On a Sunday Morning

Up since six thirty and now three hours later my own little domestic enclave is smiling the contented smile one only ever smiles on quiet Sunday mornings. A peaceful, there is no hurry, pottery, puttery kind of smile.
I am all by myself. Both Finn and Ste away and so this morning has been spent getting to know this new home of mine. Talking out loud as I wander around the rooms (in case my Mum can hear me), touching her things not yet replaced by my own, nibbling at a carrot. Feeling words tickling my fingertips all over again.
This time last year I wondered if my Mum would take my words with her. And for a long time it certainly seemed as if that was the case – My mind a waterless well I was hopelessly trying to fish. Confusing my readers and desperately paddling behind the scenes.
But suddenly life has settled in to the cosiest of armchairs. For the first time in as many years as I can remember our days are without drama and there is time and space to focus almost entirely on shaping my life the way I want it to be. On creating a place of sanctuary in my own head. On re-establishing routines,rituals and time to write properly all over again. I do understand how very much you wish I would write with more consistency. How some months you wish I would write full stop. But I need you to know that I’m getting there. That the trauma of the past few years might now be firmly stitched in to my DNA, but it is no longer clawing my eyes or blinding me to what needs to be done.
Of course things are different now. I cannot hope to go back to the days when blogging was easy: when writing was enough. This is after all a business and it is a business that now exists in an arena where there are so many more offerings to tempt you. I know this. I know it so well and I think about it daily. But I want to write again. I want to write about the things I know. About creativity and women. For that is what homemaking is about really isn’t it? About routine and ritual. About blogging. For blogging is my life and it is one I would choose over and over again for it has given me the freedom to live well.
To spend mornings like this wandering in to the garden in my scary, fleecy nightgown to unzip my little greenhouse full of fledgling seedlings. To talk to them. And water them. To stand with the dog and look at this garden full of gravel and see what it could become. To open the front door and water the pot full of daffodils on the porch. To eat an odd breakfast of tuna salad because lately the fridge is always filled with delicious, nutritional leftovers and it has transformed the way we eat. To hang out an armful of white sheets on a very silly spinny washing line. To re-read Moving On with a cup full of comfort. Play ball with my gorgeous dog. Place my vegetable box order. Open windows wide and push these oh so ugly vertical blinds out of the way. To wander over to the little shop around the corner for milk. To hear the sounds of lawn mowers and hedge trimmers ubiquitous to a proper Sunday morning…
Life is different here. More suburban. The house is relatively new and the walls are straight, the rooms square. Here I am more focused on how we live, less on what that life looks like. For I see now how very much we can let our four walls dictate our days and limit our ability to thrive. A ramshackle house might be the stuff dreams are made of, but we must acknowledge how much caring for that house takes out of us.
Soon Ste will return and we will get in the car and head up to The Beacon. A great big hill with views as far as the eye can see, so Alfie can roll in mud and run about laughing. For I swear he laughs with delight and greets all the other dogs like long lost friends. And then I will cook. Perhaps roast a chicken. Perhaps a warm salad of roasted courgette, feta and garlic. Perhaps a pan of melted cheese and onion. Perhaps…
Then my Dad will come home. I’m glad he isn’t quite gone permanently yet. That our weeks are splintered with his comings and goings as he winds up his business here and spends time with his friends. So I can check him from head to foot. Pleased to see the results of a less pressured way of life showing on his face. Always ready to share a glass of wine with him and talk until he is sleepy and shuffles off to sleep in the bunk bed under Finley that is the only solution to him staying over.
Yes. This new life of mine is all kinds of lovely. And though like settling in to a new armchair, it takes a bit of shuffling of ones bottom to get truly comfy, everyday I inch closer to a life less ordinary. So please accept my apologies for what has turned in to a ramble – but heckity-pie it felt good!
Have a lovely Sunday too won’t you?