Sunday, 23 May 2010


I was sitting on my nice, warm, very comfy couch, looking out the french doors at the yellow leaves against the grey white sky and my forlorn hammock, and thought to myself that I bet that if I went outside and sat in my hammock I'd feel like writing.

What I forgot is that outside is very very cold.

But I still feel like writing. Even if I'm shivering in my hammock.

It is simply breathtaking out here. The cold, slicing air, the thin cries of the birds before twilight. The bare branches against the sky and the mottled yellowing leaves of the frangipani shot with the dull glare of a cloud wrapped day.

Swinging here, I can almost picture myself in some of my favourite places in the world. Mountains and trees, tiny cabins with 4 poster beds and individual fireplaces to warm and love by. Icy cold mountain streams to chase all day over clifftops and falls to drink with bare hands in the cool wintry air. Before climbing back up endless stairs and taking off layers as cheeks flush crimson.

Being the last on a trail in the dusky twilight. When all the animals are out to play and singing their evening song. Feeling unselfconscious about singing back.

I love that every Autumn I'm compelled to write. Compelled to leak my thoughts via my fingers with either keyboard or pen. In truth I prefer the pen. I love the artistry that is the written word. Love the humanity of the writer that is betrayed by loops and angles. How much personality a dotted "i" can have. The flourish or lack thereof.

It's so strange to me that this time a year ago I was heavily pregnant. Unable to sleep properly and wondering who my son would be. Terrified that I would not know him or love him. Feeling my belly taut over limbs, knees that protruded and feet that I could clearly make out under my overstretched skin.

I can't conceive of a time when his beautiful face was not a part of my day. When we had plans that did not involve him. When we contemplated life with only 2 children. He is just my heart. My first child that is truly like me. He doesn't have the big dark eyes or mop of black hair that I expected (sparkling blue and spun gold instead) but he was always meant to be a part of my life. I am so lucky.

I sat out here tonight inspired and ghostly. Watching the leaves and the grey and the gold and wanting to post of them. Wanting to write of the sparkle in my veins. But it has left me a little. Cold tonight. I want cuddles from my baby instead.


Melissa said...

I hope you got plenty of cuddles from your baby and he's now tucked up and sleeping.

I love that you write every Autumn too. It's becoming one of my favourite things about my favourite season.

Blythe said...

Oh, the Possum. I completely feel this :He is just my heart." Beautiful.


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