Day's but a sliver on the horizon. I feel worn rag thin and threadbare.
Today, I've tried to reach out, help, give, and it has not been enough even though I'm spent.
There are days when no matter how many "right things" you do in the "right way"
only wrong answers and blunt red crosses drag their biro lines across the page.
He takes our little one in his gentle arms, arms softened by years and babes heavy sleeping heads, and wriggling legs.
He is home half an hour early from work, I feel like I've failed him again.
We've been there before, and it's hard when there are only two pairs of hands to carry so many little bodies, hearts and souls.
He tells me to go.
Go upstairs and rest a while.
He tells me the burnt roast sweet potatoes are delicious, just the way he likes them.
He keeps pouring friendly wine into my glass. I love him so much. I tell him so.
13 years has brought us to the point of knowing what food to provide and when to the other.
A friend brings the freshness of newly dug veggies and the good smell of herbs bunched and tied into string parcels.
Fresh turned earth life meets dry husk. Cradles it deep, and the green springs forth again.
When babes are tucked under blankets I begin to make soup.
Green beautiful soup.
Clear broth, nurturing, soul healing soup.
When things used to go awry, a once frequent occurrence for my family, my Dad always used to shrug his shoulders, throw up his hands and say, "Quelle Salade"! "What a salad!"
Life can be a salad. Full of everything. More ingredients = more salad.
I have a house load of ingredients.
My salads are never boring.
Mostly my salads are beautiful. Healthful even.
But sometimes I have enough of salad and I need soup.
Simple, clear broth silence :)
Today was soup day.
I wade weary legs upstairs and stroke the forehead of my babe with the toothy grin and the sore red cheeks, flushed warm and plump.
I stare deep into my wild child's eyes and tell her I will always love her no matter the wildness.
I leave laundry folding, dusty bookshelves and the bathroom floor for another day.
I don't even think about the porch and the wellies and the sodden socks
... for there have been three weeks of rain brewing a mud tea there and I just know the lino's curling up at the edges.
Then I remind my bear cub that she must never change, even her stubbornness, oh even that! Her eyes blink wide.
And I tell my eldest that we have to add the goodness to our days, be what we pray for, wish, for, hope for, love for, live for.
"For we are the beauty we do".
And suddenly everything is reduced, down, purified to...
All I have to do is a simple thing really.
I make it all complicated. But good ingredients don't need fancy recipes.
Those handfuls of goodness, nourishment, greenness, freshness, a little earth and little life.
that's what'll do the work for me.
Throw in handfuls of fresh dug goodness
Joining beautiful Emily for Imperfect Prose.
Photo's courtesy of 4 girls inspired by their visit to the Robin Hood Center at Sherwood...