The Constant Things That Never Change.

I find a lot of musings I've written - some amongst smudged pages in my sketchbooks, some scattered across different blogs I've used over the years - and the most frequent subjects are a) The Rain, and b) The Months of Autumn. And here I am, in autumn, listening to the rain, breathing in that wet earth smell and soaking up the chilled breeze through my skin to my soul.
The fridge is humming, the tv's glowing softly and there's a pool of water threatening to spill in through the back door. Life is rarely this uncomplicated. But it has its moments, and they'll always come again.

Say The Brave Things.

I have regrets. I'm only human, after all.

For the most part they're small things...

I remember not saying thank you to someone who offered me her seat on a bus last year.
I would gladly take back bailing on my mum when we'd planned to meet up at a festival.
It'd be nice had I ever strictly kept one of the numerous diaries I've started over the years.
There's a couple of people I wish I hadn't invited to my wedding.
And I regret not being brave.
Five years ago, also in Autumn, I was watching this amazing violin busker in the city. I was waiting for someone and did what I normally did to pass time - scribbled in my sketchbook. I tore the drawing of the violinist (which wasn't a masterpiece by any stretch of the imagination, but I was pretty proud of at the time) out of my book, folded it up and waited for the right moment to casually drop it in his violin case and walk away.

 I wish I could do brave little things, write brave things and speak brave things. I have a lot of pictures and a lot of words that, for better or worse, go unseen and unwritten.
 I'd like to say I'll change... but I didn't drop the drawing in then, and I'm not sure that I would now.

Life With a Newborn

Our Archer is eleven weeks old today. I find this whole being a mum thing both easy and challenging, exciting and terrifying, exhausting and rewarding.
Now that he's older and a little more settled I get roughly four hours sleep a night, broken up into sporadic naps that shuffle from late night to midmorning.
This is how I always imagined it would be. I've since learnt that a lot of people get it easier than this. I'm also aware that some people get it harder.
I feel lucky - I've never been someone that's desired large amounts of sleep, and I function pretty well without it. But there were days long ago that I used to thrive on it... and they're be days yet to come when I will again.

The Simple Little Things

I find myself enjoying moments more than I ever did. Simple things, like:
Savoring the taste of a hot Milo; slowly sipping it and letting the mug warm my hands as I hold it.
Those rare and fleeting moments when The Boy and I get to be ourselves, irresponsibly lazing on the couch, too tired to do anything but enjoy each others silent company.
Spontaneous cuddles with my fury companions, and the look of elation on their faces when I sneakily allow them all on the bed when The Boy leaves for work.
And drawing. Ah yes, drawing.
Unable to move due to being a mattress for a sleeping baby (in our home the phrase "do not poke the bear" means to hold ones breath, stay perfectly still and NEVER utter the jinxing words, "aw, he's asleep/happy/cute") I reached for my sketchbook and scribbled a couple of nameless faces.
It's so strange how something that for years was such a big part of me just disappeared for so long. There was a long time that I would never have considered sitting on a couch, catching a train or going to bed without a notepad or scrap of paper close by to graffiti on. And somehow I've survived two years without buying a new canvas or filling a book. But putting ballpoint pen to paper was like, "oh hello, old friend."


I don't want to forget it again.