Enchanted forest. Old swing. Hazey light. Pretty doll.
Meet Jessi.
In my new Universe, I’ve met some amazing people who truly do give. In so many ways..in person and via the written word, in thoughts and acts, big and small. From a personal perspective and a professional one. Just this week, I’ve seen the most selfless of selves, handing out their knowledge and passion and enthusiasm so plentifully. With unfaltering support and pure intentions. No expectations of a return, generous simply because they don’t know how else to be. And while I was noticing the selflessness, I was also noticing the happiness that seemed to radiate too.
And then, because people are not made perfect, I’ve sometimes glimpsed the opposite of that. Random acts of unkindness and selfishness that come from a place of fear. Reactions to events that were never intended to be hurtful or harmful. Poor assumptions. An inability to remember that we are all just making. our. own. way. there. As we should. As we are entitled to. Don’t we all dream as children of becoming something special? Of making our parents proud? Don’t we all grow up and wake up each day with the hope that we will become what we long for, either through hard work or luck or a portion of both? Isn’t it okay to want to be just a little bit amazing? Even if it means the fragile, hopeful person next door is sometimes amazing too? We all yearn to reach our full potential yet it’s easy to just become lost in worry that someone else might just do it first. Or better.
There are opportunities every day of our lives to either be giving, or be resentful. To open our hearts and freely give without expectation and to be amazed at just what comes back. Or to expend so much energy in trying to hold tightly what we see as ours and ours alone that we’re completely consumed by fear, missing out on the chance of so much beauty and thankfulness in return.
I know I always try to teach with this approach but I want it to be more than that. I aspire to live with giving. Whether it be knowledge or support or concern, or whatever else it might be, I am striving to give with a whole heart. Every. Single. Day. To live by the idea that something cannot be taken if you give it away. And if I do happen to slip, as I no doubt will, I’ll forgive my human-ness and try better next time. I will give myself leeway.
To those who I’ve shared beautiful conversations with this week regarding this very thing, thank you. To Fran, for giving me the “pretty” in the picture (and so much else), thank you. To Ava, for always providing the inspiration to be the me I want to be (and the you I think you would have been)..my darling, thank you.
x
Luca.
Mean sense of humor. Compassionate. Intuitive. Even Tempered. Animal lover. Mathletics whiz. Diehard soccer fan. Loves tradition. Hates pork. Cringes when hugged. Except on birthdays.
My little boy just got bigger.
x
eye candy actions|toy camera|purple haze|own texture
Each morning, as the butterflies emerge, Ivy picks up her net and runs out to the field. She chases and squeals and if really lucky, ever-so-carefully picks them up. She calls them her friends. She had never caught one mid air. We’ve always had to wait until they land. But today, she did. We gathered round and with the butterfly down on the ground, covered in net, we peered together..She giggled, I applauded her wonderful butterfly catching skills. I reminded her to be gentle while she reached out.
And then do you know what? Right there, right in front of our eyes, that butterfly disappeared. We stared, Ivy moved the net around a little, we stared some more, and said in unison “where did it go?” There was nowhere for it to go. No holes in the net. No nothing on the ground for it to hide under. It didn’t fly away. It. was. just. gone.
I thought about this all afternoon. It made no sense. I sat, wondering how on Earth this butterfly was there. I saw it. And a moment later, not. What did I miss? A hole in the ground? A blink where she flew away? Clearly, I missed something. And then I remembered.
A clear day, we marveled, we swooned, we felt so lucky to have her and then..just like that, she was gone. Right in front of our eyes, she was no more. It’s not so impossible to believe. We’ve been here before.
x
(and for you, something I love:)
iphone snaps with a little eye candy softly thrown in
Just a quick note to say I am rather behind on personal email presently. Thanks to the hit and miss internet I had through renovating in January, things began to pile up and before I knew it..Inbox Mountain. I am currently playing catchup so to anyone who has sent me a note and hasn’t heard back, please forgive, I’m not too far away. I don’t like rushing replies and I do genuinely love hearing from blog readers.. I only wish there were many more hours in each day to email as I’d like to when I’d like to.
Love, Sheye xx
Most days, I love that she is four. Growing up. Getting taller. Needing less help.
I adore her big girl ways. The longer words. And her next shoe size up.
Most of the time, I do know that there is so very much to celebrate in her simply becoming older.
Today though, is just not one of those days.
eye candy actions purple haze | film days | caramel overlay
Ingredients:
2 male rosemeyers
1 public place
1 large portion of Desire to Irritate
noise to taste
Directions:
Thoroughly remove sense of decorum from male species. Infuse with Desire to Irritate. Position haphazardly in public place and add noise. Enjoy!
S xx
“No-one ever told me that grief felt so like fear” – CS Lewis.
This quote was shared with me three years ago. I’ve never forgotten it because it is so awfully true. Nothing can prepare you for the fear that comes with grief. It is a terror beyond anything I have ever known. The moments after finding Ava, the knowing instantly that we would lose her, the waiting for 48 hours at the hospital until we did… and then facing a lifetime without her. If I think of those early months, I think of being very, very afraid. I hear myself saying “I’m just so scared that this is real“. I simply couldn’t bare to imagine that this could not be fixed. That we were actually living our worst nightmare. The fear comes first, the missing comes later.
“You never recover from the loss of a child“. It was said often, back at the start. To my newly grieving, terrified self, those words were unbearable. I couldn’t fathom never recovering. But I also couldn’t fathom life ever being any different. Since then, I’ve often pondered the notion of “recovered”. What does that even mean? That you should return to the griefless, untouched self you once were? Well of course you don’t. How can you hold your lifeless, adored, child and openly weep and beg God to give them back and not walk away changed? You face overwhelming sadness throughout your every day and have to learn to incorporate it into a life that doesn’t like to pause for your grief. Of course you are different. But from a place of total devastation, you do somehow find a way to open your eyes and draw breath and face another day without your beautiful baby. You even go on to work and socialize and plan a future. Recovered? I don’t know. Altered? Without doubt.
It’s clear I’ve learned a lot in three years. I know that the suffocating grief does not stay forever, that it changes and the sadness becomes familiar. I have found peace with the un-happy parts of my life and my self. If I had the choice to erase my grief, I wouldn’t. If not for the sadness, then what? It isn’t enough to just remember Ava with smiles and fond memories. I need the tears.
On the harder days, I spend time with my missing. I write. I mourn. I recall. And if I pick up my camera, how I feel becomes how I see.
I am no longer scared.
S x
