I never know where these things will go when I first start on them. This one ended up with a poem fragment from Instead of Indonesia by Sarah Bein that I gleaned long ago in a workshop somewhere and hoarded with me over the miles. Words that meant something then, when I read them, and something now, reading them anew, different but them same. I marvel at the patterns of life, how inexplicably they repeat themselves, as dependably as the moon and her tidal pulls.
I spent the weekend watching movies and letting myself become overcome by floods of emotion. It’s been exhausting, actually. I’m not sure I’ve gained anything but I did create something, so I suppose that is good.
They always remind me of my mother, these flowers. They were amongst her favourites, and count among mine as well. I would randomly bring her a bouquet here and there, knowing how the flowers delighted her.
Our relationship was complex and with her passing I have had much time to reflect on so much of it. I at once miss her and feel relief at her passing. And anger, too, for so many things. And larger than life admiration. She was something.
In the end I need help to unravel the ball of wax that was our family dynamics (which ultimately shaped the who I have become).