It's the season of sweet peas - always a reminder of my mother. It was the anniversary of her death the day before the wedding so I didn't take flowers to the grave this time. But we'll go on Sunday.
My own sweet peas at the allotment are very sparse. I picked the first and only three this afternoon and some sprigs of lavender to go with them And a big bunch of arching purple buddleia for the kitchen table. Luckily I don't feel too deprived as yesterday a friend gave me a posy of her sweet peas the colours of clouds and claret wine and the inside of shells. Their perfume is bathing me as I write.
With the wedding over and Wimbledon over I'm picking up the threads of my days, weaving my way around Robin's routines, knowing he's happy with a friend or wondering if he'll get lost on one of his driving trips. I make us meals from the fridge and the allotment - tonight I roast our own new potatoes and young finger carrots and a big pan of tasteless Dutch tomatoes forcing flavour into them with masses of garlic and olive oil, balsamic vinegar and fragrant basil leaves still warm from the green house.
And this morning I took a journey of healing - with my family constellation therapist - into my babyhood.
It goes like this.
The baby cries. Her mother doesn't come. An african nanny picks her up. Wrong person. She's frightened. Becomes still. Frozen. Unknowingly she makes a choice.
It goes like this.
Even if you love me I won't love you back. You can't have me. No-one can have me - not even me. I'll throw myself away. Then you'll see.
The hurting of it hollows me out.
It's taken me a lifetime to see that this mistaken survival strategy didn't work. And what I can see now,with a great compassion for that little one, is that when I let in love - for me as well - I can let love out. It's not dangerous after all. Just like cleaning windows - lets the light in - lets the light out. Then everyone is shinier.
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