It’s a hawthorn

Of not having it all figured out. And of making peace with it.

“It’s a hawthuuuhn” — my eldest daughter’s finger is pointing confidently toward a bush overflowing with frothy clusters of button-sized off-white flowers. “It’s an hawthuhn, mama”, she repeats turning her eyes to me — large, mellow, hazel-brown, and right now tinged with a hint of impatience. “Haaawthuuhn!” — she says again in a tone that sounds like “Wake up, mama! Are you with me or are you in dreamland?”. “That’s right, Babi, it is a hawthorn” — satisfied with my affirmative answer, she turns back to look at the road ahead, clutching the safety straps of her pram as if they were attached to a big travel backpack. She looks ready for adventure.

I inhale deeply, sending clouds of bittersweet scent deep into every crevice of my lungs. Down into my belly, my womb, my bones.

Talking to her casually about what we see on our walks, sharing the scarce and sparse knowledge I have of brambles and briars, is something I began doing spontaneously around the time she turned one. A few days ago, on a similar stroll, I had shown her the hawthorn bush, pointing at the dense constellations of flowers, drawing her attention to its pungent smell and explaining how it was different from the white lilac growing right next to it, although they both don white flowers gathered in tight clusters and a heady fragrance. At the time, I wasn’t even sure she was listening — and yet, here she is, a few days later, taking me down from the cloud I have been drifting upon, anchoring me to the present moment by informing me that the bush in front of us is “not a lilac, mama, it’s a hawthorn”.

Truth is, I am lost in a dreamland of my own. Since becoming a mother for the second time now, I have felt like a dry leaf caught in a loose thread of a spider’s web on a windy day. Swinging, twirling, spinning. Suspended. Untethered. Hanging halfway, neither rooted nor quite free-falling. “And when they were up, they were up. And when they were down, they were down. And when they were only halfway up, they were neither up or down” goes the nursery rhyme that my English mother-in-law had sung to the girls during their visit last weekend. That’s where I am most days. Neither up nor down.

Day in and day out, for two years now I have been carrying my body around, mothering and pondering, wading through chores and conflicting visions, holding inside of me a constant swirl of cloudy thoughts and blurry feelings that seem unable to set. The riverbed is constantly stirred by the splashing of two pairs of beloved tiny feet. I have been winding and unwinding the same threads of thoughts, which seem to have grown even more tangled since the arrival of my youngest daughter — who am I as a mother? who do I want to be? what do I truly care about? what life do I desire for my children right now and in the future? how can I bridge today’s reality with tomorrow’s visions? what example do I want my life to be for them? what legacy do I want them to inherit from me? what world do I want to leave behind for them when it’s my time to go? who am I meant to be inside the house and out? what do I feel called to do? where does motherhood fit in these visions and how?

“You can’t shake the waters still” — the words whirl up from a deep somewhere, an undercurrent of wisdom that I can’t quite locate. No, that’s right, I cannot. Yes, that’s right, it is a hawthorn. It’s suddenly bright again — the connection between my senses and my brain clicks back into place and I am back onto the dusty white lane, the afternoon sun in my eyes, the overgrown hedges on my side, the pram’s handle in my hands, the weight of a baby asleep in her sling on my chest. And the hawthorn, now sliding past, fading out of sight through the corner of my eye.

“Thank you for reminding me to notice the hawthorn, Babi” — she turns back, her finger pointing somewhere forward again, “Look, it’s a buffahfly!”

I’ll figure it out. Somehow I’ll find my path. Somewhere along the way there will be answers. But at least for now, at least for this very moment, life is this overgrown country lane. A chalk-blue butterfly. A hawthorn. And whatever else my daughter will point at and bring to my notice for the length of this walk.

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Before you leave, I would just like to thank you for holding me so patiently as I slowly make my way out of the post-partum cocoon. I am greateful for you reading my words today. I am grateful for writing the words I will catch up with soon. I am grateful for your presence.