There is so much to be grateful for, despite the vagaries of family and the sadness of missed chances.
I sit on the cold stone patio under the portico of my home away from home, a long way from my gypsy life, on the far side of this great continent, way out west.
Life on the road has paused for a time, non-mechanically related, and I watch the dawn from the same spot where tears of regret and dismay fell generously and brutally years earlier, where I pleaded with the moon to release me from a love broken and twisted. La luna did not abide and the chains that bound me continued for a time, now long forgotten, and I find myself here again, reminiscent yet happy in the warm embrace of family.
Dawn has yet to open in her glory and the Kookaburras morning call to arms yet to breach the suburban silence when a Mother’s Day message arrives from the Bearchild, in lieu of flowers. We are far apart and recent milestones have been met without celebration.
As I gain joy and purpose in this safe and loving space the Bearchild is ensconced with his newfound temporary family, in the care of the Australian Defence Force.
His 21st birthday has passed, marked by sleepless nights on army manoeuvres without due celebration. The stock of tales embedded in my memory bank for the occasion necessarily shelved, no in-person glasses were raised. A virtual celebration of mismatched songs and video tributes provided a forum to spread love and cheer, a small, funny and slightly tragic alternative to the real thing. Mrs Irish avoided setting herself alight, the Podium Princess entangled herself in banners whilst bestowing the benefits of peanut butter sandwiches, a loved up Gerrard, his beau and the B Man provided spoken word lyrics, Bill and Ben played with puppets, the folks sang dirty ditties, the Fair Isle escapee pondered location cruelty and I offered a tribute in song, off key, replete with handmade cardboard props, from the floor of my hotel room in Port Douglas.
To have birthed and borne witness to the transformation from child to man has been my proudest journey. To the Bearchild I bear tribute. We shall raise a toast in person when I am returned to the Bay City Lola, currently tucked away safely in Innisfail with the big-hearted kindness of my Gentleman Adventurer, when we both reach the top end for new adventures. Though mine will come without the khakis.
But this is a two-fold tribute, and the Bearchild will protest if I put further words on paper in celebration of all that is wonderfully him.
So, on this day when we take pause to celebrate the contribution of all the mothers and carers, I will take this chance to offer a tribute to mine in particular, though we come from separate bloodlines and I am not of her womb.
She is a bird whisperer, plant nurturer, meme sender, insightful, strong willed, brave, resilient and humble, a victorious battler with an angel on her shoulder and a springtime demeanour that belies the constancy of chronic physical pain.
Generous, gifted, clever. A giggler, a thinker, an adventurer, a tactful, faithful, loving wife and mother to many through the happenstance of fate.
She is a forever home to me, a place of refuge and repair when I am beleaguered by life’s seemingly insurmountable challenges.
She centres me, inspires me.
For these things I am ever grateful, blessed to be in her orbit, challenged by her wisdom, safe, loved, hopeful.
She makes me strive to overcome and endure. She is a bright star in my sky and I offer thanks to the universe … and to Dad, for choosing such a spectacularly stellar woman.
I wish her, and all, a happy mother’s day,
With love and gratitude,
x
Bay City Lola 