Let Slip

I’ve had this feeling I can’t shake for months now.

In fact it has been lingering for so long I cannot remember if ever there was a time when it didn’t pervade my happiness. Much has changed in the last year. Relationships have morphed and in some cases been severed. For those I have let go of I do not mourn. It is those that remain, often hanging by a thin thread of history, that I am sad for. In one hand I have a relationship so deep and richly fulfilling it is almost enough in itself. In the other, friendships slipping through my fingers while I try in desperation to hang on.

And I can’t see a way to have both hands full, each with a firm grip, never letting go. Somedays I tell myself it is just how life goes, friendships ebb and flow and others dry up completely. But mostly I can’t accept being a failure as a friend and that is the real feeling that pervades my thoughts.

I am trying to pick up the pieces I have let slip through but perhaps they are already broken, unable to be glued back in to the fabric of a crumbling friendship.  Either way, I have to try.

Understanding the ‘drop’

It first happened a little over ten years ago.

The night air was cool as I walked down the broken concrete pathway to the hills hoist, washing basket piled high with damp clothes. As I pegged each sock, skirt or shirt to the thin wire line I looked up into the ink black sky pock-marked with stars. We had been learning about astrology at school. They said that the universe went on forever. Forever. Never ending, forever. How could all my world be such a tiny spec in the whole grand concept of the universe, this entity that went on forever. I stared out into the all-consuming blackness and I felt something drop. As if my heart had suddenly lost grip and free-fallen into my stomach. Perhaps it was a realisation of my own mortality, a sudden need for life purpose or even a resignation to the futility of life. At eleven years old, it terrified me.

In the twelve years since I have been learning to recognise it and then push it far away. I know the triggers now: a vivid night sky; a moment of happiness; talk of what happens after death; seeing pictures of the earth from space. However, recently I have been trying to learn to accept the drop, to understand it better. I have been letting it run its course. Instead of turning on the television or distracting my thoughts with a book I’m trying to just sit and listen to whatever it is that’s going on in my head.

This is really hard to explain and for most of my life I have been too afraid of talking about it because it means experiencing the feeling all over. Nevertheless, I wonder if anyone out there has a semblance of an understanding as to what I mean, or know the feeling themselves…..

The appeal of little hands

We (the boy and I) can’t quite seem to figure out our recent desire  to            have a living breathing amalgamation of our genes keeping us up at night.     Neither of us would be considered “kiddy” people. Until a few months ago  I was terrified to just hold a baby. In fact, I’m only comfortable holding       my friends seven-month old if I’m sitting on the ground and there is,           therefore, no chance of me dropping him. We wouldn’t know the first   thing about looking after a child. Sure between us and a few good Introductions to Parenting 1.0 we could figure it out, make-sure the nappy is on the right way round and strap the baby seat into the car, but it wouldn’t be easy.

So why is it that the B word just keeps coming up, from both sides? Perhaps it is the animal instinct in us that is triggered when we realise we have found a life partner, or maybe its just that when you love someone so much it seems like the natural next step.

Sorry.

One small word moved a nation.

And in doing so allowed it to move on.

Today the Australian government apologised unconditionally for the removal of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander children from their parents, communities and country. Tears mixed with rain on peoples’ cheeks as they gathered across the nation, arm in arm, to hear that one tiny but immensely powerful word – sorry.

 

So small.

I’ve never been good at the “bigger picture”.

I like the details.

The small things.

So often it’s the littlest things that make the biggest difference. A gentle hand squeeze. A mispelled word.  A delicate orchid. What champions of the “bigger picture” forget, is that the bigger picture is made up of many, many smaller pictures.