I lay in bed this morning, the clock ticking away to a respectable 7:30am as the darkened air of the bedroom began to fill with the chatter and life of 2 little girls and a yawning husband. The final day of 2011 is upon us and with the final opening of eyes this side of 2011, the prelude to the turn of the year welcomed with it a wish-wash, dreamy haze of memories and wishes: all that has been and all that may be.
I am not one for resolutions, per se. The same things that I would scribble on my to-do and not-to-do lists which should traditionally define the skeleton of the looming year will be much the same as the things that I hope to accomplish every day...my desire to be a thoughtful friend, a true wife, a dedicated mother, an avid listener, a healthy body and full, rich soul are all simple, honest declarations of that which I wish my character to be but which are characteristics that even for the best of us are a work in progress and, in my case, will span the decades of my life until I take my final breath. It takes a strong heart and sharp mind to tackle the obstacles that interrupt smooth running, it requires a sturdy grasp on that which is important over that which is monumental...I'm still trying...
..The flight of a soul to a higher place is a moment that can stop time for each and every one of us, envelop us in sorrow and guilt and relief and distrust. It has been in the lives of my family this year as it had the previous and it undoubtedly stole a little piece of what we ultimately needed just to carry on: gratitude. How can you be grateful when your life is torn either to pieces or around the edges? Gratitude- the softened area of our existence that is nudging, calm, peripheral but should not be underestimated...if your wish-wash dreamy haze of 2011 points you towards edging each and every remaining second away in order to catalpult into a new year remember this: all that has been will follow you until you find a smudge of good in the whole picture. Look back and think...remember that morning in spring when sunlight poured through your drapes instead of a gloom of grey February. Remember that one time when you took a walk for a little longer than you intended and felt the vibrations of heightened energy fill your lungs? When somebody told you that you looked nbice when you had been traumatized all day about the state of your hair. And that instance when you felt that nothing could or would or should go right for you, that the weeks were getting longer and harder and there was just no way out of the mess. Until a little chink of light seeped in through the cracks, caught hold of your innate need for a better time, and started to inject into the outer edges of you, giving you a taste of what you needed: hope.
I am still in the haven of my home, still pondering how 2011 took away the souls of loved ones and gave me grief until I cried. I am also listening to a toddler, who has morphed from baby into chatterbox within 12 months and am paying heed to the language that only her and her sister seem to understand. Time does not revolve around ensuring that you make the most of it- it moves on as sure as the river reaches the sea and once a year, when we get the glorified opportunity to take a glance back over the many moon-changes of 12 months, it does at least provide a chance to remember one thing: you have come out the other side. Breathing, living, learning, laughing, crying...but here.
I'm not making a resolution but I will try this: to take a glance back through time a little more often than once a year and grasp at the 'ordinary' over the extraordinary. Not the deaths, not the births, not the winnings or losses...the breathing of sleeping children that I have had the fortune to hear every night and the kiss before bed that has never deserted me.
Have a kiss at midnight and bring in 2012 with the gratitude that it deserves- you'll reap rewards greater than any resolution will bring.
Merry New Year beautiful people, I love you all near and far :)))
Saturday 31 December 2011
Wednesday 7 December 2011
Look a little closer to the proverbial home...
As usual, cup of tea is steaming at the right hand side of my keyboard, my feet are the freezing extremity, burdened by my refusal to leave the bare-footedness behind that I have always preferred and two little voices, high-pitched with youth and gender but heightened by excitable squeals, resonates softly.
I have checked my emails, uploaded cherished photos that have so far captured the early sprites of festive mischief and wandered through the pages of social network.
I get a little message on the right hand side of the screen and without warning that familiar crackle of stinging teardrop swells in the corner of my eyes. It appears that this somebody is dearer to me without either that person or myself realising it.
'Merry Christmas, I can't send a card but didn't want to forget you'.
I know not exactly what it is that chokes me a little and makes me recline, take a sip of tea and smile inside and out. But something nudges at my sentimentality a touch but punches at my guilt with a fire behind it. It seems that I wasn't going to be forgotten about but I know, with a heavy hang of shame, that this person would not have been a part of my thoughts on this day, Christmas Eve or any other day; or not in any grand way in any case.
I'm somewhat saddened and anxious that I can be blazé about a human being who is also able to stir up such an emotion in me with a short and sweet ditty on facebook. It's time, I believe, to stop schmoozing with those immediately around me, quit cotton-wool-wrapping my nearest and dearest and look to what may seem a little further-afield but which is closer than one would imagine, withing grasp; take a stroll through the memory banks, the remnants of days gone by. Do not dwell on the past, they say; but what happens if your past is a collage of heritage, questions, answers and memoirs that were created before you even came to life. Some things are bigger than you, bigger than the present, and within a few fleeting but fervent seconds I have just had my eyes opened to this conclusion.
All at once, I am apt to look beyond the here and now and remember the people and the times and the places that are as much a part of my present as my past. They canot knock on my door for coffee and cake but they can make me well up with a single line of innocent well-wishing. They share the fact that they too are a part of the same decisions and dalliances and dirty laundry and dear, dear domestic rollercoasters as I which, although somewhat sinister by themselves nonetheless combined to make a wonderful legacy and stories that I shall forever remember rolling off the animated tongue of my grandmother.
I love that I have not been forgotten when, for every intent and purpose, you would say I have no place in the thought process or memory of this one person. It takes a little stinging teardrop and a simple sentence sometimes to bring me back to a place of recognition and so I shall not forget you either.
Merry Christmas back :)
I have checked my emails, uploaded cherished photos that have so far captured the early sprites of festive mischief and wandered through the pages of social network.
I get a little message on the right hand side of the screen and without warning that familiar crackle of stinging teardrop swells in the corner of my eyes. It appears that this somebody is dearer to me without either that person or myself realising it.
'Merry Christmas, I can't send a card but didn't want to forget you'.
I know not exactly what it is that chokes me a little and makes me recline, take a sip of tea and smile inside and out. But something nudges at my sentimentality a touch but punches at my guilt with a fire behind it. It seems that I wasn't going to be forgotten about but I know, with a heavy hang of shame, that this person would not have been a part of my thoughts on this day, Christmas Eve or any other day; or not in any grand way in any case.
I'm somewhat saddened and anxious that I can be blazé about a human being who is also able to stir up such an emotion in me with a short and sweet ditty on facebook. It's time, I believe, to stop schmoozing with those immediately around me, quit cotton-wool-wrapping my nearest and dearest and look to what may seem a little further-afield but which is closer than one would imagine, withing grasp; take a stroll through the memory banks, the remnants of days gone by. Do not dwell on the past, they say; but what happens if your past is a collage of heritage, questions, answers and memoirs that were created before you even came to life. Some things are bigger than you, bigger than the present, and within a few fleeting but fervent seconds I have just had my eyes opened to this conclusion.
All at once, I am apt to look beyond the here and now and remember the people and the times and the places that are as much a part of my present as my past. They canot knock on my door for coffee and cake but they can make me well up with a single line of innocent well-wishing. They share the fact that they too are a part of the same decisions and dalliances and dirty laundry and dear, dear domestic rollercoasters as I which, although somewhat sinister by themselves nonetheless combined to make a wonderful legacy and stories that I shall forever remember rolling off the animated tongue of my grandmother.
I love that I have not been forgotten when, for every intent and purpose, you would say I have no place in the thought process or memory of this one person. It takes a little stinging teardrop and a simple sentence sometimes to bring me back to a place of recognition and so I shall not forget you either.
Merry Christmas back :)
Thursday 24 November 2011
Tick Tock.
You know that feeling? It's that little glow of gloom that sometimes envelopes you first thing in the morning, at first a little haze which prevents you from removing yourself from the safe haven of the sheets in order to catapult with a vengeance into the new day. It isn't a depression, it is definitely not all-consuming but it's that little nudge of negativity reminding you that today is another day which will be much the same as yesterday. And the day before.
That, my friends, is called routine. It can stabilize you for a short time and give you the safe tick-tock of a running clock but when you're tired of the constant click of the second hand making it's way around the continual face, the minute hand spinning a little too quickly, it can also make you panic. You wonder where your time, your precious moments and, indeed, your life is going.
This has been me for a few weeks. It's been there before but then I make a plan for something in the not-too-distant future and it brings me back to enjoying the thrill of the organisation...until, lo and behold, I actually start to wish time away in order for the event to arrive.
What a pickle!
I have come to the conclusion that I can enjoy the hum-drum of routine and revel in the fact that everything that I think is guaranteed is most certainly not. What I think is habitual is only so for so long... The bathtime ritual of two little girls, always during the witching hour where a bubble bath does not equal blissful tranquility; a fitful mess of soap suds and squealing children should not pierce my senses like fingernails down a chalkboard. If I sit back and watch, kneel down next to that tub and get involved in the bubble-basketball, I can see the things that I shall never be able to flick through and notice in such a delicious manner within a photo album, no matter how pretty the cover is. I will see the little brown birth mark on the skinny ribs of a hyper 5 year old, the fold in a cheeky 16 month olds arms, the tangle of hair down two pale little infant backs. I will see the widening eyes of a toddler as she watches her sister spell out words with the letter magnets and see the pride in the pupils of 5 year old eyes that are learning , learning, learning. I will still have to listen to the yelps of wet smacks as a fight breaks out over the bath boat but I will be there to soothe it away rather than cringe and almost crack. I will remain a witness to the agonising heart-break of me, that spoilsport mama, announcing that it's over: time to get out kids and face the prospect of bedtime. But I will also be the same person who can diffuse the hot-cheeked cries with a soft towel and gentle brush of their hair.
This won't last forever. These moments, the very moments that I wish away at 6pm at night, will not be here in 10 years time when these two trusting, affectionate girls are devoid of the desire to be sponged down and request privacy.
I understand.
For me to cut loose the noose of life passing me by, I have no choice; I have to appreciate as much as I can the small little snippets of existence that make up an entire canvas that will mark my time here as 'my life'.
You know, it really is the small things that make up the rest and it's the routine and rationale of day-to-day clocks ticking that make each 24 hour period another brushstroke on that canvas that adds to the bigger picture until it all makes sense. You may want to erase it and start over sometimes but it's not a possibility and to hell with it anyway; it adds character.
It's amazing what a bit of writing can do for the soul. All of a sudden, I can't find the gloom. I see my reason, my rhyme, my potential. It's in every single one of us, it's just a case of seeing how to make that clock tick to your own tune.
That, my friends, is called routine. It can stabilize you for a short time and give you the safe tick-tock of a running clock but when you're tired of the constant click of the second hand making it's way around the continual face, the minute hand spinning a little too quickly, it can also make you panic. You wonder where your time, your precious moments and, indeed, your life is going.
This has been me for a few weeks. It's been there before but then I make a plan for something in the not-too-distant future and it brings me back to enjoying the thrill of the organisation...until, lo and behold, I actually start to wish time away in order for the event to arrive.
What a pickle!
I have come to the conclusion that I can enjoy the hum-drum of routine and revel in the fact that everything that I think is guaranteed is most certainly not. What I think is habitual is only so for so long... The bathtime ritual of two little girls, always during the witching hour where a bubble bath does not equal blissful tranquility; a fitful mess of soap suds and squealing children should not pierce my senses like fingernails down a chalkboard. If I sit back and watch, kneel down next to that tub and get involved in the bubble-basketball, I can see the things that I shall never be able to flick through and notice in such a delicious manner within a photo album, no matter how pretty the cover is. I will see the little brown birth mark on the skinny ribs of a hyper 5 year old, the fold in a cheeky 16 month olds arms, the tangle of hair down two pale little infant backs. I will see the widening eyes of a toddler as she watches her sister spell out words with the letter magnets and see the pride in the pupils of 5 year old eyes that are learning , learning, learning. I will still have to listen to the yelps of wet smacks as a fight breaks out over the bath boat but I will be there to soothe it away rather than cringe and almost crack. I will remain a witness to the agonising heart-break of me, that spoilsport mama, announcing that it's over: time to get out kids and face the prospect of bedtime. But I will also be the same person who can diffuse the hot-cheeked cries with a soft towel and gentle brush of their hair.
This won't last forever. These moments, the very moments that I wish away at 6pm at night, will not be here in 10 years time when these two trusting, affectionate girls are devoid of the desire to be sponged down and request privacy.
I understand.
For me to cut loose the noose of life passing me by, I have no choice; I have to appreciate as much as I can the small little snippets of existence that make up an entire canvas that will mark my time here as 'my life'.
You know, it really is the small things that make up the rest and it's the routine and rationale of day-to-day clocks ticking that make each 24 hour period another brushstroke on that canvas that adds to the bigger picture until it all makes sense. You may want to erase it and start over sometimes but it's not a possibility and to hell with it anyway; it adds character.
It's amazing what a bit of writing can do for the soul. All of a sudden, I can't find the gloom. I see my reason, my rhyme, my potential. It's in every single one of us, it's just a case of seeing how to make that clock tick to your own tune.
Friday 2 September 2011
Be Calm & Carry On.
Geez, people are in a rush these days. This, coming from a chick who tends to let her handwriting take on the form of a childs as she rushes to articulate words from mind onto paper in the gazelle-like speed that they manifest. Coming from she who stumbles over her words as the excitement of fresh opinions, thoughts, concepts bombard her consciousness to the point that SHE HAS TO SAY IT NOW. Regardless of whoever else is unfortunate enough to be attempting to speak. I realy should do something about my ignorance, interrupting people is just not acceptable and I have gotten away with it for far too long. Oh yes, and I deviate from my line of thought because of said anxiousness to relay every morsel that my mind digests.
So anyway, people are in a rush. One very big race to do everything that 'everybody else' is doing. And as much as I like to let my mouth run away in a frenzy of chitter-chatter and prefer to run before I can walk when it comes to hobbies new, I am by no means in a hurry for the chapters of my life to emerge and take form any sooner than that elusive lady-in-waiting, Destiny, has decided. I'mwith 2 kids, it's been kinda' hectic already for crying out loud.
The union with my husband began 12 years ago; we met at a time that pointed towards failure, he moving to a different country within days of our introduction. Truly, we let it happen, whatever it would be. Que sera sera. It was not rushed or pushed, but allowed to take course. We didn't care much for each other, we didn't stay indoors and pine for each other, foregoing any form of fun until our next rendezvous and there was no grand gestures of love at first sight(although I am not a cynic on such matters, I believe in it wholly), but it was in our bones from birth. We were a match. No persuasion of emotions would or could have made what we have and I'm not so much proud but priviledged that I spent no wasted time or effort. It just was. It just is.
My children have setted into my belly and come to life at a time that was not necessarily ideal for me,but the final outcome has been perfection. It was meant to be.
On the contrary, I have attempted to shape my life in a way that just was not laid out in my cards and the result has been a big, fat bite in the ass. I've tried to be the waif-like rocker, booze-induced smiles hiding the shame that I felt at the disgusting way that I was treating my body. Saccharine substituted sustenance of a true kind and wow, when that low-cal high hit a low, it was time for me to understand that Earth did not provide us with the raw sweetness of fruits and natural energy of nuts for us to cast aside as inadequate means for me to attain that lean thigh. Bitten in the fat ass I was; no slimmer, just grey of face and hungover. I wasn't what Mother Nature intended me to be; she moulded me with shapely hips and breasts that a child could fatten her bones from. When I got back to the truth of the matter and gave my creator the respect for her art that was requested, Destiny was realigned. The world of Sian became peaceful. Curvier, but peaceful :)
I'm wondering why it's taking so many of us so long to get the pretty simple message that things will happen at the pace that they're meant to happen. Sure, we all 'want'. We all like to dream about the future and even plan a little about what might happen when we get there. But if you just slow down and watch someone in the midst of it all, in the centre of forcing what may or may not already be, you just pay attention and I dare you not to cringe at the car crash that is right in front of you. I've watched with salt-stung teary eyes too many times as what could have been paradise, natural and inevitable, is suddenly thwarted, bent out of shape. Ruined. By rush.
It's friday today. It's the weekend for most and it's probably a very good time to slow down. Think. But don't do. Just let it be what it will be.
I'll practice what I preach, repeating loops of my l's and dots of my i's until my handwriting is worthy of adult stature and attempt a cure at mid-flow stutter....Be Calm And Carry On.
Wednesday 24 August 2011
It's been a little while, I know. There have been changes whistling around me of late, sometimes as soft and subtle as the summer breeze in my hair, at other times as stomach-churning as the cold mountain winds characteristic of the place I now call 'home.' There's nothing wrong with the latter, I must say...what comes with the harshness of Albertan chill is the chinook, the point in which the shock of brisk frostiness is calmed, soothed by a warm hug of air, melting the iciness and providing respite. And so it has been in my life...swift troughs in morale, spirit temporarily broken by hurdles that soon are uplifted by recovery as planned reaction, controlled mind succeeds in gaining control of our 'destiny'.
We now have a home. Nomads no more. It is not what I believed the Gods had in store for myself and my family this year; I resolved that 2011 would be a year of sustenance, grasping the good fortune of health and relative wealth that already sits under our belts; holding tight until it was our time to continue and climb towards the elusive 'more'.
But, alas, our clock has struck earlier than expected.
October will mark the end of a waiting period that has been suffocating for almost 2 years, the time in which it has taken us to delve into our own selves as individuals and a family unit and discover what is best, what is right for us and have the energy and courage to try and attain. October will mark the finale of a summertime full to the brim with fresh 'firsts', lasting memories of camp fires, hidden coves of sand, mountain drives and baby girls utterances. We are not yet in October, and nor do I hope to wish away a month of my life, but this introduction to another Autumn shall be welcomed by me as another swishing movement of 'firsts' and yet again I find the paralells between changes of season and life direction poignant. Big Girl will be beginning Kindergarten. Here she'll skip with new Frech songs, coming home to a new nest in a carpet of golden fallen leaves and I shall no longer be able to grab her attention with just a cuddle and the promise of a biscuit; she shall take time to relax her focus and forget the tumults of the days events. She shall be bursting with accounts of everything new, all that is just hers and no longer ours, things that I cannot comment on and nod to with a knowing smile. I simply won't be there to witness her everyday events any longer.
But, October is looming, yes it is coming closer and I am to tackle these 'firsts' with the vigour, the gusto that I'm sure the Gods truly are expecting of me. I need a focus, a plan in the midst of a whole lot of chaos that comes with change. A party is on the cards...
We now have a home. Nomads no more. It is not what I believed the Gods had in store for myself and my family this year; I resolved that 2011 would be a year of sustenance, grasping the good fortune of health and relative wealth that already sits under our belts; holding tight until it was our time to continue and climb towards the elusive 'more'.
But, alas, our clock has struck earlier than expected.
October will mark the end of a waiting period that has been suffocating for almost 2 years, the time in which it has taken us to delve into our own selves as individuals and a family unit and discover what is best, what is right for us and have the energy and courage to try and attain. October will mark the finale of a summertime full to the brim with fresh 'firsts', lasting memories of camp fires, hidden coves of sand, mountain drives and baby girls utterances. We are not yet in October, and nor do I hope to wish away a month of my life, but this introduction to another Autumn shall be welcomed by me as another swishing movement of 'firsts' and yet again I find the paralells between changes of season and life direction poignant. Big Girl will be beginning Kindergarten. Here she'll skip with new Frech songs, coming home to a new nest in a carpet of golden fallen leaves and I shall no longer be able to grab her attention with just a cuddle and the promise of a biscuit; she shall take time to relax her focus and forget the tumults of the days events. She shall be bursting with accounts of everything new, all that is just hers and no longer ours, things that I cannot comment on and nod to with a knowing smile. I simply won't be there to witness her everyday events any longer.
But, October is looming, yes it is coming closer and I am to tackle these 'firsts' with the vigour, the gusto that I'm sure the Gods truly are expecting of me. I need a focus, a plan in the midst of a whole lot of chaos that comes with change. A party is on the cards...
Monday 11 April 2011
A sunny day
Coming from a girl who has always favoured the deep hues of leaves about to make their descent from their birthlands of the branch, over the sun-burnished tones of summer grass, the depth of anticipation that I am feeling as spring makes a late entrance into my life is something of a suprise.
I sit here with tea and porridge on our breakfast table and find myself drawn to the written word as nourishment as opposed to the meal in front of me. I can see that the long-lived Albertan snow has all but vanished; the space behind the house is once again the green space that we signed up to see along with the lease and the blanketed white glow is leaving. And I am more than happy.
There has always mean a magic about Autumn- the change of winds from warm, enveloping breeze to chilly whirls of gold and red and green. I love it unconditionally.Fall, to me, is everything that a season should be....cosy but calm, devoid of manic weather, occassionally allowing lukewarm, fat droplets of rain to nurture the earth but providing me with the opportunity to wrap myself tight in the comforting fabrics that make me feel protected and content.
Winter, with it's first meadows of snow and icy cobwebs also makes for a happy Sian. I got married within a whisper of christmas day, my husband and I exchanging vows in a tree-adorned church with Christmas Carol accompaniment. But the thrill of winter has been beaten not out of me but down; snow, the Big Freeze, foggy breath is romance personified in December and to me, this will never change. But in April, it's a drag. On motivation if nothing else. And now it has gone and a renewed ambition for the year comes with the buds that the frost can no longer keep from shooting through with defiance.
The Hallmark holidays have altered from the desperate pleas of Valentines Day, an occassion to lift the spirits in the midst of lingering chill, to the bunnies, post-lent goodies, sprouting daffodils and green of Easter. In faith, my background of Catholicism, spring heralds a resurrection of Spirit. Yes, I'm looking out of my window on this above 0 degree Monday in April and I feel an acsent of Spirit.
Today, I will inevitably have a fabulous day. I am listening to music, my porridge is warm and waiting, my little ones are full of their first meal of the day and they play together with the warm glow of morning sunshine pouring over them through the window. I shall never be so blazé about the onset of Spring again. I'll remember this day forever as the moment that I understood why God made the world with Evergreen as well as Tulips. For the same reason that he made every creature in the world with it's own personality:
It takes all sorts to make the world go round.
I sit here with tea and porridge on our breakfast table and find myself drawn to the written word as nourishment as opposed to the meal in front of me. I can see that the long-lived Albertan snow has all but vanished; the space behind the house is once again the green space that we signed up to see along with the lease and the blanketed white glow is leaving. And I am more than happy.
There has always mean a magic about Autumn- the change of winds from warm, enveloping breeze to chilly whirls of gold and red and green. I love it unconditionally.Fall, to me, is everything that a season should be....cosy but calm, devoid of manic weather, occassionally allowing lukewarm, fat droplets of rain to nurture the earth but providing me with the opportunity to wrap myself tight in the comforting fabrics that make me feel protected and content.
Winter, with it's first meadows of snow and icy cobwebs also makes for a happy Sian. I got married within a whisper of christmas day, my husband and I exchanging vows in a tree-adorned church with Christmas Carol accompaniment. But the thrill of winter has been beaten not out of me but down; snow, the Big Freeze, foggy breath is romance personified in December and to me, this will never change. But in April, it's a drag. On motivation if nothing else. And now it has gone and a renewed ambition for the year comes with the buds that the frost can no longer keep from shooting through with defiance.
The Hallmark holidays have altered from the desperate pleas of Valentines Day, an occassion to lift the spirits in the midst of lingering chill, to the bunnies, post-lent goodies, sprouting daffodils and green of Easter. In faith, my background of Catholicism, spring heralds a resurrection of Spirit. Yes, I'm looking out of my window on this above 0 degree Monday in April and I feel an acsent of Spirit.
Today, I will inevitably have a fabulous day. I am listening to music, my porridge is warm and waiting, my little ones are full of their first meal of the day and they play together with the warm glow of morning sunshine pouring over them through the window. I shall never be so blazé about the onset of Spring again. I'll remember this day forever as the moment that I understood why God made the world with Evergreen as well as Tulips. For the same reason that he made every creature in the world with it's own personality:
It takes all sorts to make the world go round.
Thursday 31 March 2011
Loving everything about nothing.
And so the Nomad returns to her blog with no definitive reason to suggest to you all that she is no longer a Nomad other than her sense of belonging has fattened up since we last talked. With sadness and uncertaintly comes the inevitable scurrying out of the hole via whatever method carries you through until clarity and, finally, FINALLY calm. That is me now...a big ball of warming satisfaction. Calm nerves, but i'll take calm in whatever way it presents itself to me after the tumult of that awkward and wearing time of feeling delicate and undecided.
Our house, our little nest in England, is on the market. And this time, with our heads out of our anxious backsides, my husband and I are letting nature take it's course; give them what they want to get what we want. To get rid. Here, have a bargain...we're sure that some money-hungry, lip-smacking, purse-shaker will devour our steal with a lick of the lips and eat that house up whole, every last penny's worth of it. And now that we have come to the realisation that this will happen, that the Pilkington Palace of days gone by will no longer be ours, and that we will no doubt be losing precious pennies on the place, we have at long last settled into a tranquility that comes with letting go. Just letting go. A raw feeling of recompense will be virilant in my whole self as whoever gets the house glows with as much happiness with their cut-price purchase as we will for being free of the noose that keeps us dangling back and forth, without a true sense of home.
So, before any deal is even done with the raveonous investor or timid new home owner, my little lot and I are basking in a warmth created by a tiny but confident little voice of reason that has always been there but which we forced a hush upon with our blind worry. 'Voice' is no longer begging for ears but is simply whispering 'time to move on', and with our new emotions of excitement and desire for the future, we can hear it loud and clear without so much as a strain of the neck or whince of an eye.
So, back to the drawing board we go, spurred on by the assurity that our visions of being free from the old; I am revelling not in new plans set in stone, no rush to meet self-imposed expectations to acquire more of...anything...to fill the void. In no particular rush for anything. What a wonderful, liberating feeling that is.
Just me, my beloved, my little ones. And what we have already plus a few dreams chucked in for good soulful measure.
That's what i'm excited about today...in a nutshell, a whole lot of nothing is everything to me on this sunny Thursday in march. Love the simple life, it brings with it a simple smugness.
Our house, our little nest in England, is on the market. And this time, with our heads out of our anxious backsides, my husband and I are letting nature take it's course; give them what they want to get what we want. To get rid. Here, have a bargain...we're sure that some money-hungry, lip-smacking, purse-shaker will devour our steal with a lick of the lips and eat that house up whole, every last penny's worth of it. And now that we have come to the realisation that this will happen, that the Pilkington Palace of days gone by will no longer be ours, and that we will no doubt be losing precious pennies on the place, we have at long last settled into a tranquility that comes with letting go. Just letting go. A raw feeling of recompense will be virilant in my whole self as whoever gets the house glows with as much happiness with their cut-price purchase as we will for being free of the noose that keeps us dangling back and forth, without a true sense of home.
So, before any deal is even done with the raveonous investor or timid new home owner, my little lot and I are basking in a warmth created by a tiny but confident little voice of reason that has always been there but which we forced a hush upon with our blind worry. 'Voice' is no longer begging for ears but is simply whispering 'time to move on', and with our new emotions of excitement and desire for the future, we can hear it loud and clear without so much as a strain of the neck or whince of an eye.
So, back to the drawing board we go, spurred on by the assurity that our visions of being free from the old; I am revelling not in new plans set in stone, no rush to meet self-imposed expectations to acquire more of...anything...to fill the void. In no particular rush for anything. What a wonderful, liberating feeling that is.
Just me, my beloved, my little ones. And what we have already plus a few dreams chucked in for good soulful measure.
That's what i'm excited about today...in a nutshell, a whole lot of nothing is everything to me on this sunny Thursday in march. Love the simple life, it brings with it a simple smugness.
Sunday 20 March 2011
The Simple Sunday.
My Sunday is usually governed by how the emotions of the week that preceded it. And what a week I have had; it began wth a tidal wave of something verging on despair as the truth behind my title of Nomad made itself apparent to me. Today, if i had chosen a certain course for last night, could very well have been tainted by the heady mixture of guilt, remorse and self-pity caused by an excessive taste for wine. This can be borne out of upset or a lust for life, gone awry. But, when it comes to the week that I've just had, I believe wholeheartedly that when we reach that desolate place, whether it be grief via death, being destitute, loneliness or just a straight-up awful chemical imbalance in your hormonal existence, we reach out in our own way and, YES: the only way, my loves, is UP.
And so my own way up and out of my sadness was, unlike the wine efforts of latter days, found in the pages of books. And the words that I read leapt out of the leaves like my nanna's hugs at the most needed moment: 'Sorrow fully accepted brings its own gifts. For there is an alchemy in sorrow. It can be transmuted into wisdom, which, if it does not bring joy, can yet bring happiness'.
Pearl S.Buck spoke to me.
I confided to you already that I have spent the week nursing my mind and body and now, as we sit here together on the Sabbath day, I am at relative peace with all that I felt was wrong. My parents, my grandparents, my cherished old friends ARE going about their own Sunday on the opposite side of the world but I do not feel lonely without them. Nope, I am revelling in the lazy early hours that I spent in bed this morning, quiet but for our gurgling baby in her room, ready for mummy's milk and the warm satisfaction that would be served to us both from it, and a mischievous 4 year old princess reading books to my husband and I in our bed. We have chatted and cuddled over breakfast and have had a wonderful time at a cheap but amazing leisure centre's swimming pool. My little lot are, as we speak. getting overexcited on the Wii and little baby girl is playing with her hair. She's tired. A chicken is roasting in the oven. I can smell asparagus steaming.
None of this is profound but in it's simplicity it is abundant. I am the mother, the wife behind this family and at the end of a long, sometimes difficult but mostly insightful week my nurtured body and mind feels rested, recuperated and responsive to the very things in my life that are constant and pure. I am needed and it does not do for me to be needy for things that are simply, practically out of reach and insignificant.
Sarah Ban Breathnach has helped me in more ways than she can ever imagine this week, from the honest memoirs and reflections that her writing has put in front of me. When she whispers to me that 'there is really only one wat to deal with Misery. Accept her presence.'
Yes, Misery, I accepted that you were here. I saw you off on your way. Glad to see the back of you....i'll deal with you another time.
Happy Sunday to us all xox
And so my own way up and out of my sadness was, unlike the wine efforts of latter days, found in the pages of books. And the words that I read leapt out of the leaves like my nanna's hugs at the most needed moment: 'Sorrow fully accepted brings its own gifts. For there is an alchemy in sorrow. It can be transmuted into wisdom, which, if it does not bring joy, can yet bring happiness'.
Pearl S.Buck spoke to me.
I confided to you already that I have spent the week nursing my mind and body and now, as we sit here together on the Sabbath day, I am at relative peace with all that I felt was wrong. My parents, my grandparents, my cherished old friends ARE going about their own Sunday on the opposite side of the world but I do not feel lonely without them. Nope, I am revelling in the lazy early hours that I spent in bed this morning, quiet but for our gurgling baby in her room, ready for mummy's milk and the warm satisfaction that would be served to us both from it, and a mischievous 4 year old princess reading books to my husband and I in our bed. We have chatted and cuddled over breakfast and have had a wonderful time at a cheap but amazing leisure centre's swimming pool. My little lot are, as we speak. getting overexcited on the Wii and little baby girl is playing with her hair. She's tired. A chicken is roasting in the oven. I can smell asparagus steaming.
None of this is profound but in it's simplicity it is abundant. I am the mother, the wife behind this family and at the end of a long, sometimes difficult but mostly insightful week my nurtured body and mind feels rested, recuperated and responsive to the very things in my life that are constant and pure. I am needed and it does not do for me to be needy for things that are simply, practically out of reach and insignificant.
Sarah Ban Breathnach has helped me in more ways than she can ever imagine this week, from the honest memoirs and reflections that her writing has put in front of me. When she whispers to me that 'there is really only one wat to deal with Misery. Accept her presence.'
Yes, Misery, I accepted that you were here. I saw you off on your way. Glad to see the back of you....i'll deal with you another time.
Happy Sunday to us all xox
Thursday 17 March 2011
And so, the clouds have lifted. The tinge of parody that gave my smile a distant glow has given way as my expression once again becomes illuminated by authenticity.
I am enpowered by the cathartic efforts of my training regime; encouraging my muscles to work until they are exhausted has somehow stretched the exertions of my mind. I train, I eat, I feed my little ones, I read, I sleep.
I am nurturing myself.
Just as in the role of Mummy, when I revel in the emotions of comforting and caressing my children, I am going back to basics and ministering, nourishing my own self from the deepest abdominal muscle that I (or my instructor) can force me to find right to the cerebral core as I delve into subjects such as Buddhism and other matters that are far too intense for me; this is what I need. When I feel like I am breaking, losing myself under pressure, the challenge to my mind and to my body is the confrontation that I subconsciously require to get me back on track. It's most probably the narcissist in me...I need to prove to myself that I can fight the face-off. And win.
Anyway, I'm enjoying myself. I'm speaking with friends who are positive...I am surrounding myself with that which I wish to be. My friend Debbie: inspirational. My friend Christie: honest. My best friend Sarah: mischievous and perpetual. I will always be Sian Marie and Sian Marie's pretty damn ace when she gets her head out of her arse and halts the occassinal worry/wallow fest. But, there's nothing wrong with bettering yourself and being your better self more often. The way things are going, it's highly likely that this time next week I may just be the best thing since sliced bread...a body of sculpted abs, organicly fed, with profound buddhist conviction...
Nice idea but i've learned this week to be true to thyself. And the former, though it may be one persons ideal, and maybe even my ideal (today, anyway), this would never be me. So i'll see you after my glass of wine when the belly is a touch paunched but a smile- a genuine smile- you shall most certainly see.
TTFN :) xo
I am enpowered by the cathartic efforts of my training regime; encouraging my muscles to work until they are exhausted has somehow stretched the exertions of my mind. I train, I eat, I feed my little ones, I read, I sleep.
I am nurturing myself.
Just as in the role of Mummy, when I revel in the emotions of comforting and caressing my children, I am going back to basics and ministering, nourishing my own self from the deepest abdominal muscle that I (or my instructor) can force me to find right to the cerebral core as I delve into subjects such as Buddhism and other matters that are far too intense for me; this is what I need. When I feel like I am breaking, losing myself under pressure, the challenge to my mind and to my body is the confrontation that I subconsciously require to get me back on track. It's most probably the narcissist in me...I need to prove to myself that I can fight the face-off. And win.
Anyway, I'm enjoying myself. I'm speaking with friends who are positive...I am surrounding myself with that which I wish to be. My friend Debbie: inspirational. My friend Christie: honest. My best friend Sarah: mischievous and perpetual. I will always be Sian Marie and Sian Marie's pretty damn ace when she gets her head out of her arse and halts the occassinal worry/wallow fest. But, there's nothing wrong with bettering yourself and being your better self more often. The way things are going, it's highly likely that this time next week I may just be the best thing since sliced bread...a body of sculpted abs, organicly fed, with profound buddhist conviction...
Nice idea but i've learned this week to be true to thyself. And the former, though it may be one persons ideal, and maybe even my ideal (today, anyway), this would never be me. So i'll see you after my glass of wine when the belly is a touch paunched but a smile- a genuine smile- you shall most certainly see.
TTFN :) xo
Tuesday 15 March 2011
Bleughhh clouds.
I'm having a bleugggh day. Yes, it happens; not often, I might add, but when the bleughhhh cloud appears, it doesn't sprinkle a few raindrops, it pours a flood.
Reason? The clue is in the title of my blog: Nomad. I have been a Nomad for far too long, although the effects of having ever-evolving dwellings has until now been an aspect of my life that I have been comfortable and happy with. Greece: for a few summers. Leeds: for 3 years. Norwich and Australia: 1 year each. And now Canada. In each place, in each new 'home' , I have managed to find a grounding and a sense of belonging so that, despite these locations being devoid of family and old friends, I have made memories with new connections and have thus looked back on each living quarter with fondness. I fail to remember the times that I have been lonely, sad, sometimes inconsolable due to being without my mum and dad's affections, my nanna's sparkly blue eyes and my the knowing giggles that my brother and I share as we retell secret jokes. I fail to remember them but I know they were there; i just don't have the willpower to face the demons when there are angels to converse with. I like the sparkly, happy times in life. Don't we all?
But for the first time EVER, I feel homeless. I don't know how, for technically we have two homes: the house that we own, the building that we chose and watched grow from a shell to a shelter at the same rate as my tummy swelled for the first time with new life. The home that we walked into, bursting with the pride of becoming first-time homeowners AND first-time parents.Our new 3 day old baby girl nestled into my neck; the aroma of fresh paint, clean, cushioned carpet and the honey-breath of baby made it 'ours' in that instant. It was a marriage of everything new, that house. But we walked away from that place in search of pastures new. Canadian pastures whereby the grass was not expected to be greener but vaster.
We reached the vaster plains of North America and here we have the rented Palace; The Fort Of Canada, the house that marked our 1st year as immigrants and as owners of fresh, new, beautiful Pilkington skin; a 7 week old second daughter helping us to christen the place, to make it our own, make it family territory, make it a place for making memories.
But, as we struggle with the same financial fight that exists the economy-unwise-world around, neither place is nurturing. We are living in Limbo. We cannot seperate ourselves from England, a tie that we hoped to sever in our embarkment of fresh starts in Canada: the house that was once a source of memories made of baby milk and the buds of family life is now being riddles with the weeds of worry. Our home here, although thousands of miles away from it's English counterpart, is being diseased by the same anxieties; my husband and I are responsible for the upkeep of both nests but, in the grand scheme of things, we want neither. We want to plant our roots and watch the branches of our family grow upwards and outwards, strong and agile, but presently the small little blossoms of our children are being kept warm and dry but are hardly flourishing with all of the plans that their parents wish they could be sure of.
I am truly a Nomad for now. But, there's therapy in the written word and as I type, as I sit at my desk and hear my baby upstairs, gurgling and giggling at her Moomoo that lies next to her in her crib, it dawns on me that consistenvy, continuity, can help. Flourisment will come as the water subsides but when the bleugh- cloud pours what matters truly is that my babies are kept safe- just kept warm and dry. Wherever that baby girl may be- she will have Moomoo. Wherever my older little lady may live, she'll have her baby sister and her parents. They're safe.
And you know what? Wherever I may be, i'll have them. I'll be able to nurture them regardless of whether the abode around us is as stable as the arms that I can envelop my children in. I can wait a little longer for the Nomad title to disperse. I guess i'll just spend that time making memories.
Bleugh....be gone.
Reason? The clue is in the title of my blog: Nomad. I have been a Nomad for far too long, although the effects of having ever-evolving dwellings has until now been an aspect of my life that I have been comfortable and happy with. Greece: for a few summers. Leeds: for 3 years. Norwich and Australia: 1 year each. And now Canada. In each place, in each new 'home' , I have managed to find a grounding and a sense of belonging so that, despite these locations being devoid of family and old friends, I have made memories with new connections and have thus looked back on each living quarter with fondness. I fail to remember the times that I have been lonely, sad, sometimes inconsolable due to being without my mum and dad's affections, my nanna's sparkly blue eyes and my the knowing giggles that my brother and I share as we retell secret jokes. I fail to remember them but I know they were there; i just don't have the willpower to face the demons when there are angels to converse with. I like the sparkly, happy times in life. Don't we all?
But for the first time EVER, I feel homeless. I don't know how, for technically we have two homes: the house that we own, the building that we chose and watched grow from a shell to a shelter at the same rate as my tummy swelled for the first time with new life. The home that we walked into, bursting with the pride of becoming first-time homeowners AND first-time parents.Our new 3 day old baby girl nestled into my neck; the aroma of fresh paint, clean, cushioned carpet and the honey-breath of baby made it 'ours' in that instant. It was a marriage of everything new, that house. But we walked away from that place in search of pastures new. Canadian pastures whereby the grass was not expected to be greener but vaster.
We reached the vaster plains of North America and here we have the rented Palace; The Fort Of Canada, the house that marked our 1st year as immigrants and as owners of fresh, new, beautiful Pilkington skin; a 7 week old second daughter helping us to christen the place, to make it our own, make it family territory, make it a place for making memories.
But, as we struggle with the same financial fight that exists the economy-unwise-world around, neither place is nurturing. We are living in Limbo. We cannot seperate ourselves from England, a tie that we hoped to sever in our embarkment of fresh starts in Canada: the house that was once a source of memories made of baby milk and the buds of family life is now being riddles with the weeds of worry. Our home here, although thousands of miles away from it's English counterpart, is being diseased by the same anxieties; my husband and I are responsible for the upkeep of both nests but, in the grand scheme of things, we want neither. We want to plant our roots and watch the branches of our family grow upwards and outwards, strong and agile, but presently the small little blossoms of our children are being kept warm and dry but are hardly flourishing with all of the plans that their parents wish they could be sure of.
I am truly a Nomad for now. But, there's therapy in the written word and as I type, as I sit at my desk and hear my baby upstairs, gurgling and giggling at her Moomoo that lies next to her in her crib, it dawns on me that consistenvy, continuity, can help. Flourisment will come as the water subsides but when the bleugh- cloud pours what matters truly is that my babies are kept safe- just kept warm and dry. Wherever that baby girl may be- she will have Moomoo. Wherever my older little lady may live, she'll have her baby sister and her parents. They're safe.
And you know what? Wherever I may be, i'll have them. I'll be able to nurture them regardless of whether the abode around us is as stable as the arms that I can envelop my children in. I can wait a little longer for the Nomad title to disperse. I guess i'll just spend that time making memories.
Bleugh....be gone.
Monday 14 March 2011
Clarifying Monday.
Monday; my favourite. A day of organised quiet, a hush after the rush of the weekend and the challenge that I unconsciously pose to myself each week to fit in as much activity as possible. I clean the house, I drink green tea and chamomile tea all day, I shower for longer than the hot water will last and paint my toenails whatever colour I feel will lift my spirit. It is a day of sanitizing; the house, my mind, my body. This, dear listeners, is why I love Mondays.
Today is no exception. The havoc of the past 3 days has left me with a swollen, brusied face after a disagreement with the ice outdoors rather than a maniac husband, as the raised lump on my right cheekbone may have others whispering. I am suffering from the sugar hangover, administered by the anti-medicinal portion of pudding that my disagreeing tummy was introduced to yesterday afternoon.
I awake late, dishevelled and ready for order to be restored. Leftover Lemon Meringue pie sits invitingly in the fridge but that, too, has to go in accordance with the scriptures of Sian Marie Monday which states that all and any sorts of temptation must be removed from her vicinity. Goodbye Meringue, have fun in the trash with your predecessor, Roast Dinner Remains.
I hear so many complaints of the return of each and every Monday. And I never understand it. This weekly gripe that so many people voice is as inevitable as the return of your next birthday, it happens as the Planet makes it's usual route around the Sun. Mondays will not fall from the Calendar lest you decide to hibernate for a whole 24 hours per week which, in the case of a busy mama who has too much to see and do, would be quite unacceptable. And after discovering that a man, a friend of my parents, of seemingly healthy nature passed away suddenly over the weekend at the age of 54, it gives me just another small nudge towards remembering that the passage of one week and the introduction of another is as much of a blessing as your next breath. Bruised face or not, i've been awarded the fortune of more time.
I love Mondays. I love that I have found a way to utilize them, to use them as a stepping stone to an inner-peace and tranquility that I can find only from a cleansed body, mind and house.
Of course, there'll be a day when Mondays no longer mean a day of cleaning house, home, person...one day i'll be back to the grindstone, employed by company rather than family duty, with lthe sight of my ittle girls running off to school becoming synonomous to the start of my working day. I wonder if i'll love Mondays so much then...
Today is no exception. The havoc of the past 3 days has left me with a swollen, brusied face after a disagreement with the ice outdoors rather than a maniac husband, as the raised lump on my right cheekbone may have others whispering. I am suffering from the sugar hangover, administered by the anti-medicinal portion of pudding that my disagreeing tummy was introduced to yesterday afternoon.
I awake late, dishevelled and ready for order to be restored. Leftover Lemon Meringue pie sits invitingly in the fridge but that, too, has to go in accordance with the scriptures of Sian Marie Monday which states that all and any sorts of temptation must be removed from her vicinity. Goodbye Meringue, have fun in the trash with your predecessor, Roast Dinner Remains.
I hear so many complaints of the return of each and every Monday. And I never understand it. This weekly gripe that so many people voice is as inevitable as the return of your next birthday, it happens as the Planet makes it's usual route around the Sun. Mondays will not fall from the Calendar lest you decide to hibernate for a whole 24 hours per week which, in the case of a busy mama who has too much to see and do, would be quite unacceptable. And after discovering that a man, a friend of my parents, of seemingly healthy nature passed away suddenly over the weekend at the age of 54, it gives me just another small nudge towards remembering that the passage of one week and the introduction of another is as much of a blessing as your next breath. Bruised face or not, i've been awarded the fortune of more time.
I love Mondays. I love that I have found a way to utilize them, to use them as a stepping stone to an inner-peace and tranquility that I can find only from a cleansed body, mind and house.
Of course, there'll be a day when Mondays no longer mean a day of cleaning house, home, person...one day i'll be back to the grindstone, employed by company rather than family duty, with lthe sight of my ittle girls running off to school becoming synonomous to the start of my working day. I wonder if i'll love Mondays so much then...
Thursday 10 March 2011
A smile.
As usual, I sit here aprés porridge-and-toast-time with my little ones. The elder princess runs off to hoist Polly Pocket out of her house ready for the fun and games that said daughter has undoubtedly been planning since last nights dream and I set baby princess down amongst pillows and toys. She is going to explore her own interesting world of textures, shapes, noises and funny stuffed faces.
It's as i'm carrying out this everyday task that I see it. Baby Princess, or Booboo as we named her in utero, shifts her enormous blue eyes upwards. Looks at me. Smiles. Not just with her pretty little gummy grin but with her eyes. No biggy, hey? 8 month old babies do smile, rather frequently. But she is showing me appreciation in it's truest, purest form. No hint of deceit or deception is lurking behind this toothless expression. She is thankful for what she has: a mama who can provide her not just with her favourite playthings but who delivers constance, continuity, security in the inevitable. Unlike the 'necessary' social pleasantries that are exchanged daily, she is genuine. A rarity.
It's got me. In such a small, usually somewhat unrecognised gesture, this little character has given me a heart full of admiration and she has taught me my lesson of the day: smile, smile, smile. You can't melt away the evils of the Earth but you can sure give a little love to the average Joe, the miserable old git who doesn't return your smile when you wander past them for the umpteenth time this month on your usual route. It doesn't make a difference if THEY choose to grin or sneer- what is going to make a difference to your own life is which of those assertions that you decide to distribute yourself.
I was once taught 'fake it til you make it'....it works, sometimes. I've tried it many a time, usually when hungover at work and merriment has been feigned to get me through the hours, and it's been relatively successful. But, today attempt to be innocent. Yes, be honest. Make like Booboo, get back to basics and be happy with your lot if only for a minute and when you're right in the midst of feeling the love (yeah, mannnn), just do it: Smile.
Wow, what a lot a little baby can teach us all. By something as simple as a drooling, dribbling, but bona fide beam.
And now my firends, I'm off to brush my teeth before the world and it's wife sees my inner Cheshire Cat coming out....
It's as i'm carrying out this everyday task that I see it. Baby Princess, or Booboo as we named her in utero, shifts her enormous blue eyes upwards. Looks at me. Smiles. Not just with her pretty little gummy grin but with her eyes. No biggy, hey? 8 month old babies do smile, rather frequently. But she is showing me appreciation in it's truest, purest form. No hint of deceit or deception is lurking behind this toothless expression. She is thankful for what she has: a mama who can provide her not just with her favourite playthings but who delivers constance, continuity, security in the inevitable. Unlike the 'necessary' social pleasantries that are exchanged daily, she is genuine. A rarity.
It's got me. In such a small, usually somewhat unrecognised gesture, this little character has given me a heart full of admiration and she has taught me my lesson of the day: smile, smile, smile. You can't melt away the evils of the Earth but you can sure give a little love to the average Joe, the miserable old git who doesn't return your smile when you wander past them for the umpteenth time this month on your usual route. It doesn't make a difference if THEY choose to grin or sneer- what is going to make a difference to your own life is which of those assertions that you decide to distribute yourself.
I was once taught 'fake it til you make it'....it works, sometimes. I've tried it many a time, usually when hungover at work and merriment has been feigned to get me through the hours, and it's been relatively successful. But, today attempt to be innocent. Yes, be honest. Make like Booboo, get back to basics and be happy with your lot if only for a minute and when you're right in the midst of feeling the love (yeah, mannnn), just do it: Smile.
Wow, what a lot a little baby can teach us all. By something as simple as a drooling, dribbling, but bona fide beam.
And now my firends, I'm off to brush my teeth before the world and it's wife sees my inner Cheshire Cat coming out....
Wednesday 9 March 2011
When people say 'I'm just me...' An Inquisition.
It's one of those turns of phrase that I've always been apt to question: 'I'm just me, take me or leave me'...really? REALLY? Wouldn't the world be a wonderful, calm and peaceful place to be if every time that somebody uttered that phrase, they truly meant it. Maybe people do; as it happens, if that were me saying it, I'd be a downright liar.
Because, like a lot of folk, I enjoy the feeling of others enjoying me: my personality, my humour...me. But I am well aware that this is not always the case. Take Simona for instance, a girl who hated me from day dot for no other reason, it seemed, than her object of affection at the time appeared to have taken a shine to me and my pert 14 year old frame. Ah...how things change...but back to the point, I am (on my nomadic route to goodness knows where, 'fulfillment', I think), frequently approaching challenges that have me questioning how and indeed when I will be happy to say 'take me or leave me'. Will I suddenly forget that in spite of myself, I yearn for that celeb litheness? And shall I laugh in the face of everybody who wishes that I never achieve this celeb-body status lest it make them feel worse about themselves?
You know what...maybe I'll teach myself a lesson. Maybe i'll just attempt to have fun being Sian Marie for now. And revel in the fact that my 8 month old daughter adores my bosom for what it is to her: a treasure trove of milk rather than the slighlty dishevelled shell of what was not so very long ago a treasure chest.
Because, like a lot of folk, I enjoy the feeling of others enjoying me: my personality, my humour...me. But I am well aware that this is not always the case. Take Simona for instance, a girl who hated me from day dot for no other reason, it seemed, than her object of affection at the time appeared to have taken a shine to me and my pert 14 year old frame. Ah...how things change...but back to the point, I am (on my nomadic route to goodness knows where, 'fulfillment', I think), frequently approaching challenges that have me questioning how and indeed when I will be happy to say 'take me or leave me'. Will I suddenly forget that in spite of myself, I yearn for that celeb litheness? And shall I laugh in the face of everybody who wishes that I never achieve this celeb-body status lest it make them feel worse about themselves?
You know what...maybe I'll teach myself a lesson. Maybe i'll just attempt to have fun being Sian Marie for now. And revel in the fact that my 8 month old daughter adores my bosom for what it is to her: a treasure trove of milk rather than the slighlty dishevelled shell of what was not so very long ago a treasure chest.
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