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winter blossoms

More yoga, of course. Waking early enough to be there, which is actually very good for my mind. Full class, gentle but firm postures that awaken the lightness of my body. Refreshed and properly awakened, walking to the tram. Sunny but snow-tingling icy-ness with no gloves, oops.

~

A quick shower and change, a short cycle to my main drag for a less enticing experience. Why are radiologists in charge of doing ultrasounds these squat unwashed-looking men with legitimate reasons to look at my naked breasts? Squelching on that gel like its sunscreen, asking intimate questions I don’t really feel like answering. You’re not my doctor; you’re just the guy taking the pictures. No, I don’t know what’s going on exactly. My doc, she was just being thorough I suspect. Here, wipe yourself off with the gown. Cold, slimy invisible gel. Does he enjoy it, I wonder?

~

Nakedness without intimacy creates a need for comfort. Dumplings! A special treat, okay? And it didn’t cause my gut any problems, not really. With tea in a large dark brown earthenware mug (I have one of these at home). Warmth. Space to breath in a recently renovated place of peace and yum cha. Before a different kind of encounter.

~

Kerry put me onto Amanda, because she’s successfully used kinesiology to heal her own thyroid issues and those of other women, too. Another person to explain my complicated history to, because it’s still relevant. Why? Because a thyroid condition doesn’t just occur. It has a history, too: my history of abuse, sorrow, pain and fear. It’s not over, because it’s still locked in my body. But with love and determined fierceness I’m gonna heal this body one way or another.

~

Some of the same old stuff, but new things, too. What happened when I was six years old? No, I don’t know. Childhood memories are scant at best. But I cry anyway, my heart rate increases and we try to work it out but I don’t know. It’s okay, she says, and we find other ways to figure it out in pieces. I still don’t know, but she works out enough to get started. It leaves me undone. Who goes to these places? Who picks the lock on these rusted doors? No one, that’s who. Not for ages. I don’t even know the way there and back anymore. Looks like we’re going to find out though. It’s important to this process that we do.

~

(I was right about the depression, btw. But I’m coming back out of it now. It rolled in like a San Francisco fog and back out, then in periodically because I hadn’t expressed the things that needed to be said, so I could understand just how ridiculous they were. This is the power of writing. Not to be scared by what we write, but to provide that escape hatch for things grown foul and fetid.)

~

Don’t bother seeing this movie. It’s stupid, pretentious and full of wankery.

~

Winds howling their way from Antarctica to my bedroom window. There’s still never enough sleep no matter how much I get. Snuggling with the cat and a text from my sister announces my parents will be coming over for lunch today, too. A slightly hi-jacked Sunday, then (thanks to my eldest niece who can’t keep anything to herself!). I’m still undone from yesterday’s kinesiology session. A bit panicked, a little freaked out but I drag myself from under the blankets anyway.

~

Sunday paper reading while the train rattles southwards. Keeping my head down and heart in my chest where it belongs, and not jumping out of my mouth where it’d like to be. Relaxing, relaxing. There’s about forty minutes to find some acceptance and surrender. And I do.

~

Small feet running and girlish voices calling my name. Hugs and kisses and I’m a jungle gym, presented with an upside down two year old begging to be twisted and turned and somersaulted up and down the length of my body. A four year old seeing if she has the strength to give me a shoulder ride but of course, only managing to stick her head between my legs while her sister demands more “upside-downs”.

~

The two eldest niece-lings have a (natural) obsession with my breasts and I make sure they know I’m okay with that through my actions (no flinching away from their touch). There’s giggles of enjoyment as they look down my jumper or hug me or rest their hands on my ample chest. I get the two year old to look down her own top and she gives us another of her stunning one-liners: Little bit, she says. Outbreaks of hearty laughter all-round.

~

You look better every time we see you, they say. That doesn’t mean anything, I want to counter. Instead I settle for: Perhaps, but there’s still a long way to go. I’m not better yet, not by a long shot but I understand that you want me to be. I understand that… oh, never mind.

~

She’s five weeks old and every day it seems she gets cuter. Like a polished gem stone, glinting her placid perfection at us. Later, her eyes open and they’re so wide. Hello world, hello people in my life. She’s eager and beautiful and there’s so much enjoyment in simply holding her while she sleeps, and talking to her when she opens those gorgeous grey-brown eyes that are destined to end up chocolate coloured, like her sisters and daddy.

~

It’s hard to leave but I know I’ve over-stayed because I’m already weary. The wind is even more biting as the sun vanishes, but my train is mercifully quick. And quiet. Except for the people I had to move away from, discussing the merits of animal testing, because if we don’t test on animals then who are we going to test products on, they ask each other. Humans? Yes! I wanted to say. But instead I move to the other end of the carriage. Words with Friends and a little more newspaper reading until it’s my stop.

~

There hasn’t been enough time for any cooking or shopping or being prepared for Monday and I’m falling asleep while I wait for the washing machine to finish. Clothes hanging, heater on against the bone-crunching chill and cat fed. Bedtime but once again, it’s never enough.

~ Svasti

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