Heart Floors.

23 Jan

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My heart is flawed. And by flawed I mean floored and flawed.

More often than not I spend my nights on the floor. I drag a bunch of blankets into a room where the children are asleep (usually their room sometimes mine) and I make a makeshift mattress and lay down and think. I think of sleep and the things I am worried about and good things and scary things and just things.

It’s a difficult time of night for me mostly.

I am floored by the fact that I don’t feel happy and that I cannot sleep sometimes and that when this happens (most nights) I make my makeshift mattress close by my babies and I feel better. Safe.

But I worry. What does this mean for me? I know what it means for them. Everything in many ways. They feel me close by. They wake relaxed and happy to see me close. But what about me? What happens when I can no longer viably do that? When they don’t want or need me to?

What does it make of me? A bumbling mama who needs her children so much and then I will be that empty shell that they evacuated when they leave the nest and my nest around me won’t be filled with them and I cannot move my little bit of downy fluff mattress closer to their downy fluff mattress and feel happier, better, safer?

Tonight I worry about that. Tonight I lay down on their floor before they were asleep because I was tired and I thought we’d sleep but even Persia couldn’t sleep tonight. From the heat. She tossed and turned and sighed and grizzled and wanted to sleep with me. I said no.

After 10 minutes I patted her bed and she wrapped her fingers around my fingers and I gently pulled. She gathered the notion and like a swallow to it’s nest she flew down to me. She lay with her head on me. I kept my breath and my pulse relaxed, calm and slow. Her little breath slowed until she met the sandman and snuggled into her calmness of sleep.

It’s then that I realise it doesn’t matter about me for now. As always, I will adapt to change, no matter what that is, and I will survive. I have so much in my heart to be grateful for. There is no time to regret or worry about the what if’s, there are just too many to consider.

 

I think I might be afraid of being that one stuck in the I am a Mama persona where she herself (Who? the cat’s mother?) gets lost being something for everyone who needs her.

But then I realised that I’m not lost I’m just playing the mama role, wearing the mama hat, as lead character driving my life right now. Then this rings a bell “it’s more about “The chance to trace over and over and over myself…” currently I am drawing parent circles around, over, and through the wife and student outlines and I love the increasing depth and rounded edges” and the lovely Claire was so right. I was right. It is all there. I am here. I am me. Not the old me. For she was before today. But the today me is here, present and accounted for. I might not be sure who that makes me later but this is me now. I’m forging the later me on the way there now. 

So I got up, regrettably popped my sweetly sleeping Persian cat in her bed, to come here. Because it is easier sometimes to clear our minds of busy-ness and move on. Somehow clearing out our thoughts allows us to keep them, but not necessarily in our heads. Isn’t that why we vent sometimes? Just to hear how it sounds to voice it? To release it to the universe and feel honest.

I find it easier to be released from my thoughts when I know the thoughts exist still, recorded so that my mind doesn’t have to keep them, keep going over them, keep going back to them. They are recognised, identified, recorded, and popped away in my internet draw should I need to find them.

Somehow, unburdening in this way allows me to relax and move forward.

Tonight, I have felt that by being here and unburdening my mind of these thoughts. And in the process it helped me to remember what Claire had said. I know I can’t retrace my lines. For in doing so I am simply creating new lines. I don’t want to retrace. I want to see where the new lines take me. I want to be open to new lines and different ways to trace.

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