Closed Mind, Closed Heart - Open Mind, Open Heart... My Weekend Grateful.

A minute ago I read a status from a friend on facebook. Now this lady is a very devout Christian, and was making a comment about how upon meeting the local transference healer and saying "Hello", the other person's eyes rolled back in their heads. Following on was lots of happy clapper comments on demons and the spirit of Jesus and the power of God. Judgement.

I did not expect to feel as angry and disappointed in the whole thing as I did.

Closed mind, closed heart.

I was brought up by Wise Woman who was, as she termed herself, a happy clapper. A born-again Christian strong in her beliefs, devout in her devotions, true in her worship. I attended many conferences and meetings (through choice, Mum would say "I am going to this, you want to come?" and sometimes I would, sometimes I wouldn't), many lectures and church services.

Some of them were fantastic, inspiring, wonderfully full of passion... some we sat at the back and watched the obvious charlaton lay hands on people. And as they fell backwards, she and I would giggle and whisper "Damn, he's pushed ANOTHER one over!"

But never, and I mean NEVER did I feel judged for my lack of faith or choices in these places.

And this is what I find hard. My mother was a true Christian. A woman, kind of heart, open of mind. She never lectured, preached or even discussed much of her beliefs with others; and yet she was much loved by so many. I can remember her floating in to my house after one such conference, this one about the healing ministry. A group of my Uni friends were gathered in my lounge room. Mum came in, sat, chatted for a few moments then walked out. My friends all were in awe of how she glowed with some indefinable spirit, shone with joy. They asked me, where had she been to come back so very obviously uplifted? I told them. The jaws dropped - floored by the fact she never preached, lectured nor judged any of them. The term "a true Christian" was muttered under many breaths that day. I sat and smiled. That was exactly what my mother was. The local Jehovah Witnesses loved to drop by her home even though their beliefs differed. They enjoyed nothing more than listening and debating details, revelling in her articulated knowledge.  Oh, the arguments they all delighted in, sitting on a sunny day on Wise Woman's verandah. Their hearts broke a little on the day we lost her.

I guess it is no surprise that for me Christianity is about understanding there is so much more in the universe than what we know, being open to ideas, to debate, to learning. THIS is how I was brought up. Not this close-minded "Get thee behind me Satan" bullshit.

As my mother approached the end of her life, she watched on in joy the growth of her oldest grandson. Boy 1 is a very devout Christian, unlike his parents. He also believes in the power of nature. He is an open vessel, he reads runes, practises crystal healing, has an ongoing interest in transference healing, chakras and reiki. His love of God and Jesus is unshakeable, deep, strong.

One religion teacher at the primary school made the mistake of asking who knew about a particular quote from the bible... An hour later he walked out shaking his head muttering to Boy 1's aide... "That child is incredible! He knows and understands more about the Bible and God's work than I do." Grade 4.

Open mind, open heart.

This, for me, is the true definition of Christianity. A love so pure and generous that it does not close the door on the other powers in life. Being a Christian is not about judgement or preaching, it is about belief, strength and love.

I know I will offend some with this post, but to be honest I feel so strongly about this that it was not a choice, it was a compulsion.

It is how my mother brought me up, and how my son expects me to be.

Open mind, open heart.

And I thank God that he gave me two such wonderful human beings to be in my life. And for that, and so much more, I am truly grateful.

Your Funeral of Choice - Eden's Fresh Horses Hop

Death. The final frontier... Sorry. should be more respectful and serious, shouldn't I?





Death. Something I have personally seen too much of not to be allowed some gallows humour.

~It is often said that before you die your life passes before your eyes. It is in fact true. It's called living. ~(Terry Pratchett)~

Death. Whether you believe it is the end or merely another journey, it is hard to think about and deal with when you are the one left behind. I do not fear death, I fear leaving this life and those I love. I worry it may happen too soon, and my children will be left without their mother.

But that is not what this link is about. The question asked by Eden is:
 "Tell Me Your Funeral Song."

If my mother were alive my choice would be different, for I truly believe that funerals are for the living not the dead. It may be a celebration of someone's life, but it is for those attending and the memories they shared and need to be reminded of.

When we buried Wise Woman, the funeral director asked me if I wanted music played as the coffin was lowered into the grave.

I have mentioned this before, I am sure. For a moment there, a song flashed through my mind. The song my mother and I danced to like drunken marionettes around her lounge room. A song that was playing on the radio as I drove into her home only a few weeks before she became ill, a couple of months before we lost her. A song for which I cranked the car radio up full blare and rolled down all the windows. Her neighbours thought I was nuts, but she was laughing as I came in the door. A song of great joy, and wonderful memories full of laughter.

A song that my delicate, refined, gentile mother with her hidden, warped, ironic humour would have appreciated... fleetingly. (Appearances, MM, you are still my daughter and we must keep up the standards of decorum...)

Can you imagine the solemn faces changing, my elderly relatives gasp of horror, the minister's look of disbelief if belting out of the cd player, as her coffin slowly lowered was... wait for it...


"Working in a coal mine, going down down. Workin in a coal mine, whoops I mighta slipped now..." ?????


But, again, this is not about that, but my choices.
 
I want the biggest party. I want them to play "Back in Black" as the people walk in. I want them to play "Don't Worry, Be Happy" as my coffin is taken out.
 
I want there to be a big mothafucka screen on the wall where my pre-recorded message can be played.
 
And my first words...
 
 

 
 
"BOO! Well, that scared ya, didn't it?"
 
I want memories and joy, and laughter and tears...
 
and I want my boys to go: "That's our Mum... she was always a Madmother"
 
 
And I hope they are old, and I am older and have done all I need to keep them whole.
 
That is all.
 

The Rose and the End of The Year of Firsts.

This time a year ago I was sitting in a hospital next to the body of my mother. This time a year ago I was trying to say my final farewell to the woman who made me all I am.

I was wrong. She is not gone, she surrounds me every day.

Today is the end of the year of firsts.

Today I walked outside to see this:

Three months ago I bought this rose, two months ago we planted it. Today it bloomed in perfection.

She is around me and mine... this is merely one of her more blatant reminders to never forget.

I love you Mum.

Amazing Grace, How Sweet The Sound

Was blind, but now I see.

I walk arm in arm with my sons. At an age where it is considered uncool to hold your mother's hand, arm, hand my two do not hesitate. As we walk we talk. "Did you hold Nanna's hand when you were our age, Mum?"

"Yes" I answer, then begin to laugh.

"What?"

And so I tell them. My mother had severe sight issues from my first memory. She, her best friend and my Grandmother had sat for hours in her terrace house childhood home and watched the welders work below in the factory next door. Back then it was not common knowledge that such unprotected viewing would cause permanent and irreversible damage. My mother was the worst affected of the three.

That term... bottle top glasses? Well, those were hers. So thick that her beautiful brown eyes were distorted behind them.

As a teenager in the 1930's she loved going to the beach. It was even more appealing as she could use her sunglasses to hide her vision issues from the coolness of a teenage world. Yes, even back then people with perceived weaknesses were teased, it did not help that she was not only stunning but chronically shy.

As she grew older her sight grew worse. By the time I was a teenager my mother had been considered legally blind for quite a few years.

I grew up walking arm in arm with my mother. I never developed teenage embarrassment, for I knew when we walked together if she did not have hold of my elbow she would trip, fall, be hurt. To the casual observer it merely looked as if our arms were linked in affection (as they were). They did not hear the running commentary between us...

"Kerb, Mum."

Copyright Madmother - 1986

"Ramp, Mum."

"Car coming."

Now to the reason I laughed. As I grew older we always joked I was escorting her nicely limited Mastercard across the road. Once I graduated and hit my middle 20's the joke was switched to her escorting MY Mastercard across the road as the limit was higher than hers.

This was the story I told my children yesterday.

"Wow Mum. You have more than one credit card so we both have to escort you and your purse across the street then!" This from my impish younger. The older just laughed. And both tightly linked their arms a little harder through mine.

I lived my whole life with a loving mother who was sight compromised. Now my very best friend is facing the same. Her children are six and nine (nearly), and she is now classed as legally blind. Retinitis Pigmentosa. A genetic eye condition that causes the light-sensitive retina, located at the back of the eye, to degenerate slowly and progressively.

She is beautiful, positive and a wonderful joy to be around. She cannot see kerbs or stairs or the joy in her children's faces if they are not right next to her.


Like my Mum, she has days when it gets to her, when her dreams of the future are clouded and dim. But, again, like Wise Woman, these are rare.She does not want pity, she wants life. We tend to joke about it, though there are times when laughter does not help.


When she told me of her diagnosis I could tell she was over the pity party others had been throwing for her.


"Okay, so not good?"


"Nope. Didn't want to tell you before, didn't want our friendship balance to be compromised with you feeling sorry for me."


"You just didn't want to tell me all those times we went out and got blind you really were!"


When she stopped laughing...


"Oh hell, I knew I should have told you before the others..."


"Hey, don't worry, at least I have someone to give Mum's talking books to when she's gone."


"Oh, you are bad, seriously bad. Thank you."


See, both these women in my life were alike. Determined, positive, strong. For all my years with my mother I am now able to support, console, listen, arse-kick, and just understand what my friend is going through. And when things get hard I remind her of the 90 year old still managing to do her tax on exel. On a REALLY big computer screen, yes. On the biggest font you can imagine, yes. On the highest view limit available, yes. But still determined and capable. Right up to the end. If you make your mind up you can do anything... it just may be that you have to approach it a different way from before.

Copyright Madmother - May 2011

Oh, and as my friend's credit card limit is higher than mine, I just might have to escort her carefully across busy roads for years to come.

Another Piece of The End.

 I am sitting staring at the Google search box. The curser is flashing angrily, annoyed at my ineptitude.  Just do it, just do it... it seems to signal impatiently. I am frozen.

It will be another brick in the wall of goodbye. It will be another sign of the end. It is another finality. I am sitting about to google local stonemasons for my mother's grave. My mother's bed in death. My mother's monument.

I have to think of wording, but how do I put in to a few short words the woman who helped me live? The woman who helped me breath?  The woman who was my mother, my best friend, my teacher, my inspiration. My Wise Woman.

It is another goodbye, another confirmation that this is not a bad dream, she is truly gone.

I can never forget the cries of my second son as he came into the hospital to farewell the woman who had been there for him his whole life, "Why? why is she dying? What is killing her? Nanna can't die, Nanna ALWAYS bounces back."

I know son, I know. I cannot accept she is not coming back either, for whilst you had her for your eleven short years, I had her for nearly forty seven of mine.

Once more, the screen has blurred. And because you never believed in tissues, my mother, I now have retrieved one of your soft, delicate hankies. It smells of you. And my tears flow harder.

Goodbye is just too hard.

Write on Wednesday - Me! Yes, Me!

I sit in my mother's house. It is no longer her home as she died last October. Her home now resides in my heart. I am in my rock chick persona/regalia. Tights, or leggings as you young 'uns call them, with flowers and sequins on the left thigh, black flowing long top with a sequinned skull on front. Chunky jewels, hair up in front. Silver heart earrings which match my chunky silver heart choker. Rock Chick. Old rock chique. Oh, and black ankle boots - I live in boots. Mutton dressed as lamb, some may say. Me all over, others would comment.

The house no longer smells of Mum. I am almost tempted to spray some eau de cologne just to recall her odour, but that wouldn't work as she stopped using it after my childhood was finished. It is a little musty, but not too bad. My desk is in the room of my mother's last bed. She changed bedrooms a couple of years ago when illness and frailty and the threat of death forced her from her comfy, large Queen bed in the front room into a whizz-bang, bells and whistles hospital bed in the second, smaller bedroom. My desk now sits beside this bed, her last place of sleep and rest. My work place.

It is quiet here, it is night. The little dog next door lets off a half-hearted yap, feeling obliged but unable to summon any real energy. I like it here when the village stills. I feel her near. The window is covered with the lace curtains I chose for her, the floor with the carpet we both liked. I built this house for her, when age and failing health forced her to leave her home of fifty two years. But I built this house to echo the home of her love, of family. I built it to be HOME. And home it was for six wonderful years. Six too short years.

This was meant to be about me, but somehow it is also about her. For without her, there is no me, and at times I feel the me left is nothing but a shadow without her. My Mum. Wise Woman, matriach, nurturer, lender of strength.

I am stopping now for the tears have dissolved the screen. I miss her. Some days unbearably so.

Motherhood & The Things We Take For Granted - Weekend Grateful

I believe everything happens for a reason.

The painful implosion of a friendship - necessary to give you much needed space to realise how toxic it was in the first place.

The financial struggles of day to day life - required so when these times ease you appreciate it so much more.

The agony of loss - to remember the joy of having them in your life at all.

The fear of a mother. A reminder to make you realise the importance of appreciating what you still have, not drowning in what you have lost.

This Sunday is Mother's Day here in Australia. A day to celebrate the joy of motherhood, to spoil those that deserve it. It should be at least once a month as far as I am concerned. Why? Because we Mums are absolutely fricken awesome! Because we Mums are NEVER off duty. Because we Mums support our children unconditionally and are ourselves the last to be supported in a lot of situations.

This Sunday is my first Mother's Day without my

 Wise Woman. 

You can imagine how I have been feeling about that one.  As the date approached I felt physically ill at the thought of being without her, and asked Big Boy to please arrange for us to be away from here for the day. I could not bear to think of being home on this day without her.

Now, as I said I believe things happen for a reason. I also believe my beautiful mother is somewhere using her strength, persuasiveness and sheer obstinance to continue to look out for me and my family. Things have happened since she left this world, things that have no other explanation than her pulling out the big guns, and I continually feel her love and strength protecting and supporting me.

My Mum. The only person on this earth who could keep me in line, the only one to calm my raging anger, the sane voice of reason when I was threatening dire retribution to any who crossed me, the one who pulled me into line and made me look at things from a more realistic and logical direction.

The centre of our family - October 1996

This week I had a very sick child. My second son. I won't go into details, suffice to say he had the medical profession and his parents totally baffled. And scared. Terrified in fact.

Obviously, after nearly a week, he is on the road to recovery. I would not be posting otherwise.

We still have no idea what this was, but I am so incredibly grateful he is getting better. And somewhere in the back of my mind is the thought that maybe it was a Wise Woman kick up the proverbial... A reminder to make you realise the importance of appreciating what you still have, not drowning in what you have lost.

Thanks Mum. I am now looking forward to tomorrow without any shadows. Well, maybe only a little one, but you wouldn't expect me not to miss you at all, would you...
 
 
This is my Weekend Grateful.




 
 
 

It Hits at the Most Strangest of Times.

I am running, sprinting through my life doing much, achieving little. Ever have so very much on your plate that anything you attempt to complete seems to fall to dust? That's me at the moment.

Ineffective insanity.

Juggling a combination of marbles and beach balls - seriously nearly impossible to do, let me tell you.

Then in the midst of the manic madness some stupid little thing will trigger it.

The other day it was the re-run of the grand final in My Kitchen Rules. The bit where Bella sits on the floor and cries. Her family calling words of encouragement, begging her to get up, to complete what she started.

BOOM! Up it comes and hits me with a force that takes my breath away.

Grief. My dark demon I keep hidden in the depths of my psyche. Locked away. It sits festering, plotting revenge, planning to break free and catch me unaware. Succeeding multiple times in a brief black exodus, only to be ensnared and seized, thrown bound by self-control into the deep recesses of my emotions. To sit and wait, until another moment, another trigger causes my frenzied grip to slip.

And each time the demon gains strength, and is harder to subdue, with each breach its power grows and I know one day it will break free and swallow me whole. I will no longer exist as its power wipes all I am and all I was, away. Leaving a broken shell in my place. A motherless daughter.

Weekend Rewind: December 2009 & 2010

Am jumping on the rewind bandwagon again (thanks to Allison @ Fibro - click on link above to join). But am being naughty and adding two links. Simply because I cannot choose between them. December 2010 was hard... let's face it, any month after October 2010 has been difficult, but December particulary as the first Christmas without Wise Woman in our lives. The post I have chosen from this year is one of a little fluff and lightness - my reworking of the old classic:

A Night Before Christmas

Just to put a little stimming into your lives, lol.

The second is one from the heart. Memories of my wonderful Yee-Haw Grandma. Written in December 2009 when my blog was still new-ish.

Drive

Enjoy.

P.S. I lost my Grandmother just prior to her 91st birthday. I am pretty sure beating her in age was part of my Wise Woman mother's ambition and once the milestone was passed she felt she could let her hold on life loosen. Mum had turned 91 two weeks before we lost her.

Smiling Through the Tears.

I found something the other day. I was at Wise Woman's house doing some of the dreaded sorting one has to do after losing someone near and dear, when I needed a notepad to jot down some info. Found one in her telephone drawer. Opened it, turned over the few little pages she had used.

Now, my Mum was a bit of a wowser when it comes to drinking. Not a teetotaller, no. But definitely a little prim and proper on the topic of alcohol consumption.

So we never really discussed the drinking habits of a Madmother. I thought I hid it well - you know, the wine for the whine, good job grog...

Obviously not.

This was what greeted me on page three:

Didn't know whether to laugh or cry. So I laughed. Because that is what she would want me to do.

I miss you, you Wise Woman from whom know secrets were hidden or desires masked...

FYBF - You Never Know What Lurks Behind.

People amaze me. Not only do you have incredible generousity and kindness, you also witness absolute nastiness and vile behaviour. One minute you marvel at the noble unselfishness of strangers, the next you are doubled over in pain at a vicious offensive from an acquaintance or even more painful, a supposed friend. As adults these high-school games and attacks are meant to be behind us. But they are not.

There are two reasons for this in my point of view.

Firstly, if you have been the victim of such an attack in your lifetime it lingers. It settles like a hidden wound deep in your psyche, waiting to resurface and leak bad memory pus all over your present. Some of the time this colours your interpretation of the written word, or even real life conversations leading you to either:

(a) go on the offensive yourself

or

(b) curl up in a ball reliving the horrific experiences of the past in the present day.

Secondly, life is hard in today's world. The "I want" generation is now finding keeping up with the Edelstein's  (for the Joneses have long dropped down the social ladder) nearly impossible. People are unhappy with life, with the circumstances they have to live within (damn you GFC), and the most sad, with themselves. It is not only a desire for themselves, they yearn for their children to have more, to be accepted and fit in. Everyone wants to be popular, but for some the desire brings forth jealousy which creates spiteful, childish behaviour. They resort to the patterns of youth, never seeming to have gained the wisdom from growing up.

Which one am I? I think I fall into group one. Both sections. Reading Courtney's brave post brought forward some really bad memories from my school days. Isn't that sad - these days are over thirty years back and yet can be relived in a flash. It is a part of me I always remain aware of, I need to fight to keep it under control when looking at the next generation. I have to realise my experiences and the fights of my childhood are not theirs or their reality. Take a deep breath, step back and soothe the hidden black panther uncoiling itself from slumber.

I guess underlying all this is a message. You never know what is hiding behind a smile. People can mask pain really effectively and the cries of "I had no idea" are fruitless when it is too late to rescind an action.

This is my FYBF. A little late because I just couldn't bring myself to finish it last night.







And to cheat a little I am adding my Weekend Rewind into this post. October was a terribly hard month last year. It was the month I lost my mother, Wise Woman. Reading back through my posts there were two I thought about adding. One poignant and probably quite appropriate given the topic of this post, the other a joyous memory of my childhood and why I believe in myself. Because she did, always. So I chose the second.

Beads of a Wise Woman

My life has become a series of bizarre co-incidences. I won't post the boring details, but it is all good - the flow is a positive one, if slightly weird.

The latest is within this post. This evening I have been sitting with an idea tumbling and tossing on the stream of my consciousness. And then as I was brewing on the concept, up pops this link in my browser:

Maxabella Loves... Bling on love on the big day.

The perfect blog hop to bring it to fruition.

My mother's beads. Today I wore my mother's beads. I feel her close to me when I wear them, she shadows my moves, smiles to see a little of her decorum and elegance rubbing off on her rambunctious daughter.

They are like her: stunningly beautiful, elegant, revealing more and more depth with every glance. I bought these for her in a little antique shop at the bottom of our mountain. Angel's it was aptly named. Hand-painted venetian glass beads. Fit for a queen, perfect for my queen.

She laughed when I presented them to her, shook her head and told me I was incorrigable. "I thought I said no more jewellery?"

"No, you said no more scarves or brooches. You said nothing about beads."

We both giggled at that. Then she lifted them to the light, straining to see the detailed fine work, revelling in their beauty. And smiled. "Thank you."

"You are welcome Mumma. They reminded me of you."

Today I wore my mother's beads. People smiled, drew closer, breathed in awe at the richness of their splendour. And I could feel her warmth surrounding me, wrapping me in her love, always.

Memoir Monday - The Ring

Here we are for another Memoir Monday on a Tuesday, yada, yada, yankee time difference, blah, blah, blah... oh, and Trav. I WAS here last week, where were you? Hmmmm? Bit hard having a Memoir Monday without the host, ya know.

Now, a little back I referred to my heartbreak over losing my ring. In that story I mentioned the importance of this engagement ring, not only for all it symbolises between Big Boy and I, but also because of the role Wise Woman played in the whole fiasco situation.

And so today my Memoir Monday is, as it says in the title of this post...

THE Ring.

I am sure I have mentioned my performance before, probably in one of those 10 things about yourself posts in the early days. Forgive me if I am repeating something you have already read.

We are going back, back through the years, back to the beginning of the Madmother & Big Boy clan. My wonderful soul mate has just proposed in a reasonably romantic manner, well romantic for the boy he was. Loving and knowing me well, he chose not to design THE RING prior to this proposition, choosing to avoid a madmother meltdown if her control freak ways were not catered to cater to his beloved's little endearing quirks of nature.

Now I will let you know I adore vintage and antique rings. In fact at that point I already owned three, left to me by my wonderful Yee-ha Grandma. So I knew pretty much the design I wanted. I even had an old Angus and Coote catalogue from the 1920's, again left to me by my beloved Grandma, from which I picked a design, or rather a blend of several of the designs within the pages. We went diamond shopping (yes, one of those brokers who specialise in stones alone and would only let you past the armed guards and the security locks if you knew the secret squirrel password and hush-hush handshake), and we went jeweller shopping. Now the first jeweller was situated in the glorious Strand Arcade.

Gorgeous, isn't it. Wise Woman tagged along as she was on holidays staying with us. And because I asked her (a woman of far more elegance and discerning taste than I will ever be). Off we toddle, meet up with Big Boy in his lunch break (looking mighty fine as a boy in a suit, I might add). Discussed design, showed them the various elements from the catalogue I wanted, received quote. Let's just say back then it would have served perfectly as the deposit on your first house. Holy crap! In their defence a lot of the cost was in re-creating the old moulds used to create such fine work on those rings. Well, that's what they told us anyway.

At this point I could quickly see my perfect ring fast becoming an unattainable dream, but we decided to go out to a more suburban shopping centre for another quote, just in case it was feasible.

Big Boy had to work (to earnt the $$$$ to pay for his delicate little petal's obsession desire), so Wise Woman and I went on a preliminary reconnaissance all by our lonesomes out to Eastgardens. Now, do remember back in them days it was not the massive centre it is today. Noooo. It was actually quite small by today's standards. There was a jeweller I had dealt with previously, and I was sure they could help. Off we trot, anticipation building as we ride the escalator up to the top where they were located.

To find them shut. A Jewish holiday apparently. No, I'm not Jewish and had no bloody idea they were. And so, Madmother threw a tanty. A pretty embarrassingly loud, large one according to my mum.

Now, Wise Woman had been dealing with Madmother for thirty-two years by this point. She may have been slender and elegant, but she was also a tough lady underneath that gentile exterior. Quick as a flash she grabbed my arm in a vicelike grip, hissed in my ear to grow up and stop behaving like a five year old, and she had spotted another jeweller at the bottom of the escalator. By this time I am in martyr mode and sniff disdainfully "Well, I am sure THEY will have nothing suitable for ME." But I have no choice in the matter as she maintains her hold and drags me back down to the store.

Well, you guessed it. Not only was the man a master designer and jeweller, he had been apprenticed to his father and still had his Dad's ORIGINAL MOULDS. Voila! One glorious brilliant cut diamond solitaire ring, designed exactly along my heart's desires, and at HALF the price quoted by the city centre lot. And so this ring became a symbol of more than the love between a man and woman, it represented the love, tolerance and none of that behaviour from you young lady relationship of a mother with her daughter. 

As per usual my wonderful Wise Woman was right. You'd a thunk after having her as my mum for the previous three plus decades I'd of learnt to shut up and listen, huh?

This is my Memoir Monday. Love you Mum, wish you were here.



Auction for Lori  is about to start tomorrow. Pop on over to facebook to see the goodies, place a bid, and support this gorgeous woman in her time of need.

I am Not Asleep...

I wish I was. I have had a little wine (just a couple of glasses with Big Boy), and I have watched TV. But I am wide awake. I need to sleep, we have both Boy 1 and 2 friends coming over tomorrow, and then I am going to derby training in the evening. I NEED sleep.

I know why I am awake. The fear and heartache is beginning to break through the ice encasing my grief. And I am scared. Because if the ice cracks and the grief is freed, I am broken. For she is so much of who I am. Was. I want her to be proud, but I just wish someone would let me cry on their shoulder, let me release this insistant pressure of pain. I wish someone could see I am broken. I want someone to see the shattered soul inside my outer shell. I want to feel safe to fall apart, if only for a bit. And the only one who ever saw that, and felt it, and let me be weak, was her. I want my mum. Please. Just for a little while.

Laugh at me if you must -  I just hope you do not ever feel like this because it fucking hurts. Sorry Mum, I know you hate that sort of language. I just can't be strong tonight. I miss you so much.

Sleepless in... well it sure ain't Seattle!

It is 4.44am here. I have had about a combined hour of dozing if I am lucky. Yay me! Well, actually this one can be chalked down to Boy 1. He was having one of our rare sleep n the big bed with Mum nights. Except he did not sleep. Finally, at 3.30am I kicked him off to his own bed, but I am now past any hope of getting to sleep. And my own sleep issues have meant this is the last thing I needed in my exhausted state.

My mind is ticking over events of the last few months. Today I sat on the floor of our bedroom and sobbed my heart out. I cried for Lori and Lulu, for the horrific disaster unfolding along the East coast of our beautiful country, and for me. I have not really cried since Mum died, it is like I am frozen in coping land and the tears are locked deep within my icy heart. This is not good, I know this is not healthy but it seems to be the way I am made.

My tears were released because I lost my engagement ring. My fingers have swollen in the humidity and for the first time ever I had great trouble getting the ring off my finger (I don't sleep in it). So last week I had to use loads of hand cream to get it off and I wrapped it in some tissue to clean. And then was distracted and forgot about it. Stupid, eh?

And of course, the tissue was thrown away. And the rubbish had been collected. Now I know, as Big Boy repeated time and time again as he held me sobbing, enclosed tightly in his loving arms, it is only an object.

But to me it is a solid reminder of so much. Of the love I have for my husband. Of the joy of our wedding. Of Wise Woman who was with us when it was being designed, and without whom it would not be at all (yes, I threw a litle tanty at a shopping centre - think this will have to be my Memoir Monday this week).

It triggered thoughts of Lori, burying her soul mate she was meant to grow old with, of my sister who only ever wanted to get married and have kids and wasn't given the time to, and of course of Lulu, saying farewell to her sibling and the bewilderment of loss.

And so I sat on the carpet and let the pain consume me. I am still raw. And tired. Really could have used some healing sleep to allow me to escape reality for a little. Obviously not in the plans of the higher gods tonight, or should I say today as the sun rises.

We found it. The ring. In the wastepaper basket beside my desk - the one bin I had not emptied before the rubbish was collected. Sitting on the bottom underneath the tissue. But by then, although relieved, it was no longer the issue and the pain had been allowed to escape my iron-clad stronghold and it may never be locked away again. I do not know right now if that is a good or bad thing, but time will tell. And to be honest I feel it is a little self-indulgent to even be posting about it when others are facing such immense loss.

A sombre, tired, emotionally drained,