A Letter to my Sister

So, I have been contemplating this black magic business. Do you think that Mummy is just reacting or sensing all the negativity you may harbour towards her? Does negativity = Black Magic? I hate to be getting my wisdom especially at this hour of night from Harry Potter and Emma. But here it is.

In Harry Potter, Dumbledore once says that some of the strongest magic lies in words. Everyday, ordinary words. In my blog I did once share a thought that once all of our physical being ceases to be, what is left is the organic tangible feelings, which then get recycled into other life. If the only organic tangible part of me left behind is my feelings, I do not want it to be anger or hate or regret. I would want it to be love. Our caregivers made many mistakes in bringing us up. But I discovered through writing my blog that I love them all, even the estranged ones.

Do you think you still love Mummy? I love her and I love you and no ill words about either of you, will abate what I feel for you both. I accept your flawed flawless selves as much as I hope my daughter will accept me. In Emma, Mr. Knightley suggests that some vulnerable people require more of our compassion and understanding. You and I parent our daughters, but as we have discussed we also parent our parents. In both scenarios, our daughters and our parents are extremely vulnerable, because we parent the old and the young. They are afraid and their fear holds them hostage. I think our mother forgave hers when she saw her approaching that vulnerable state.

How can there be world peace, if there is no peace in every human heart? I aspire to acquire peace in every thought I have for all people. I don't forget how I was wounded, but I also don't forget that I can heal my own heart. My acupuncturist has mentioned more than once that the uterus is made of the same tissue as the heart. Thus, perhaps in order to be mothers we must embrace, engulf and surround our offspring to give them life. Our mother may have wronged us. But let us not forget how you and I would hit each other and then later regret it.

Sorry to be wordy, but I could not sleep and I had to get this out. I know I can tell you anything so I was unafraid of telling you this. See you this weekend with chocolate. And be warned, some or all of this may show up on my blog.

Love you lots,

Sewing, Crochet and Embroidery...oh my!

I am on day one of a three day sewing lesson being given by a friend’s mom.  They are giving me tips on crochet, and embroidery as well.  This is what I originally intended to embroider and put above the headboard in our master bedroom. I would probably skip the arrow and the “V’s”. Took this from the Graphics Fairy. Love her site! Let me know what you think.  Oh, and there is a similar but simpler heart I found on needlenthread.com.  Let me know what you think.

Tears for Flowers, Embroidery and Chocolate

        Yesterday and the day before consisted of many tears, for me.  So much so that the husband and I began to question what my hormones were up to.  I believe I mentioned a certain flower shop, in “A Walk to Netherfield”.  My husband and I frequently look at the flowers but, we never get any.  However, on Sunday he asked if I was interested in going for a walk with the little one, to which I replied in the affirmative.  But I also asked if I could get some flowers.  To this he replied, “They die so quickly”.  I was quite upset.  The reason being, we don’t buy flowers for ourselves because we feel that someone special ought to do that for us.  We learn to not expect anything on any special occasions because, the gift of flowers should not require any occasion.  And therefore, we never get flowers.  I am not picky.  I would be happy with dandelions or wild daisies picked from any obliging field.  And then, I feel horrible, because other than the bit about flowers my husband is quite loving and attentive.  But yesterday, asked him his opinion about a vintage yet modern outline of a heart pattern that I wished to embroider and place above our headboard.  And I get the reaction, “That’s a little weird”.  Before I knew it, my heart was in my throat strangled with emotions.  I knew the multitude of reasons for the tears; one of them being that he dismissed my intentions and feelings for what placing the heart in the bedroom meant to me.  To sum it all up, I dreamt last night of my husband staying up all night to bake rice crispy squares. To my further delight of the dream, he had also written the word “empress” in chocolate on the plate.  I believe my visions are just telling me that I crave a little appreciation, especially when I feel most vulnerable, in the full throes of new-motherhood.  

A Faux Pas

     I have unfortunately been remiss in my blog updates. What would Miss. Manners say? I have been busy by visitations with family and friends.  But mostly I am enraptured by some books I have borrowed from the library.  One about Austen inspired crochet projects, one about simple embroidery patterns, and two classic novels in graphic novel form.  One of the graphic novels, Jane Eyre to be exact, is quite astute in pinpointing certain wisdoms with which I have been toying. A character named Helen, says that one may be happier by forgetting the severity of others and ones passionate emotions.  I have shared that particular advice with my sister, who insists on remembering and rehashing all the missteps of our guardians in our childhood. And Bronte’s words, “Even for me life had its gleams of sunshine”.  Unearthing past wounds do nothing for my healing, but I feel bound by the bonds of sisterhood to be a sounding board to my sibling.  But I wonder sometimes if the expense is too great, for listening to her sometimes makes the weight on my heart seem weightier.  Doesn’t everyone have something unsavoury about their family?

"First Impressions"

     What do the words “First Impressions” mean to you? For me, I first think of the title Jane Austen originally had in mind for Pride and Prejudice. Today, as I was laying out a set of hand-me-downs for the next size up from what my baby girl is currently wearing, I noticed the clothing tag near the neckline of this little onesie: “First Impressions”. I was thrilled of course that my child would be wearing something that is remotely Jane Austen related. But I also thought of my first impressions of her, my little flower: my initial thoughts when I found out I was expecting, my first ultrasound where I prayed to hear the doctor say that there was a heartbeat, the first initial nudges from her on the other side of my belly button, her contented face when she was laid upon me after her arrival, her pink glow in the incubator when I first visited her in the neonatal intensive care unit, all those moments when she fell asleep on me or near me. I am under her spell…

A Walk to Netherfield

I often walk around our neighbourhood, now as a way of simply getting some Vitamin D with the little one in tow.  In former years it used to be a way of getting exercise, and sometimes an excuse to buy a bunch of flowers from a local flower shop. On the way, there is this impressive house, with a well-kept lawn, and a brick that is just faintly pink in colour.  It contrasts very nicely against the cream trim and columns.  Although the 1995 BBC production of Pride and Prejudice shows Netherfield Park to be a house of rich red brick, somehow I have always called this particular house in the neighbourhood, “Netherfield”. And guess what? It is on sale and it has been so for quite some time.  But unlike the house in my favourite novel, it has NOT been let at last.  I suppose it must wait for some Bingley with deep pockets who boasts a heart of a still greater depth.  Every time I walk by I can picture an elegant Darcy pacing on this lawn.  The Green Lawn.  

Beauty in Disintegration

       At our grandparents house I was happiest to have discovered a stack of books by Enid Blyton in a loft, belonging to our estranged maternal Uncle.  They allowed me to escape and imagine and devour new words.  I was happy also, when my sister and I sat in the rain one day tearing a piece of paper to shreds at our home-home.  Mesmerized by the changing texture of the fibers.  Our mother saw us, and let us be (bless her!).  There was another day when we sat in the front yard digging up mud, mixing it up with water and creating little objects. We let them dry in the sun, and were surprised that they became dust once more.  That is the final destiny of all things.  Therefore our composition is the composition of other things, alive or not.  And hence, I suspect the love in us later becomes the love in other things.  Is it possible that when everything falls apart, the love we have stays intact?