Children

Island Time

galia alena photography
   Scenes from the Morning Walk
I am unable to relax into island time, perhaps the thing I seek most in coming here again. I feel the weight of the month slipping away from the outset, like childhood slipping through your fingers, unstoppable.
    I try to race it by rising early and wasting not a second- up before anyone I plant my towel on a chair and set off down the beach for a leisurely stroll and then back to sit in quiet solitude for a few hours before the children wake. The heat of the day hits and I dare not retreat inside for fear of losing some precious seconds. By the end I am exhausted from fighting time too diligently.
    The next day I decide to sleep in and start the day slowly and leisurely which fits in with Lulu being sick and needing a gentle day. The day vanishes and I wonder where to. At 4.30, the sun is low and I manage a redeeming hour in the pool which brings the day alive again.
    Island time, or as Jay says “What time is it? It’s who cares time,” alludes me this time with the children here. Island time for me is in the early waking hours, as at home, when I am my own island, isolated from the children’s sleeping bodies and the demands of yet another day. In solitude an island, until the tide goes out  and the children awake and can walk across to me. Then who cares time vanishes into layers of sunblocking, meals, clothes and just entertaining and organising them.
    But this to will vanish, and unlike the tides it will not return. Once they have moved on they will never return to childhood, only visit from the distance of their independence.
    If I could pause the morning hour would I? Somedays I would but more vehemently I’d like to pause their childhood, divide it up and scatter it through out my life. Perhaps today I would visit again those precious newborn months, and then maybe put it on hold and have the afternoon off from motherhood. If that life were not so linear, linear and cyclic at the same time. All there is is to be in it at any given point, tarring not forward nor back. Even the tides that come and go daily transform over the years, sculpting our landscape as our days sculpt our lives.

Self Portrait #1


Self Portrait #1

Who am I? Depends on the day, the way the light falls, where your looking from. In some cliches I am a rebel mother, rambling mad woman, lush in training, inconsistent perfectionist, queen of the microwave, Mac wrangler, domestic t** (I did want to put something here that might have raised some little flags in some little cyber code that couldn't discern how far in my check my tongue was wedged), a Jed Bartlett supporter, {photo}shopper extrodinaire, pixel duster. I also support the separatist movement for the independence of chocolate as it's own food group.
What do I believe in: contradiction- this I know to be true.
As I ponder on the truly important questions of our time, like why does the first cup of coffee always taste better than the second but the second glass of wine tastes better than the first? & why is it that every time I open the fridge a block of chocolate comes flying out and shatters across my kitchen floor?
My eleven year old son keeps asking me what I'm going to be when I grow up. I just look at him and shrug, and answer him honestly- I don't know. Perhaps it doesn't matter what I'll be when I grow up, perhaps what's important is the who I am, or how many who I ams along the way.
I'd call myself an artist if I knew what that meant or what one looked like, but I don't know anymore. I make images, sometimes with pictures, sometimes with  words. Are they art? I couldn't say. What I do know is that sometimes the muses whisper to me and sometimes I'm lucid enough to hear what they're telling me. Sometimes its just me and all myselves. As I don't know what art is I just have to make images that I like, that speak to me or of me, to put words down that are mingling in the recess of my mind, clambouring to get out. Like children, all I can do is birth them and nurture them, after that they're own their own, hopefully finding their own wings. It really has not much to do with me. I can delude myself that it does, that I am somehow important in the process, but really I am merely a vessel. When I am proud of them I have to remind myself that they are independent of me.