When Flowers Die

How is it, I wonder to myself, that something so beautiful and given as a thoughtful gift, can cause pain to the receiver?   Sounds silly, I know.  Yet I can't help the twinge of real sorrow I feel as I watch a bunch of roses wither and die.  Roses that were given to me by a neighbour in return for babysitting her son.  A beautiful, multi-coloured bunch of sweet young roses that smelt like I'd imagine Heaven would smell - sort of fresh and sweet and gentle.  
Yet one week later they are dead and I have to throw them away.

I have on occassion photographed flowers I received, particularly those given to me when Rocco was born, in an attempt to preserve their beauty in some way. 

Somehow, something so beautiful should last longer, much longer, than a measly week. 

I wonder then, if anyone else feels like this or if they just chuck them out and wait for new...

Which brings me to a fond memory back in late 2001 when my then boyfriend and now husband brought me a handful of handpicked daisies - my favourite!  I was still living with my parents and he had been on a truck trip and had brought these back for me.  He'd elaborated on how he'd literally dodged hundreds of swarming bloodthirsty bees (or maybe it was pollen-thirsty!) - and him being allergic as well! - to bring me this thing of beauty.  I popped them straight in a vase and there they stood - for nearly three weeks.  We went away that weekend, and on our return, as we pulled up outside, my mom apparently said to my father, 'quick, chuck out the flowers before she comes in' - they knew I didn't have the heart to throw them away!

Roses are beautiful and classy and romantic and all, but daisies are wild and last longer, even if they don't smell good!

I got these when Cillisa was born from my father.  Coincidentally, Carnations were my Mom's favourite...

The Fear

A post from my personal blog a few days ago that I decided I would share...

Fear and I have grown close over the years. Looking back, it was invitable that we would, that my life would become entiwined with Fear, that we would become inseparable.

It started around the time that I got married. Fear took the first step to integrating itself in my life. It leaned close and whispered in my ear, wouldn't it be fun to lose your husband? And I whispered back that no, it certainly wouldn't be fun, and Fear chuckled and withdrew into the back of my mind, gone but not completely forgotten.

And then my son was born and Fear stepped up to the fore and asked, what if your husband was spared and your son taken instead? And I said, not on my shift. While I'm on guard of my loved ones no one is taking them anywhere. And Fear chuckled again in that ominous way it had and retreated, but not as far as before.

And life went on and it was good and the parties were hard. And I was lulled into a false sense of security as I forgot all about Fear.

And then Cilliers was taken from us. And it left us shocked and broken. Our innocence lost, to be replaced by the knowledge of a terrible and irreversible pain.

And while we were still reeling from the terror of it all, Fear struck again. I lost my mother and it left my soul shattered and cast in shadow. I became a shell, empty and with missing pieces.

I would never be the same again. I would gladly die than lose more. And then my daughter was born. And Fear shook me by the shoulders until my teeth rattled and asked smugly, who's the Boss now? And I fell to my knees and put my face in my hands and cried and answered, you are.

And Fear smiled and took a seat in the corner, within my range of vision. Always there, just over there, within reach.

And my second son was born and Fear stepped up and took my hand and has been holding it ever since.

Fear has a permanent place at my side. There is a space for it in the bed next to me at night when I lie awake in the darkness silently pleading with it to retreat. Making deals in the darkness of the night, with myself as the plea bargain. Take me first, I whisper. And Fear laughs softly, and caresses my forehead before settling down for the night.

Fear is the General in the Army of Life that I have been permanently recruited in. It stands before me and I solute it before bowing my head in a show of respect for the living breathing Fear that is inevitably a part of my life now and forever for as long as there is life that I love and value more than my own; those of my children.

Under The Couch

Well, I contracted a Cleaning Service to sweep (pun intended) into my house tomorrow and do a modern day kind of 'fairy godmother' to it.  A wave of the magic wand and *tarra* my house will be spick and span and new.

I should feel ashamed that I am currently at home on maternity leave and still recruiting a Cleaning Company.  But I'm not.  I have three children - two which are particularly messy and a husband who is not far behind (hello to toothpaste residue left behind in the basin and shoes left just where they were taken off...need I say more?).

So, with two and a half weeks left to go before it's back to work I decided to treat myself, HAVE my house cleaned, HAVE my dogs washed by a doggie parlour and just sit back and enjoy the results.  Just this once.  I might even be tempted to HAVE food delivered to my house tomorrow night too - just to complete my extravagance.

Seriously though - should I feel ashamed?  The messy house subject is a...sticky...one for me.  I love tidyness.  Didn't grow up that way - my mom would laugh out loud if she could read that.  I was the untidiest teenager EVER, despite all Mom's efforts to reform me!  But as I passed into adulthood, I began to enjoy a tidy surrounding.   Between you and me, I do have my messy corner - or cupboard, or draw, a place where the bits and pieces of my life that don't fit anywhere particular get thrown into until further notice.  Drives my husband nuts. 

So I got to wondering how many women, working or stay at home - actually get to cleaning their WHOLE house, top to bottom regularly.  Especially the moms at home.  Can one visit with a 'white glove' and check surfaces?  I know from experience that being a stay at home mom is even harder work than a career mom.  And I certainly don't get to everything, either way.  It's as if I'm constantly putting out little fires, but never getting to the coals and the ash.  Know what I mean?

However, I still got my pride, and as I contemplated and anticipated the Cleaning Service's arrival tomorrow (sparkling windows - yayy!!!), I uneasily realised that for my pride to stay intact, there was some cleaning I had to do first....Did I really want them to know that the last time the couch was moved and cleaned underneath was...well....the last time they were here, which was.....January - or was it December...and it's now April.  

I was probably harbouring a new species of some kind under that couch by now.  I eyed it in trepidation and then got to work. 

Two kids could do THAT?  Seriously, so THAT'S where the egg flip disappeared to!  What were they doing with it anyway?  Beer bottle cap - one guess who's to blame for THAT.  Pieces of tea sets, little micro cars, a lollipop stick....lots of dust...

Dust got me to thinking about another kind of couch - the couch of our lives.  Most people only see the couch - they either think it's a comfortable couch and sit down and visit, or they don't like what they see and move on to another couch more to their taste.  But never do they look underneath the couch.   I know I need to clean underneath my life couch - it gets crowded with all the stray bits sometimes.   That is why I have two blogs, the one for the couch itself and the one for what's underneath the couch.  The darker side of me.  The one I choose to share, the other I don't.   Even my more serious posts still come from the lighter side of me.  It's my other blog that hosts my deeper, darker thoughts.

I read a wonderful blog post a few days ago and something Kirsten wrote there caught at my heart and I really want to share it here now:-

"For even the unbeautiful truths needs expression, and expression is trust and trust is a cliffdive into the unknown."

Kirsten's blog is called Wanderlust and the post is called 'The sound of a h heart breaking. 

Here is a link to the post:  http://kbxmas.blogspot.com/2010/04/sound-of-heart-breaking.html

She's right.   It takes a level of trust to express one's emotions and even when you give that trust, you just don't know what someone is going to do with it. 

Perhaps one day I will lift the couch for all to see what lies gathering beneath it, but for now I like it like it is.