Vignettes

* I’ve been up since 4am, 4 hours of sleep.. getting our bags packed and soothing sick babies to bed. An early rise, tearful goodbyes, and a full day of adventures awaiting.  We nap on the airport floor in an empty terminal, until I open my eyes and realize that it’s filling up fast, as departures for Germany approach, and I’m soon shooed away. Scooping up still sleeping babies, the very one that threw up all over me multiple times, and them himself… the airplane, the floor, my clothes, his.  We hop on moving sidewalks, back and forth, back and forth… passing the 9 hour layover by running in circles. literally.

Finally boarding the flight home, across from me sits a tiny little Irish woman, she says nothing but smiles.. her entire being is the warmest smile. I catch her throughout the flight watching us, our little dance.. me soothing the baby, patting the girl’s back.. offering snacks, drinks, movies. rocking and singing lullabies to get them off to sleep. I smile back at her.
the lights are dimmed while most of the plane snores, not me.. and not her.
the sick boy stirs, crying out.. uncomfortable, restless
and I rock, and I sing.. and I offer the breast.
I glance over and find her watching me, with a smile.. with her loving eyes
and I smile, feeling her love pour all over me.

I stare at my boy and I think about this little woman, how she too is a mother, of course she is.. I imagine how she’s watching me, seeing herself with one of her own babies.. and tears start to slowly fall. I’m witnessing this moment outside of my body, of this little man child so vulnerable, of this mother so exhausted, of this love and reserve of patience and strength that finds her in these wee hours. I feel this little crone woman loving us, loving me.. she’s sending me strength, she’s sending me her wisdom, she’s remembering the weight of her own babies in her arms, she’s reliving her mothering years in the same swaying language mothers around the world speak..
I’m crying, and smiling, and feeling so grateful to receive this silent witness.

Once the plane lands, I think that I’ll talk to her – ask her how many babies she has.. But there isn’t a chance, instead, she smiles at me… and we part ways, never having offered an exchange of dialogue, I left instead imparted with so much more.

****

* It’s 3:30am, my witching hour.
I’ve been sleep deprived for months now, it makes me an angry mother, a weary mother, a mother that suddenly gives no fucks, I can be patient and graceful in one moment, and I can be an unimaginable monster the next. Mostly though, I try to apologize for my grump, my frustration, my humanness. My hugs and kisses begging to make up for the rough way I handle one of them in a moment of despair.
Tonight though, I’ve slept for six hours, I could easily sleep for twenty more.. but six will have to do.
This man child, wee big year and a half boy wraps his arm around my head, pulling me in, holding my head to his chest.. cuddled into him
Oh my….
I’m swooning.
This thing with boys, it is something other.
I soaked in this sweet cuddle, and time sped ahead.. I saw him as a tall man, as tall as his dad
his arms enveloped around me. His scent changed from toddler to man, my wee baby all the same.
My heart, my goodness.. these moments.

****

erin darcy www.starvingartistink.com
The scene awaiting my return from the morning school run
it holds everything unseen, uncaptured..
where in a moment I saw us from a distance, from a memory
Standing in the kitchen, a frying pan of scrambled eggs going on the stove
a chair pulled up to the sink, while she sits, waiting for her face to be painted as a sugar skull
the boy asleep on my back,  as I turn back and forth, stirring the eggs before they burn, painting details onto her face for her Halloween party at school.
mama with tired eyes, hair pulled back into a messy braid..
There it is, I suddenly see us. this moment. this dance. This cliche and perfection, this whirlwind of morning song..
How I wish that it could have been captured on camera forever, how I wish I could paint the vision that I saw
It was magic.
Instead, it was lived instead of captured – and then stood still in this still life by the sink, waiting for me to return home to.

I don’t ever want to forget these moments..

May 26th, 2014

the tender release
like the sticky warm sweet of the air after the rain has passed
when the majestic sky is revealed through dark clouds

the release. ease. acceptance.
i have no control
anxiety is not serving me well
what will be will be
it will all come together
nothing is permanent

waking with that breath of air and sweetness of ease

tending to the slugs in the garden and the wet clothes in the washing machine
the sun on my back
and the spiders scrambling off the line as i push clothes pegs aside.
the mundane and domestic
washing dishes and making plate after plate of snacks.
holding space for the tears and toys, the wants and demands of two littles.

but just there, a rumble in the distance

there it comes creeping
like those very spider legs
weaving a web of uncertainty again
rising up, anxiety plagued
while i remind myself again – that i have no one to be responsible for but myself, my babies.
that nothing is permanent
and that i am not letting anyone down, as long as i am honest.
reminding myself that all i can do is say what i need, speak from my most authentic self
and if i am heard, all well
and if i am not – i can not be to blame.
let it go.. let it go.. let go it.
but it still sits, frothy on top
bitter on the tongue

i will not let this sour me
breathe breathe.. keep breathing.

May 25th, 2014

there’s the self sabotage
the unknown language because it’s unspoken, the words intangible and hard to grasp, far away and hushed.
the not having a fucking clue what i need, or how.

knowing that i need guidance from my future self, my guiding goddess, she is my healer – my future self.. and yet, she is no where to be found. either she’s not listening, or i can’t hear her.. maybe she’s leaving me in this uncomfortable place to sit and feel it, hanging here – shedding skin, digging in, figuring my way through it.  maybe she’s giving me the space to realize that i need to reach out – say it aloud – find the unwritten language and write it.

the feelings of inadequacy, loserdom, of being a disappointment, unreliable, inconsiderate, selfish. of being the kind of person that makes plans and cancels last minute – self sabotage. stopping myself from doing what i want, or what i know to be good for myself with excuses, with anxiety.

we will all survive this.

on the phone yesterday with a doula friend, who told me to call her and somehow, unspoken, cosmically felt perhaps – she knew.
and i cried, and she guided me through..
my feelings of *stuck* feel like they reside right in my throat, in the height of my chest. my throat chakra. unable to communicate my emotional needs or express myself fully.

it makes sense
because feeling like i don’t recognize myself, and this heavy fog make it nearly impossible to know what to speak, place word to how i feel.

the e-mail from a friend yesterday, who reminded me how to take care of myself.
funny that, mothering littles all day – knowing just how to take care of them.. needing to be reminded of the simple basics of self care. water, food, move, breathe.

i want – to speak and feel and think and be with more authenticity.
i want – to eat living food. it feels that all the food i am eating is stagnant, dead, nothingness. and i’m feeling that deep in my body. maybe if i eat more living food my body will feel more alive.
i am – taking supplements and noting down the ebb and flow.
i will – set aside money and time to leave the house and join a class to move my body gently. setting intentions and creating the space for self. healing. feeling. thinking or non thinking. being.
i will – be more honest with myself. without judging myself. without making excuses for myself. without apologizing.

i’m so very grateful to have beautiful people in my life that just get it. that don’t try to fix me – but simply love me. the ones that call me and tell me stories from when they were mothering young babies. the ones that call and tell me ancient mythological stories. the ones that write me and remind me of who i am, *seeing* me and giving me new perspective. the ones that send me money with instructions to buy supplements. the ones that hold me in their hearts and send me energy and love. the ones that have no judgement at all – that know that no one way is right, and that all the ways are right.

my flesh community is small, i feel isolated – craving to see into eyes and break bread and be
but my community is vast and wide, and i am not alone in this. i am not alone in my feelings, not alone in my fog, not alone at all.

May 21st, 2014 {last quarter moon}

. my waxing and waning of being fine with being seen and heard. of being open and accepting everyone to the circle. and then the need to find my cave, close everyone out. tear the walls down, start over again. the need to disappear completely,  just long enough for people to forget- so i can re create. re discover. find the voice i need for just myself.

. the ‘depression’ that looms over head. nothing serious, no.. but just a fog, a blanket of it.. a shadow that follows me as i piddle around the house, a baby tied to my back, or clung to my legs. the standing there, not knowing what to do next, or not wanting to do anything next. standing there, with no purpose other than to be. lost in a fog of not really recognizing myself.

. the stigma of calling anything depression when there is real depression in the world.

. little love letters. those written, the extra time, the expensive bottle of oil for my skin, the expensive supplements for my body. these love letters to self – opening dialogue. reconnecting. loving. forgiving. seeing. healing. trying to find her again.

. is motherhood inherently lonely?  mothering groups of small talk that leave you drained and depressed. wondering how you sat there for two hours nodding your head about something you don’t actually agree with. the fake smiles. i’m glad not to go back. exhausting.

. maybe i’m just talking bullshit. in this funk of hormones tidal waving their way back to my womb. the first and last quarter moons – my blood and birth moons.. the quake of my belly and back as crimson finally pours. needing the release.  the tears that have been on the very edge but cannot let go. the blood that spots and spots and has yet to fully flow. i feel all stuck. all full. full of stuck energy. full of stuck. stuck. just.. stuck.

. i don’t know how to think about anything really. what is there to think about? what is there to write about?  can i even publish this without getting concerned e-mails or calls? i don’t really want to talk about it. i just want to say it. annoyingly and selfishly in my own space.

:: this body is my poem ::

Erin Darcy Photography
I am a landscape of stories
a novel of poems.
this body has been many women all at once
sweet purity, untainted childhood, magic.

she became on the eve of her 14th resolution around the sun
bleeding with the moon.
a rush of curves filling out the straights of her body
stretched hills and valleys, the first purple scars carved into porcelain skin.

she walked the tight rope of girl to maiden
wishing for forever innocence, while being filled with desire.

there, just beneath the surface
was the woman that wailed. the woman that disappeared into darkness.
howling from the depths. ballooning with the mirror.
the woman that was barren and bruised.

there, just beyond the distance
was the woman that knew, the woman that brought love and forgiveness.
the woman that heard and held.
the woman that loved deeply and fiercely.
and lifted her up.
opened her eyes
to see.
herself.

these hips birthed the universe
of endless possibilities
where two people spiralled earth side

these breasts, the life source
endless fountain of love and nourishment.

these feet that carry me and ground me to this beautiful earth
from the first wobbly steps as a babe, to the last steps as a crone.

these thighs that wrap around my lover.
these arms that hold babies.
this body that rejoices and celebrates.

i honour her in this way
to always remember
as a gift to myself, as i sometimes forget.
and a reminder for my sisters (you)

i honour her in this way
as a gift to my daughter
as she will see herself in my body one day, the very way i see myself in my mother’s.
in this beautiful vessel that carried her here
…and when she sees the poem and power written in the hips and belly of becoming
i want her to feel the warm rush of love
in the lineage of women she carries on.

i honour her in this way
as a gift to my son
may he always be surrounded by strong women
and hold sacred ground and reverence to the humble beginnings
and divine future.

A year of Him

erin darcy photography
His birth video this day, a year ago :: Here

Dear jack
my gentle water sprite boy
my wild ragamuffin man

Your year has probably been the fastest one of my life
how impossible it is that a year has passed, and yet a life time ago – I pulled this mysterious tiny one from the waters and to my arms..

You chose to be born 14 days past 40 weeks
under the first quarter moon I knew you to be due.
as the snowdrops blossomed and the daffodils bloomed
the ewes lambing in the fields
and the first snow drifted from the sky

I woke, that night, with knowing  waves rocking through my body
almost afraid to celebrate that your journey was beginning… on the cusp of being cut off from having a midwife supported homebirth.
but oh, our journey was beginning
as it had been for days leading up
the slow, gentle dance of your descent
spiralling down and letting my body expand with you

I wrote your birth story just weeks after your birth
 has there ever been a birth as sweet?
I relive the ecstasy that swelled through my body
the laughter from my lips and the tears from my eyes
the kisses of passion, the joy. Dear boy. The joy you bring..

We moved in tune with each other
and I welcomed you, every bit.
I sang a bellowing ancient song for you
the song that you wrote…
the one with no words, and all the words
ancient tongue that only birthing women speak
the same song the world over, for a millennia

we danced, with you in the lead
and I followed
I followed you with hunger, with passion
I followed you with fierce love

I sunk my body into the warm waters you were to be born
a Pisces babe..

And your song changed,
the whole world opened up and ushered you forth
the most overwhelmingly full feeling
the silk crown of your head christened by my hand
the sacred moment between two worlds
you could be anything you wanted to be
and you chose to be born to me..

‘a baby! It’s a baby!’
you became.. right before her, your sister watching on
you were a mystery, a novel, a someone sometime, a movement and nudge, a lullaby heart beat, stretched skin, heavy belly. You were a new landscape for her to cuddle around, a place for her to kiss.. her hands finding you in her sleep.
and you became.
‘a baby, it’s a baby!’

our baby.. our baby. Ours.


my breath is taken
a year and a life time…
the boy who stole my heart
our world is changed forever
with the rising of the sun, our son
thank you. 
happy birthday my dear sweet

erin darcy photography

february 2nd, 2014

every day love letters
checking in with self
a moment to reflect
to practice
to commune.
a moment to set intentions
to dedicate
to take a moment to breathe in deeply, and out slowly.
to be conscious of where my true self lies
to put pen to paper and let thoughts flow freely
reminding myself throughout the day – to go with love.
so each day, i can check off another
and begin again

how are you showing yourself love?

Ode to Self

With love, I begin.
After all, isn’t that how we all begin?

Pacts with self to honour body, mind, and soul.

Appointments made and commitments honoured
Guilt free purchases as gifts and tools for myself
for healing and maintaining
for the me right now, and my future self, who will thank me.

Love letters written to self every day
To begin opening communication. Relationship’s take work, including those with self – the most important.
When we don’t serve ourselves well.. how can we possibly serve those that we love?
(For the month of February my soul sister Marybeth is offering you 28 days of inspiration and prompts to begin communicating and seducing your sexy and divine self – read more over here )

Moving my body with love
Eating with love
Breathing with love

The beginning is the hardest part, I remind myself… Begin.
Begin, and through the awkward and ungraceful – breathe.
Begin, and know that you have made the biggest step.
Begin.

Love always

you and me

it’s 2:43am right now
the nights and early mornings belong to us.
you and me.
the hum of snoring from upstairs, the early morning singing from the birds..
and then there’s you and me, the glow of the living room full of our dance
while the rest of the world around us sleeps.

in these moments
it’s you and me…
and i try to memorize every bit of you
all of these bits of you that are my world,  i think ‘how could i ever forget this? i will never forget this’
but of course i will.. because you will continue to grow, newly emerging and constantly evolving and so much to soak up.. so much.

right now
i imprint it in my mind
what it feels like to scoop  up all 27 pounds of you in my arms, the weight of you feels familiar, how will i ever forget this?
…but i’ve already forgotten the weight of your tiny seven and a half pounds, swimming out of the waters and to my chest…
the way you curl into me, nestling in deep.. as if to be one with me again
…i can barely remember how my swollen belly touched my thighs as i sat, your world inside me.
the way your sweet golden head fits in my hands
…that moment of feeling the silk of you between worlds.. when your head actually fit cradled in my hand.
your bunny teeth when you laugh
… your first gummy smile that is a long distant memory of many smiles

there was a time when i didn’t even know *you* … impossible

how can i hang on to it all… my memory betrays me
your sister sleeps sprawled next to us in bed, and in those moments, my world is expanding and crushing all at once. my god.. my girl.. when did you get to *be* ?
hardly recognizable from the wee one that was once my you & me, night time dance and moonlit serenade.

here i sit
the sweetest suckles of you at my breast
your fat fingers, dimples dotting your hands.. holding onto my shirt, exploring my mouth, nose, eyes..
your eyes that are looking into mine.. your eyes that are mine

i’ll forget the way you babble
the sound that i know so well
your voice, the only voice of yours that i know
i would know in a crowd
that very one… i’ll forget
as it’s replaced with even more of you

oh it’s bittersweet
these milestones and memories are like stretchmarks
first so brightly hued. so vivid against the blank spaces
so deep and rich
and then they fade with time, they are there.. still woven in to the fabric of *being*
but forgotten about.. blending in to the rest
silvered and soft
when you suddenly pay attention, catch a glimpse, you just may be able to recall what each one was
but probably not
they all start to fade together, become part of the whole story.. the whole package
every little journey
so obviously there
and yet…
memory fails
and i’m left in the middle of the night, with you in my arms
trying to memorize the weight of you
the scent behind your ears
the way your chubby foot fits in my palms
the way your eyes search mine as i sing, rocking you to sleep.

i’ll miss this you & me
and i love this..
and i can’t wait for more

but right now
all i’m thinking about
is memorizing the weight of you in my arms
how will i ever forget
when you’re towering over me, a grown man child
who once fit so sweetly in my arms, my you & me.

erin darcy design

I’d love if you took a moment to check out my new creative home www.erindarcydesign.com
it’s where I’ll be sharing my creatings and random musings
I’ll be keeping this space, though it is in dire need of an update – I just don’t have the energy to focus on that