Brokenness and Honey Curls
It was 1am. I couldn’t sleep. No surprises there. I lit a sweet pea and jasmine candle that my dear friend gave to me on Christian’s birthday. She told me that her friend had given her one and told her that when she was feeling sad to light the candle, inhale its scent and imagine a warm hug from her. My friend wanted the same thing for me. Oh how I love her. Bereaved Mama sisters, we know each other well. I drew a bath. It had been so long since I had soaked in a bath. Why do I not do this more often? I laid back and floated in the lovely hot mess of lavender and rose petal bath bomb bliss. I took some time to breathe and let my weak and tired mama body relax. I looked up and out through the window at the stars, this could have been a little piece of heaven right there in that moment. All was calm. All was quiet.
I think about my day. Morning affirmation, made breakfast, made lunches, tied shoe laces, braided hair, brushed teeth, school drop off, emails, phone calls, photos edited, Ocea cuddles, photos emailed, sad stories, hopeful stories, doctors appointment, blood tests, school pick up, homework, beach visit, dinner, showers and a hair cut for Ocea. Honey locks. Bouncing curls. I cut her hair for the first time. It broke my heart a little. This was the last first hair cut I would ever give to my children. I tied some ribbon around her honey curls and placed them into her box of childhood memories. Another childhood/mothering chapter completed. I laid there in the bath wondering about why my babies all had different coloured hair. Black, chocolate, blonde and honey. I wonder what his hair colour is now? All of my girls hair has changed colour since they were born. Maybe his hair is blonde, like his Dad or maybe he would be darker like his sisters. This I find hard to deal with sometimes. The unknowing of who he is now and what he looks like. Is he a six year old boy or is he still a baby? Maybe he does not have a physical form at all and is just a beam of pure light. I can’t picture him. I held my head under the water, what does it matter what he looks like now? Let it go Mama. As I brought myself back out into the air I heard it. A cry. It wasn’t one of my babies though, it was the little boy next door whose name also happens to be Christian. Oh be still my heart. How I wanted to leap out of the bath, run next door to comfort that little boy. I can’t imagine that would be too appreciated by his parents.
I’m still broken.
I breathe healing everyday. I choose it always. My life is magical, wonderous and beautiful, but it is still broken. I’m not sure that I want to be completely healed though. I don’t use my grief to play the victim, it’s not about choosing brokenness or thriving off it. I don’t focus my energy on all the wrong things that people have said to me in the wake of his death. They have no idea what it’s like and in a way I am thankful that they don’t. Maybe I’m even a little jealous that they have no idea. Being broken and surviving grief for me has meant that I’ve had to find beauty and healing in all things. I have focused on one thing. One word. LOVE. To me love is always the answer. My life wouldn’t be magical if I didn’t feel the need to seek out beauty in all of it’s situations and cycles. I’m not sure that I would gaze at the stars each night if my heart was completely healed. I would miss all those shooting stars. I feel at home in my brokenness because it is filled with beauty. That probably sounds terrible, but it’s the truth.