* My first post of 2018 is a little late, but winter hibernation has dragged on for a while for me this year. Like the daffodils feel the pull of the sun, I am starting to feel the pull of the creative again too.
I sit in the dark with Littlest on my lap as she drinks her bedtime milk.
The dark cocoons us.
After a busy, unforgivingly noisy day, the silence soothes us.
And as she lies across my lap my hands have recently found her pointy little elbows. Under layers of pyjamas the tips of my fingers stroke her sticky-out elbows and I am transported back to nearly two years ago.
These little pointy elbows are so familiar. I have known them for a long time and they have not changed.
When she was in the womb these tiny, sharp, angular extremities that jutted from her limbs like a coastal headland, would push against my skin, and my tummy would rise and fall in little points as she danced away inside. I used to stroke those little elbows then too.
They feel just the same now.
There is no layer of skin and womb to separate us any longer.
We are fully in each other’s gaze now.
But these pointy little elbows are a reminder that we have always been joined. We always will be joined.
We are skin of skin.
Flesh of flesh.
Bone of bone.
No amount of time or growing will change that.
Perhaps even when she’s grown up, I will sit next to her and feel those sharp elbows. She will laugh at me, but I will know that although we are now two, we will always be linked. Joined. Nothing can take that away.
Perhaps even when she’s still young and those little elbows are joining up with little fists to crossly fight me, I will remember that all those edges and points and curves have come from me. And I have them too.
Like the point where the lands meet the sea, they are both comfort and danger.
But for now, as we sit still in the darkened comfort of her womb-like bedroom, I continue this little pointy elbow ritual, and appreciate the miracle of it all.