them with a “quick put the rice on!” as I reach across the island bench and give my brother a kiss. There is water on the floor- food bubbling away, yelling across the kitchen as I arrange tables to be set and ovens to be checked. My dad suggests Chinese as this is too “bloody chaotic” and I stop and say to him, “No dad. This is perfect – this is a family dinner and its perfect.” Across the table I admire my beautiful sisters who I have longed to know and my heart skips as I see myself in them. They are part of me! I look a little like Kristy and when I see myself in her I melt. Both fiery, we get into a discussion and for a moment I fear the consequences as a result of a tumultuous past but I breathe….and trust that this is a different time – that we have to do this to be family –real family can disagree and still feel safe that tomorrow it’s all forgotten. Tassie’s sweetness and strength surprises me and I silently wish for the years we missed as I pass the salad over. Faith spills a drink and 5 sets of hands reach in to help while I sigh and smile and hope that she doesn’t fall off the chair as she climbs over to sit with Tate. My dad is gentle, caring and open with Faith. He is not impatient or intolerant. He loves his children. He smiles at me and calls me ‘Tiffs’ like he used to so many years ago and it’s all I can do to contain my tears. This is real. After 5 years I am back here, in the house and everyone is older, different, new to me and yet somehow so familiar.

The circumstances for how I came to be in this perfect movie are sad and tragic. Mothers are lost. Dreams are shattered and visions on how things should be are forever changed. But so much is gained. The pain is real, the losses are deep and lasting. The movie may not be what we thought we were going to see but at the end of each day we must look at what we have and be grateful for the wealth in our lives. Me, right here right now, I am rich. I won the 200,000 dollar suitcase and I want nothing more than to share it equally with my family – the characters who lovingly surround me now as I play the role of mother, wife, big sister and oldest daughter. I want them to feel enormous joy and love and happiness and to swim in the lightness they are surrounded with. I want to take all the pain away from them and from me and to just bathe in the metaphoric money. If I have learnt anything in the past 7 years it is that nothing is permanent. Anything is possible and love exists in the most improbable places, just waiting for permission to gush and besiege those who allow it; those who willingly subscribe to happiness and possibility; those who have the courage to let it all go and trust in life. I have learnt that pain and joy exist simultaneously and that that is the fabric of life and love and of who we are. I would do anything to take their pain away, to hold them tightly each day and try and ease the suffering. But would I be robbing them? Would I be shielding the wound of the light?

However selfish it feels my world seems complete now. My fear for Faith is no longer – she is surrounded with love and life. I step back from my self and watch the terrible movie from 7 years ago again in my mind, replacing all the characters with us and the story lines with ours. It is beautiful my movie, this sequel I am in right now, and while not yet fully written, it is filled with tragic heartbreak, suffering, loss and tears. With laughter, love, life and mayhem. It is filled with multifaceted characters with complexities and depth. And this kind of movie, well I think it’s totally bankable, and I’d line up to watch it over and over and over again like a delicious cult film as I fall in love with each character the more I watch.

As for Deal or No Deal. Is that show still even on? Who cares. Love doesn’t come in a box. Our happiness is right now if we choose it to be. Sometimes we win, sometimes we lose, sometimes we risk I guess and sometimes we shouldn’t. But to be happy right here and right now with exactly what we have. That is what makes us rich.

It’s a funny thing when what repels you, inspires you. Tonight I was moved to be in a room full of those being inspired and those doing the inspiring. Mostly people assumed both roles in one-way or another. It was indeed a beautiful evening, amongst beautiful people. The connection for the cause was felt at all levels, the desire from those who attended to be part of the magic, and to delve deeper and deeper into growing it, shaping it and expanding it with work, time, energy, expertise, people and themselves was remarkable. It was like watching a meal being created slowly and tantalizingly as each ingredient added more depth, flavour and colour to what was going to be a most delicious and nourishing dish.

Yet, only days ago, I resigned from being part of this group. What’s even stranger is that I still stand by my decision however at odds with the awe and love I felt tonight for the process, people, concept and above all my husband.

It made my heart melt to watch Craig hug every recipient as they accepted their awards, and I wanted to reach out and embrace him when as though connected with my mind he shared that only a year ago he was uncomfortable with hugs. I gushed when he choked up with gratitude for Lucy, Ruby and the team. I cheered and laughed when Lorenzo was recognized for his outstanding love and commitment.

And of course I was filled with swarms of butterflies as Faith raised her arms above her head and happily joined in the clapping smiling up at me and then over at Craig, not realizing the enormity of what she was witnessing; Yes the ceremony, yes the inaugural induction, but really, the transformation, the change, and it having been initiated by her dad. Her Dad! What a role model, what a life she will live surrounded with consciousnesses, love, connection and community. What lessons she will learn and conversations she will have; displays of respect, balance, equality and sharing for people, animals and the planet. She will learn of building a world with vision and care and thought for future generations – this is her palate, this is what she will come to know as she grows and challenges and thinks and questions.

And yet, being part of the project, it’s not for me.

A year ago Faith and I attended the first presentation of Earth Communities, along with 4 other people. They seemed impressed and interested and I was intrigued. I had of course heard the material for 3 years and I was well and truly over it. I was bored with it, cynical, and at best, the devil’s advocate. I was of course hopeful for Craig, and happy to support his venture and enquiry but we were worlds apart on the whys, hows, wheres and just about every other matter, right down to the principles and premise. We often are. I guess one could say I should feel pretty stupid right now given how successful and quickly things are moving. But I don’t. I guess I could say he was right and I was wrong. But I wont. It would be easy to look around at all the people being affected, influenced, inspired, changed, moved and tonight inducted, and think, ‘well what do I know?’ But I don’t. I am not wrong, but I am certainly happy for Craig that he was right – that for him, ‘we’ was right.

Tonight I felt honoured to witness the intensity of the personal journey some had been on, and as the rocks were placed in the circle the passionate inner understanding they felt was obvious in their sharing a glimpse of it. This feeling of connection with others is real and right and empowering and everything we truly are. The room was alight with truth, and it felt good.

While I have sat back and watched it grow, fought tooth and nail with Craig about the details and the processes and the style and workings, at the end of the day I realized something really important. It’s actually ok for me to love Craig’s work and his passion without wanting to be IN it. It’s absolutely fine that although I was brought to tears tonight by the immense energy, affection and love in the room, its totally normal that still, I have no desire to join them. And the thing is I agree wholeheartedly with the intent; but this resignation, its not about the concept, the plan, the vision. Its about my marriage, my independence, my work, my vision and my dreams, and standing by them and what I am here to achieve and do.

I hate groups. I am not a team player. Committees bore me to a fidgeting slump in the chair. I don’t want to discuss it, meet about it, liaise with you about it. I am not a ‘we’ person.

I am an excellent manager, planner, worker, student. I like hierarchy, structure, rules, process, procedures. I like control – whether I am in it or reporting to it. I like my own company, my own space, my own things. I like to host parties, but not go to them. I like one on one, direction and a task list that I like to complete on my own. I am indeed an ‘I’ person.

What I loved about tonight, is that behind the ceremony and the buzz and the tears and celebration, was a realization for me. A contented knowing of who I am that was not present before Craig’s journey into ‘we’ began. I had tried to be in the ‘we’ and found that I felt ‘I’ disappear, turn inward and feel completely overwhelmed. I remember at one meeting I felt stunned and like I was drowning in a sea of ‘we’ with nowhere to go. I felt isolated in the most crowded room and all I could do was scream internally.

I am so proud to be Craig’s wife. I am so happy for him and the Earth Community. I feel privileged to have met so many wonderful people and hope to have them in my life for years to come. But I know who I am. And being who I am, right now -not last week, last year or in two years from now – is watching on as an observer of a most splendid awakening, making dinner for those who stop by, chatting with those who visit and work around the place. Ironically, I love an open house and a random drop in. But while I am observing, proud as punch and filled with hope, love and appreciation, I will do my own work, assist the planet in my own way, be a healthy and independent wife and mother.

Weve all heard the line, ‘Its not you, its me.’ Either pathetically spewing forth from our own mouths in an attempt to make someone else feel better or even worse from someone elses mouth as they desperately try not to offend, failing dismally. Perhaps both.

In this case I can honestly say that yes it actually is me. One day I might be able to do both or balance myself in a way that I am involved without being affected in the way I am now. I have found that its only since standing back, stepping away and allowing us to be separate, that I can truly appreciate all it is. Maybe one day Ill let go of the frustration and what I suppose is fear. But I feel whole enough to fully accept and cherish both my needs, my limitations, my strengths and my desires and those of the man I love and to tailor my life in such a way that I respect who I am without judgment of good or bad, right or wrong, whilst respecting who he is including his limitations, strengths and desires without the same judgment or label of right or wrong. To allow not only him to fulfill his life purpose and mistakes and accomplishments, but to also respect my own and not allow my own self to be enveloped and hidden behind his, regardless of how great, inspiring and wondrous it is. This feels healthy, this feels whole. After all, at the end of the day, it all just ‘is’. And we are both imperfectly perfect at each moment.

Today is the 20th of January. For some today is a birthday, for others a wedding anniversary, for some its a day of rest. Perhaps its family roast day, a day for the garden, or just another day which will come and go without much notice. For some today is nothing. For me today is 3 days before my birthday. And 7 years since my mum died. 7 Years. Apparently the full mourning process takes 7 years. So thats today. Its done. Psychologically, Im supposed to be over it.

I can attest that I dont accidentally go to call her anymore, and that the daily and weekly routines are engrained enough now not to include her. I can also say with certainty that I have stopped crying when I see pictures and I have stopped dreaming about her death being a big mistake and waking up excited, only to find that actually, its very real. I dont remember her smell anymore. I dont remember exactly how she had her tea, but Im pretty sure it was sweet. I dont mourn Christmas so much anymore nor do I avoid the cards and letters she gave me incase of certain meltdown. I dont feel guilty anymore about not being Catholic or going to church. I can say that I function normally once more but that I needed each and every day of the 7 years to get here. Regardless of this almighty feat, there are a few things I do still do and probably (hopefully) will always do.

I will always hear her voice sing as she opened the door for me “my sunshine!”. I will always smile at the laughs we had over lamb roast, watermelon and midnight pancakes. Ill always remember telling her the joke from Good Will Hunting as I spilled water from my mouth and being shocked and so glad that she could let go and really laugh instead of giving me a ‘look’. I will always wonder what wouldve happened if I had told her I DID want kids instead of convincing her I didnt. Might she have stayed? Ill always want to tell her how well Im doing at uni and for her to brag while I pretended to hate it. Ill always mentally call her first and tell her anything great. Ill always wish that it was still her recounting MY childhood stories instead of whoevers I happen to be hearing at the time. I will always want and try to recreate her passionate and strong words in my ear when Im down and out to remind me how much I am loved and how much she believes in me. and of course how she would kill anyone who dare hurt me. That was always comforting and a little funny given how tiny she was. Shit she was scary though – Ill ALWAYS remember that. Ill always wish we were closer when I was a teenager. Ill always keep her photo close to me. Ill always want one more kiss, one more hug, one more day…year.. decade… lifetime. Minute. Second. Breath.

Ill always wish I was stronger for her – always. Ill always have regrets. Ill always be sorry – sorry for what I didnt do more that what I did. Im sorry mum for not telling you I would care for you. Im sorry I didnt tell you to wait. Im sorry I didnt buy you flowers or make you more food when you were in hospital. Im sorry I found the drive to Flinders sooo long. Im sorry I didnt tell the nurse to be quiet when she was rude to you and Im sorry I didnt stand up for you more and fight for you when your ‘friends’ were assholes. Im sorry I didnt bring you back a present when I went on holidays in year 9. Im sorry I didnt know what I was seeing when I saw your legs the night before you died and to tell the nurse. Im sure this would have saved you. Im sorry I had no concept that you might actually die and that I didnt pray for you. Im sorry I didnt let your mum come in and hold you as you passed away. I wanted you for myself but you probably want your mum – I would want you. Im sorry I was hostile. Im sorry I was cold. Im sorry you felt like you couldnt come home and be cared for. Im sorry I didnt respond when you said you werent coping with the death of your brother. I thought you were steel. Indestructible. Im sorry mum for being less than you. For not being the woman you were. The mother you were and still are in my heart. Im sorry you had to die to allow me to become aware and caring and a fragment of what you were. I will always look at my girl and wish with each and every bone and cell in my body that you could touch her, see her, love her, the way you loved me. The way you had always prayed you could and waited so patiently for. Im sorry for so many things.

I dont believe that the mourning process is ever over when you truly love someone. Perhaps its made worse by the fact that each time I look at my girl I know what she is missing. The love that would have enveloped her like noone elses can. Not even mine. Although as I walk down the Stirling lanes amidst beautiful gardens, trees and flowers I look out at them and will her to see through my eyes at the beauty she would have adored, I still wish she could see it. Even though people tell me ‘she is with you’, she isnt. Even though each white butterfly that dances with me and plays with Faith tells me she visits, I still want her in the flesh – smoking and drinking coffee and laughing till she cries, mascara running down her face. I want her to light up the room like she always, always did. As I prepare to be an Aunty in July its here again – the wishing, the wanting the yearning for my brother to have that love be present in the most amazing time of his life. It feels fresh and raw again – but old and worn at the same time. Same tears, same pain. same same same. again and again.

7 years will come and go. Sunday will become Monday. My birthday will be and Ill be older and with the additional year it will become less and less unusual that my mum isnt here to those I meet. As my girl grows Ill become accustomed to the feelings that dwell at Christmas and special occasions. Ill be the best Aunty I can be and do what I can to fill a void. Like a feather in the Grand Canyon, but a feather none the less. I wont think of mum every day, Ill let more of her things go each year until I have just a couple left for Faith. I’ll become the mother at Christmas time for my girl instead of hanging out to see mine. Ill make the roast and midnight pancakes. Ill start my own traditions and sing Faith my own songs. Ill do my best to make up for my regrets each day but Ill live with the pain of them forever because I need to. I really do.

But mum, Ill always mourn you. Sometimes with a smile, tonight with tears. Sometimes Ill talk of you and sometimes Ill just quietly remember. But please know, wherever you are, that 7 years is just 7 years. Our hearts are linked forever and one day Ill recognize you again and we will have another go. Until then, what can I say? I miss you so much. I love you mum.

I recently read this from “Ram Daas: Fierce Grace” written to parents after the death of their daughter, on a friends FB page. I adore it and when Im feeling strong this is what I choose to read. Today, I have adapted the names to be for us…

Dear Aaron and Tiffany, Craig and Kerry, and all who loved her,

  Gilda finished her work on earth, and left the stage in a manner that leaves those of us left behind with a cry of agony in our hearts, as the fragile thread of our faith is dealt with so violently. Is anyone strong enough to stay conscious through such teaching as you are receiving? Probably very few. And even they would only have a whisper of equanimity and
peace amidst the screaming trumpets of their rage, grief, horror and desolation.

I can’t assuage your pain with any words, nor should I. For your pain is Gilda’s legacy to you. Not that she or I would inflict such pain by choice, but there it is. And it must burn its purifying way to completion. For something in you dies when you bear the unbearable, and it is only in that dark night of the soul that you are prepared to see as God sees, and to love
as God loves.

Now is the time to let your grief find expression. No false strength. Now is the time to sit quietly and speak to your mother, and thank her for being with you these few years, and encourage her to go on with whatever her work is, knowing that you will grow in compassion and wisdom from this experience.

In my heart, I know that you and she will meet again and again, and recognize the many ways in which you have known each other. And when you meet you will know, in a flash, what now it is not given to you to know: Why this had to be the way it was.

Our rational minds can never understand what has happened, but our hearts– if we can keep them open to God – will find their own intuitive way. Rachel came through you to do her work on earth, which includes her manner of death. Now her soul is free, and the love that you can share with her is
invulnerable to the winds of changing time and space. In that deep love, include me.