Saffron flowers and permission slips
Of writing, mothering, and allowing space for life in between
It isn’t 7 a.m. yet. The oblique light of a golden early November morning filters between the half-closed blinds, casting stenciled abstract shapes on the wall. Infinitesimally small dust flakes float around us, weightless— they magically glow into existence as they enter a pool of light, then disappear in the shade. My daughter woke up at dawn and called me into her room. Now her head is resting gently on my shoulder as we lull each other in a silent dance, her birdy body still bundled up warm in her sleep sack, my cheek against the softness of hers, her heart close to mine — so close that I feel we could be sharing the same ribcage right now. It’s not often that I get a chance to hold her like this — so still, so calm. She has pure quicksilver running through her veins and the electric, joyful energy of early Spring. Soon something will catch her attention and she will wriggle out of my hold to engage in her first little adventure of the day. So I squeeze her close to me for a little longer, before the spell breaks.
Over the past few months, I noticed I had been keeping too many tabs open at the same time, draining my physical, emotional, and spiritual batteries. I would rush frantically and resentfully through daily chores and errands while my daughter was asleep or at her morning playhouse trying to forcibly carve out time for writing. Time that I would end up maximizing by mercilessly squeezing every last drop of energy out of myself until the last available second and until I hated every word on the page, turning that precious moment into a source of frustration. The time to drop my draft would come too soon and I would do so reluctantly, carrying my frustration with me, heart soured and thoughts muddled.
I have even witnessed myself feeling irritable and distracted when spending time with my baby girl, somehow seeing her being around, awake and playful as — dare I say it? — a nuisance more often than I wish to admit. Now that I had finally grown the courage to leap towards my creative dreams, every free minute of the day had the potential to be employed for unraveling the tangle of creative worries in my mind — I was growing obsessive over the individual seconds. On the worst days, I would even resent her — why did it take her so long to finish her breakfast? at this rate by the time we’d get to the playhouse it would be time to turn right back around! why was she up so early? why couldn’t I have a moment of peace to be creative without having to carve it out with my nails?
The irony is that the book I am writing is about choosing to live a slower, more conscious life dedicated to noticing and receiving the small gifts that every day brings — glimmers of domestic delight, mundane moments of bliss, hushed beauty and hidden magic. And I am writing it for her. This book has been for her all along — before she was even born, back when she was just a wish of my heart.
So when I started —of rosemary and time, I made a conscious decision. I would use this space as an exercise. It would be my chance to truly bring into my life what I was aiming to bring onto the page. And it’s been a marvelously imperfect and fulfilling journey so far. Every week I have given myself the opportunity to tune into my reality, keeping my senses and my soul open to the domestic delights and traces of hidden magic around me, allowing myself to receive those moments of mundane bliss and then write about them freely, without rules or a preconceived plan, simply going where the words would lead me. Because of this, over the last month my life has felt richer, more luminous. I have been able to write more and with greater enjoyment than ever before, all while being more present with my daughter, taking genuine delight in every moment spent with her. My chores are still there, the unexpected still awaits unfailingly around the corner, chaos reigns in my everyday life more often than I’d like. And yet, I have been feeling more grateful, expansive and so much more blessed. The hours in my day are still the same, but I have been able to live each one more deeply. To savour them more sweetly.
Now I am consciously choosing to separate in order to integrate. To separate time — taking each moment as a temporary unit, as its own transient, individual chance for serenity, rather than allowing the minutes to merge shapelessly into hours, the hours to flood into days, and the days to tumble into weeks. And to separate myself — allowing the many variations on a theme that I carry inside to exist at a comfortable distance from one another, so everyone has room to breathe. So each one can truly experience the dedicated time and space I (try to) lovingly create for them, without resenting the others for eating away at her forsaken right to exist and express herself.
So now, when my daughter wakes up early from her nap while I am still writing, I mindfully choose to be grateful for the time I have had to be a writer, I pick up my cup of vanilla milk tea and I go to her room to share it with her. Even in that moment, as I step into my Mother energy, the Writer in me is always present — noticing details, observing textures, weaving words together to give shape to the feelings and sensations that fill this parenthesis of time, keeping them safe for the next writing opportunity. But she leaves space to the Mother and she does it gladly — because she’s learning to be grateful and to stay hopeful while being satisfied with her share. Because she can trust that I will make time to write again. Because she has come to realize that the Mother enriches her writing in her own unique way — raw, visceral, tender. Because she has accepted that life inevitably seeps through the space between the lines and that same life is what brings texture to her words.
So now not every spare moment in my day goes into writing anymore. Yet, I am always writing. I am writing when I’m on my mat at a prenatal yoga class, connecting with other mothers. I am writing when I choose to honour my energy level and allow myself to have a hot shower instead. I am writing when I take myself out for a walk in the olive groves to move my body and absorb the healing powers of nature. Nothing I do now — not even chores (on my best days) — feels as if I am stealing sacred time from writing. I am learning not to feel guilty when I choose to do something other than writing, nor to feel unfairly robbed when my sacred writing time is blown away by an unexpected early rise, a sick day, or an untimely mishap. I give myself permission to be a Writer and I give myself permission to be a Mother — because I am learning that choosing one isn’t necessarily denying the other. So I also give myself permission to fall and try again in this emotional (and logistical) balancing act that has me constantly swinging between exhilaration and exasperation. And finally, I give myself permission to be all the other parts of me — a fiancè, an amateur artist, a keen reader, an experimental cake-baker, a friend, a woman, a human.
I have come to peace with my writing taking many shapes, all of them valuable. I set off to do a food shop and, with one foot out the door, I grab my journal to jot down a quick idea. We serve tea to my daughter’s stuffed woodland animals and threads of unspoken words embroider this precious moment in the fabric of my memory. We come back from a walk and with my coat still on I scribble on a post-it note about the two freshly laid eggs gifted by a kind neighbor and the sprinkle of saffron flowers we discovered in the old allotment, planted seasons ago by the previous owner. Then, while she’s asleep, I will sit down with my cup of vanilla milk tea and I will write. Maybe until she calls me. Maybe just for as long as I feel like it. Or maybe I won’t write at all and I will peacefully prepare dinner in advance instead — so that, when she wakes up I will have more presence to play with her. And that is writing too.
It’s 7.45 a.m. the following day as I re-read through this letter before sending it to you. This morning is a veil of mist left behind by last night’s rainfall. No golden sunbeams will wake my daughter up today — but she won’t mind because she loves splashing in the puddles. For the first time this week, she hasn’t been up before sunrise. But I have. I’ve been writing.
I hope this letter inspired you to adjust your perspective to see the inevitable mess that is daily life as part of the magic of your creativity path.
With love always,
Julia
If you know someone who would enjoy reading —of rosemary and time, please feel free to share this letter with them.
More hand-written letters for you:
Foraging for unclaimed persimmons — Of mothering the self, stolen glimmers of bliss, and being a little naughty.
An autumnal bouquet — Of choosing to notice magic, making memories, and hazy photographs.
October seafoam — Of spontaneity, parenting, and unplanned writing: lessons from the seaside.
Annual Honesty — Of perspectives, choices, and rediscovering enchantment
This was so beautiful! I truly feel that restlessness to write.. to create... it’s like this urge that takes over. But then I also so desire to be present and play and be with my girls. I haven’t found the balance of it yet.. and perhaps I never will and it’s more about making peace with all of the parts of me! What a lucky little being your daughter is to have such a creative Mama to guide her. Xx
So beautifully written, I resonate deeply with this 💕