The august sun climbs higher in the
porcelain sky as we set off for our morning activities. It's another beautiful
morning with only the occasional high white cloud marring the cerulean dome,
though a chill hovers in the air like a warning. I note how low it hangs;
although it is nearly nine the sun still has a long way to go till it reaches
its peak, and its ascent seems more arduous. Perhaps it is tired from a long
season of heat, for truly it has been a glorious summer. The sun has given
generously of its life-giving rays, and we have basked in the long halcyon days
of midsummer. Pale golden stalks of cut hay and wheat glisten across the land,
testifying to a good harvest, while apples and pears ripen roundly, rosily, in
the orchards. Everything around is green and glowing with mature growth, though
scorched stretches of grass recall the long weeks of heat. Autumn looms long
like a late afternoon shadow, but summer is still king; still has some tricks
up its sleeve.
Felix and I are in our heyday. Our love
affair with Mother Nature and with each other is in full bloom, and every day
is a path of discovery. His legs have lost a little of their chubbiness now
that he is learning to walk, and with each passing day his steps become surer.
Every morning as the late summer sun sails steadily upward we take off our
shoes and walk on the dew-laden grass of the park. I notice how Felix lifts his
heels away from the moist stems,
walking on tippy-toes, until his feet adjust
to the cool carpet. It has become a daily ritual, this barefoot walking. As the
sun beats down it illuminates the droplets suspended on the tiny green stems
and the whole field glitters like Aladdin’s Cave. It is like walking on molten
gold.
In a matter of weeks walking
barefoot will be impossible, like the haze of a dream barely remembered, but
until then we will continue our pagan worship of the grassy god beneath our
toes.
With excitement I consider the coming
months. I have always found the turn of the seasons exhilarating, that
unmistakable shift in the energy of the earth that heralds a new season. It is
for this reason that May is my favourite month. It stands a proud harbinger to
summer, an angel at the gates of glory sounding its golden trumpet.
May holds all the promise of summer while offering
all the delights of spring. Blossom laden branches scent the days as they
perceptibly lengthen and the sun begins its high summer arc. And yet it is a
toss-up between May and September, the month that opens the
door to autumn and ultimately winter and yet which still cocoons us in golden
warmth and long days. We hope for an Indian summer, a welcome extension to our
halcyon days, and yet we also wait with baited breath for hoar frost to replace
the summer dew. For a carpet of diamonds to crunch upon in our welly clad feet.
For mist and fog to weave their magic amongst the falling leaves. For autumn to
rise from her summer slumber and gather her paintbrushes, dust off her palette
and begin her magnificent transformation. At first just a delicate twinge of
rose that colours the edge of a leaf, then catches like a wildfire and spreads
scarlet across the trees in bold strokes. Gold and amber and copper and bronze streak
through the green summer canopy. As the trees concentrate their strength deep
inside their trunk-hearts and the leaves start to curl autumn seizes every
brush and paints vivid orange on the burnished brown, splashes crimson and pillar-box
and flame amongst the russet.
A year ago I lay in the late-summer
meadow, my belly stretched to capacity, offering myself and my unborn fruit to
the heavens. I was full of apprehension and excitement. I feared the pain of
childbirth, the swift plunge into the unknown. As I lay on the grass I wished
to stretch this pleasant limbo as long as possible. I was in no hurry, unlike
many I loved my late pregnancy,
loved
being heavily laden with fruit. I reveled in my womanliness, my fuller breasts,
my high proud beach ball. Today, Felix is exactly eleven months old. I look at
myself from the other side, across an ocean of change. I see a girl made a woman,
made a mother, made whole. I am enraptured by Felix. He is so alive, more than
anything I have ever known. He laughs, he points, he touches, he learns, he
delights in his newfound knowledge, he strives forward. Spontaneously, without
being taught, he has started offering sloppy kisses. Lips unpuckered he leans
in, leaving a trail of saliva and a melted heart in his wake. He lavishes
affection on everything; us, the cat, his toys. He is full of love, excitement, passion. He is what you can achieve in a year.
I don’t make a habit of reading back these
entries. They are much like messages in bottles; once composed they are cast
out into the fathomless ocean of the internet, free to be read wherever they
wash up. My earnest words; my heartfelt attempts to communicate the enormity,
the joy, and the struggles of motherhood, sally forth into the big blue yonder
like a flock of eager seagulls. Now and then I scan the horizon for a reply,
and when I spot one arriving from far overseas I am overcome with exhilaration.
It seems that many aspects of the journey into parenthood are universal, and it
is hugely gratifying to think that you are understood by people you will most
likely never meet, that your words are treasured and your emotions echoed. That
the fear and anxiety you feel is collective. I am buoyed by this commonality,
it makes me braver, better, happier.
Nonetheless while composing this entry I
found myself re-reading some early entries, seeking to recall my emotions
shortly post-birth when I was unable to ride my bike. The first few weeks of
pushing the pram. Now that cycles with Felix are part and parcel of our daily
routine it seems impossible that we were ever grounded but grounded we were.
How I longed for the freedom and swiftness of cycling, how bogged down I felt
by the buggy! A hare trapped in the trundling body of a tortoise. And yet in
hindsight those early days - our October strolls in flaming autumn colour -
were fundamental. Like a dry stone wall being built progress was slow,
for this was a process that could not be rushed. Healing had to take place, and
I had to adjust to my new sedate pace. No more rushing around hare-eyed on my
bike, forever late, forever in a hurry to get somewhere, do something, pack
more in. I learnt to love the pram and its measured, contemplative tempo, and
with every passing day, week, month, the tiny being nestled inside it grew and
with it my love.
And now - at last - the time has come.
Four wheels have become two as Felix and I ride again. The foetal Felix bobbed
merrily in his womb as mummy rode for miles and miles, unhampered by her
bulging belly. If anything as he grew inside me and my stomach became a
fit-to-burst watermelon I felt the relief of riding as compared to walking.
Heavy feet that felt flattened by the extra weight could still push pedals
effortlessly; overladen joints relaxed and became supple again. My heart
pounded and with it his, our blood flowed together as we cycled in perfect
harmony, the ultimate tandem.
The moment I put Felix in his new bike
seat and cycled away together is one I will always remember. Every wobble made
my heart race with fear, every slight shift threatened to throw me off course,
made me take a deep steadying breath and remember what precious cargo I
carried. As we made our careful progress I glanced behind to see what he was
doing; his mouth was hanging open, gaping in sheer amazement as the world
flashed by us. In his eyes was all the wonder of the universe, the incomparable
freshness of experiencing something for the very first time. My heart swelled
with a love so profound it was painful, and my whole body felt lighter than
air. As we cycled alongside the river on our way home the
water shone blue as the midsummer sky. Small white sails flashed brightly in
the distance. The verdant green of the willows and poplars reflected in the
water as we rode past, the briny river water whispering of its journey to and
from the sea. The adventure was only just beginning….
