Flavia Guarino

The Journey



Preparing for the journey ahead

Stepping up to the train platform one more time, the foggy mist of bewilderment rises eerily in the morning light. Life’s trials slowly stretch before me and build clarity in the first rays of the morning sun. I face the prospect of another day riding the emotional train that departs my soul, ritually, each morning. As I adjust to the new dawn I am again reminded of the pain that brought me here.

Every day without fail I stumble aboard the Emotional Express. I stack my luggage beside me, there seems to be no porter today: No one to share the burden’s of yesterday with me. I am no longer surprised that I can’t find him. Swinging a large swag of regrets on my back and lumbering up the steps, I laden each arm with an extra large suitcase of baggage. One suitcase holds a collection of memorabilia; mental snapshots and a cacophony of disjointed fantasies and misconceptions about life and my very own brand of how to deal with any pain that life has jostled my way from my growing years through to the present day. And in the other suitcase…well who know what’s in there but I’d hate to forget something and have to turn back. You never know what might come in handy. I tuck one more little overnight bag of the things that I hold dear, my personal items. I guess the fragments in there represent what’s left of my identity. I hear one or two items rattle around in an otherwise empty bag. I’m sure there should be more…too late now.

I drudgingly take my seat midway along an empty carriage and awkwardly spill myself…and all of my luggage into an exhausted heap close to the window. I stare out the window and notice that the landscape of my life seems to just be a haze in the early morning glow. It passes by at a throttling pace. I write as I ponder; I log the details of the coming events in my journal…

Today I face a journey through the muddy swamps of depression, and it looks like the afternoon will have a torrential breakthrough of tears that will somehow, inadvertently result in a fresh scourging of my soul to reveal, yet another, out of perspective belief about life or myself…

It’s an unpredictable journey through the gauntlet of human emotions I experience, in varying degrees, through Post Natal Depression, divorce and motherhood with a toddler and a newborn. Each change of season illustrates an emotional milestone; a place of victory or defeat. A blustery wind might mark a seasonal change that drives me into a storm of anxiety that is followed by a surreal peace and calm once it passes;

I casually glance over an earlier entry…

A cave of darkness and anger is marked with bubbles of release and freedom; a landmark of victory and yet the track that stretches out through the unknown darkness fills me with a sense of foreboding. Maybe this one will take a few poundings of certain defeat before the hint of victory comes.

From time to time, I gain further insights and more healing as I revisit the journeys of months gone by in my journal. It’s like meandering along a rundown section of track. I venture in with feelings of remorse and sadness at what has been left behind: thoughts of what once was and I am reminded of dreams that can no longer be. This section has been travelled many times and emotional deterioration has revealed areas that need restoration. Like an historic railway line being restored with Gracious and Careful Hands my journal carefully traces the journey and preserves my personality yet, mercilessly highlights the rust and rot; my character flaws and unhelpful attitudes to life, that will only return later on to cause rapid decay somewhere further down the track if not removed properly. Each section of the track is restored by removing layers of weeds and vegetation that have been left to run wild and now, like my thinking patterns, have become overgrown with out-of-perspective beliefs. Just as the weeds that have been fed well have grown strong, so too the thought patterns I have nurtured are the ones that have thrived. With this I reflect on what weeds need to be pulled and as I begin, I must accept that things will never be the same.

The broken rails are no longer capable of heading the engine of my soul in the right direction without it running completely off the track. They need to be pulled up and the unstable foundations built on denial are destroyed. Solid foundations of truth are laid in their place and new rails. These rails are tried and tested. Crafted with centuries of expertise and precision. They are both strong and durable… It comes through wise counsel and guidance. The new rails are securely fixed in place.

Once the way is clear, work on the tangled leads and calcified or rusted engine parts can begin. Years of neglect have seized up so many parts of the engine of my soul. Pieces that have caused life to come to a stand still are revealed. They blow the smoke of confused spiritual understandings, hissing and wheezing the steam of personal anguish and spluttering the ash of distorted emotions indiscriminately over innocent bystanders.

Each test run reveals one part fixed and another to be restored. In and out of my emotional, mental and spiritual repair yard I go. Each time I venture out I revisit past landmarks of victory that give me hope to continue the back and forwards daily routine. It’s a lengthy process and it cannot be rushed. Old parts need to be almost surgically removed where they have been calcified into their static positions. New parts need to be adapted to by changing my own behaviour and I need to learn to function with those new parts in place. To do it all at once would lose the integrity and personality of the engine of my soul. It needs expert attention and the precious crucible of time.

Travel itinerary

Each double page illustration, from the children’s book ‘Mummy, Let’s Go!’ forms a window of revelation, sharing specific emotions in my journey through Post Natal Depression, crisis and loss.
I hang them as I would photos on from any travel adventure. Forming emotional landmarks, they define my emotions: bewilderment, denial, anger, shock, anxiety, despair, uncertainty, healing, hope, restoration, acceptance, resilience and relief.

Like any journey without a tour itinerary mapped out or worse a foreign speaking guide who keeps leading me off the track with mind wanderings and distorted instructions. I notice I cover the same ground many times over just with a little bit more insight or I approach it from a different perspective, until I become so familiar with it that I eventually can navigate my way through it. Somedays I journal. It’s often in the places where I notice a destination has been reached. Some weeks I just ride the Emotional Express hoping to find some bearings that will help me pluck up some courage to continue with determination and I peer out the window desperately searching for any of the ancient landmarks and signs that acknowledge that there is a way through.

Each morning I step onto the same train and as season follows season I see small, seemingly insignificant, changes taking place. Little by little I start to sort through the baggage and boarding the train each morning becomes slightly less cumbersome. As time wears on and certain pieces of baggage are left behind, I begin to see that I really don’t need them for the journey ahead and parting with them seems natural. It’s as though they are tokens that allow my passage to the next level in some twisted computer game.

Some changes happen very slowly, like the wheels that churn almost to a grinding halt as I pass through the muddy swamps of despair and other changes are quick; spurts of hope like desert wildflowers. Through the blur of my pathetic flurry of tears that are signaling impending despair, I come to realise that, the same tears have been the very sustenance that saturated the soil and brought these desert blooms to life. They are now punctuating my landscape of thorns and wilderness. If I am not looking closely I miss them then I wonder how many times I have passed by this way and perhaps not noticed them until now. As I blot the tears I can faintly make out their outline; spurts of colour yellow like sunflowers, burnt orange like a summer sunset over Uluru…and a vibrant scarlet like freshly spilt blood. Together they blend into a growing fire warming my soul…They remind me that there is life.
What is that emotion? It is a fragrance of the elusive and distant.
I vaguely remember now. It’s been quite a while, but is it possible? Could it be hope?

So begins my journey…

Peaceful Journey
Flavia

Snuggles

Ice cream with sprinkles, porridge with sprinkles, and yoghurt with sprinkles. It is the best way, I believe, hands down to put a smile on my precious little boy’s face. Can’t help being anxious about how he’s handling this. I wonder what lasting impact it will have on his emotional development. What is his perspective of this? And how I wish I could make it better for him, but I don’t know where to start. I’m guessing it starts with me. For me, rainbow sprinkles are the hope that today will be just that little bit brighter.

Someone at some point suggests I apply for a prac nanny; a nanny in training, because, clearly, I need help and my finances are miniscule. One of the many phone counsellors I speak to I think. It’s worth a go. I feel silly thinking about writing the letter. I’ll do it in the morning—I’m exhausted. It is now seven forty-three and the letters are blurring as I write. My eyes are so dry and I am blinking heavily. I think…

Our letter to the nanny…

Hello to our nanny…

See you soon.

Caves and Tunnels





These tears? Tears of pure frustration… Simple tasks becoming insurmountable obstacles. Trying to keep things in perspective when every little detail threatens to burst one of those little throbbing blood vessels. Those vessels full of adrenaline, are keeping my mind in overdrive. At other times, I feel they might push my body at a hurtling rate into a stonewall. Those little details create the sensation of living in an indefinite time warp.

I feel like a bird trapped in a shoebox bouncing off the walls. Our home backs onto a nature reserve and we have hundreds of gorgeous rainbow lorikeets playing and chattering morning and afternoon. Watching them I can’t help but correlate their gossiping social antics to the way that I perceive people watching on as I flounder and flap furiously, trying to gain my footing in life once again. Probably don’t think about me nearly as frequently as I think they do.

I have experienced this emotional scenario many, many times. Sometimes it presents as a cave, especially earlier on. Other times it presents a tunnel that never ends and after a while there are glimmers of light that do indeed become streams of bright morning sun that simply outshine the darkness. In all honesty, it’s taking quite a bit of time though.

In the cave moments the best I can do is sit on the floor and blow bubbles, through my tears, for the boys. Safely venting. In the tunnel times I clean. Anything. The fridge. The windows. Something tedious. When I see a glimmer of light I turn the stereo up and we sing and dance. Mostly just to clear the air. My boys love it!

What are the rocks that form the wall in the illustration? Expectations. Especially, what I expected of myself. These expectations seem to create a very steep, rock wall of complete defeat for me. I feel like I am crouched uncomfortably under a large rock at the bottom. Funnily enough though, it’s starting to get comfortable. To compensate for my total inability to rock climb at the moment and the extreme pressure I feel when I commit myself to anything; I have eliminated the word ‘should’ from my vocabulary. Seems there is less room for disappointment. It’s easier for the time being to remain stationary than to crawl out from under my rock and risk letting someone else down even if it’s just to cancel plans for morning tea at my house. I don’t want to experience any more feelings of guilt or failure. ‘Should’ work a treat! My biggest challenge has now become my security blanket. It’s a nice, cold, rough, hard rock. Amazing how it is easier to stay where I am even if it’s not so comfortable just so I can avoid criticisms or worse still, condemnation and judgement from myself. Even though, I understand what I am doing, I feel so powerless to change it.

As much as it would be easy to rant and rave about life’s injustices there is no point. Yes, there is a time for that. For me it is done. No need for more sympathy.

Now it is just time to find some solutions.

To me, it doesn’t matter how I got here, just how I am going to move on. I wonder what happened to the nanny… I could really use some practical help.

Kisses, cuddles
and tickles

Nothing like the sensation of going round in circles and getting absolutely nowhere or seeing that the whole world just keeps on revolving, orbiting the sun as it usually does or watching a toddler full of energy even though I am completely stationary. Frozen in a moment of time. Numb. There don’t seem to be any more tears left. I’ve run out. Is that possible? There have been days of sobbing floods and rivers of tears. Then, as suddenly as it started, it has stopped. Absolutely nothing. I have tried to rustle up a few tears and still… nothing.

Just a big vacant feeling of emptiness that permeates my body. Might just be because my baby is in my hands and not my tummy but I feel that something more sinister is going on. Like an abandoned, run-down warehouse with the layers of wallpaper peeling away. Each day reveals, to me, that my former life was a bit of a façade. I kept covering up the messy bits and hoping that no one, including me, would notice that it was just a flimsy shell underneath. I had no substance and neither did the life I had tried to create. I realise that sometimes life just throws a few curved balls but I can’t help feeling as though this is my fault entirely.

My own crisis has affected my perception of time. It just seems to adjust, creating vacant pauses where time seems to stop. These pauses are necessary for me to take on the gravity of our overwhelming circumstances. For me, they are a temporary platform, suspending life. It’s a platform that enables me to stay standing, when the ground beneath my feet crumbles. God’s gracious cushioning for extreme pain….

Kisses, and tickles and cuddles seem to be the remedy for everyone. Loving embrace and comfort that helps to fill the void. They charge up the little self-esteem batteries that are running dangerously low. The laundry is mounting up and so is the dust. It really bothers me. Don’t seem to be able to address it though. I look at it and think who else would live like this then next thing you know I’m staring off out the window again.

I start slowly scrapbooking the timeless memories. These are snapshots of our life portraying individual instant moments of happiness. I glance at the special photos and pieces of memorabilia littered over the dining room table. Deliberately collecting the cherished, happy moments. It adds some perspective and balance to our situation. Deliberately choosing to focus on the joy. The hard work in between each memory seems worth it.

Journalling is quite cathartic though and I seem to feel better putting words to my feelings. Might burn it once I’m done. Let the flames purify all the negativity. I want beauty for all the ashes that are being generated from this ‘temporary pause’ in life. I’ll plant some old- fashioned roses in the ashes from my journal. A bright, colour co-ordinated, fragrant and more importantly ‘living’ token. A reminder of the day, in the future, when God turns this situation around.

This is where a friend enlightens me to the significance of crushed rose petals. They have quite a significant role at this point for me. Roses are just amazing flowers. I had painted a whole collection to sell at the markets a few years ago. I have always loved them. Yes, it was a failed enterprise in that regard. I couldn’t bear to part with them. However, it isn’t until now that I have planted some that I really see them in a new light. The variety of fragrances is just awesome but the aroma is only fully realised when the petals are crushed and the oils are released.

I need to put that oil to good use. To soothe all the frayed emotions, where all my petals have been savagely plucked out, and the wounds that are inevitable after having my hope, emotions and aspirations stomped on. Those wounds have left deflating holes in my spirit and they need to be sealed up. Nothing but a foul stench seeping out of this musty rose and I haven’t got what I need to turn the manure heap into a bouquet. It will happen though. It has to happen. I can’t afford to contemplate that it might not.

At this point I pick the most energetic, cheerful person I know. She’s an older, distant friend who has dealt with similar issues to mine in her own family. I pluck up some courage, look her phone number up in the phone book and dial. She answers in her usual chirpy voice and very succinctly I explain my situation. I ask her if she would consider being a ‘spiritual mentor’ for me. I very bluntly state, “…You have what I want.” She laughs whole-heartedly, sharing that it has not always been that way and agrees to help.

During our conversations she encourages me and shares relevant parts of her life. She gives me clear guidelines as to what thought processes aren’t helping me and she helps me to look at my situation with less intensity. Seeing the brighter side, which at this point in time, simply does not exist in my mind.

She has walked alongside me for many months just helping me to understand my life’s inconsistencies and find some sort of order for all the conflicting thoughts about my present situation. She has opened doors for more in-depth counselling, supported and guided me in finding the help that I need.

I have realised that whatever help I have had up until now is not helping. It is in fact perpetuating a self-defeating cycle. Reaching outside of my usual ports of call for advice is what I believe will break the cycle of spiralling thoughts.

Muddled thoughts

My mind has taken flight. It’s off on so many different tangents. Mostly, lots of debilitating thoughts that question my own value, second guessing my decisions, over analysing everything and seeking to blame myself for everything that has morphed into this.

I relate this sensation to being caught out in the early stages of a blustering storm. As the mental storm gains momentum, my mind is being pelted by the winds of ‘what ifs’ and the leaves of overwhelming responsibilities are smothering me. These feelings are symbolised by all of the turmoil represented in the illustration.

At this point, I actually need a close friend, who realises the precariousness of my emotional state, to make an emergency visit. She calms me down and guides me off that ledge. I was only moments away from diving straight into a full-scale panic attack. After listening to my current dilemma, she has the ability to discern the actual concern, put it into perspective for me and offer a simple solution to my problem.

Another friend suggested the imagery of putting thoughts onto leaves and letting them go. It takes some discipline. I think I get a bit nervous because when things that I feel are my responsibility are floating away I cringe then think well if I don’t sort it out who will?

I understand that the point is to stop the little mouse wheel churning in my mind. Envisaging that rotten little beast being pushed off does help somewhat, but he seems to have a whole lot of resilience that I lack. Minutes later my mind will be off again.

Wait! That mouse has my resilience. It’s my mind! Well, if my mind can do that on its own surely I can work on training it to behave in a tranquil manner. To stop generating this frantic stream of unproductive thoughts, that seem to just keep falling on me.

I don’t have the discernment to decide which are worth my time and which are not.
I do my best to decide what is my responsibility. Basically, I ask myself which things do I have control over? What part of the final outcome will I be responsible for if any part at all? These decisions are my responsibility. They get decided with what is best for the children and myself as priority. Then I write them on a piece of paper next to my bed and if it’s the wrong decision I tell myself that it will still be okay. I have done what I feel is best at the time. It’s time to trust God to take care of the rest. The sun will still rise and set tomorrow and there are very few things that can’t be undone.

For the rest I have adapted the leaf floating process, imagining myself putting the remaining concerns onto feathers and floating them up to God. A bit of vertical thinking never hurts. That way I can let go of the things that I have absolutely no control over, knowing that He does.

Muddy Swamps





Well, just when I think I’ve got it together it seems I’ve hit the end of the road. My head is a bit clearer, but apparently my body is still out of action. My spirit is simply deflated and my emotions are a bit soggy. It is a muddy swamp. I am completely bogged down in the present, the past and anticipation of the future. I have spun my wheels off trying to get out and it has not been successful. They have just fallen off or worn out it seems. I see life in shades of brown. Murky and non-descript…I can’t grasp onto the hope that things will be better or even just okay.

Are there times when I feel like giving up? Of course! The thought crosses my mind most days and I do question if it is ever going to get better. There are even more times now. When I think that I have put the hard work in and made the tough decisions, yet, I am still wading through the mud both physically and emotionally.

I force myself to dream about a positive future that seems to be a flimsy sketch of a distant and untouchable reality. It’s not tangible. The highlights in the illustration aren’t really highlights at all. They are just dried out patches of straw sticking through the mud. Prickles from the past, they are remnants of grief. At this stop in the track it has become obvious that if I am to make a clean start, one worth being proud of, I need reinforcements. What a humbling reality! Here I was all cut out to do it alone.

Okay, so its time to scrape off the mud, peel back the damp, rotting weeds, prise open earth and find those new shoots before the mud dries out. If I procrastinate it will be left to dry, caked on until it cracks and a filthy stench of bitterness surfaces. It is excruciatingly painful and emotionally draining. You wouldn’t believe it but there were a few more tears stashed in me for this occasion.

The results once the mud is gone? Freedom. Inner freedom found outside the confines of anyone else’s approval. It is permanent and life changing. An unshakable mental attitude and humbled heart that only comes from true emotional healing. It’s powerful.

For me, I seek the help of Christian prayer counselling. Over time the cakes of mud that have been weighing me down, leaving me emotionally fatigued are being chiselled away. The reedy straps of grass wrapped tightly around my mind, with uncontrolled thoughts are being unravelled.

The endless night torments and sleepless nights of anxiety, confusion and despair staring at the walls are fading into a distant memory. The occasional long night with little ones does not compare.

Yes, I was very dubious. A sceptic even… No more! It has taken a bit more commitment than I had planned. I really was still looking for a quick fix. It is messy and often offensive, reminiscent of the green scum that builds up on stagnant mud. Well, it has had some time to fester hasn’t it? Now the mud is slowly being replaced with a growing realisation of hope and freedom.

There will always be plenty of negative thoughts and other unsavoury circumstances that can easily become the focal point of my journalling. But focusing on them is counterproductive and unhealthy. The results of any trial are never fully realised amidst the trial. It is a privilege to be able to even identify the progress during the trial. It seems that only on the other side of a trial that the life changing effects can be fully appreciated.

Weeds are always growing under my feet and in my backyard. Its like they have always been there and only now they are starting to bother me. I have been given a second chance at life. Leaving the past behind, cherishing my favourite memories and pressing on to a new and exciting journey with an attitude of hope and anticipation for what the future holds.

One or two bright green, new shoots poking through the barren soil. They are almost imperceptible and if I were to keep looking at the swamp of mud I would miss them. I need to nurture this newly found hope. Surrounding it with faith, encouraging and protecting it from the elements. Those elements that have been comfortable and familiar with the bog…

Adjustments

The uncomplicated nature of chickens is so comforting and relaxing. They can spend all day pecking, fluffing, scratching and eating only to do it all again tomorrow. Endless days filled with basking in the sun and clucking quietly. An egg can be laid if you’re not too busy. Nothing much happening unless you’re visited by a three year old who thinks that maybe you might enjoy a flight of fancy down the slippery slide just as much as he does or a great big bear hug just because you’re so soft and fluffy—just a few ruffled feathers.

These are my girls. Mischa, Audrey and Ambrosia. Yes, I had fun with the names. They are our three Silky Chickens, one white and two red balls of fluff. All are very gentle and an absolute delight to watch. To me, chickens are quite grounding and they represent a very simple life. They are nurturers by nature. Pinnacles of a country life with a traditional, solid existence, concrete in values and strong on priorities, home cooking, touching base with nature, in essence, they exude a feeling of coming home. An overnight stay in the country is a breath of fresh air for the soul. A home away from home… A clearer head, balanced mind and more focus. Just the sense of open spaces culminates feelings of freedom. It’s a physical space that permits movement. The timeout we need to continue on our often quite lonely journey.

I am learning that life’s richness comes from the warmth of relationships with others. I need to cherish the relationships I do have and nurture the little lives I am responsible for at this time.

Just last night I had a dream. When I woke I was inspired by what it represented to me. This is my dream:

My chicken pen was in ruins. The bricks lay toppled onto the nesting boxes and they were crushed. I was devastated. I noticed white feathers under the rubble. So soft and they were pure white. Mischa. Our snowflake. Our favourite chicken… The one that stood out… There was movement. I carefully lifted a brick and noticed that the way the bricks had fallen had resulted in a cavity being formed over the chicken. She was perfectly safe and she was sitting. I didn’t understand why she hadn’t run off with the other chickens. Then I noticed that she was diligently watching another small space that had formed under another brick in front of her. Well under there were eleven white chicks. All safe and completely unaware of what had just happened.
My interpretation? Eleven I’m thinking is near the end. I think that the 11th hour is when God steps in. Just in time so that all is not lost.
Chicks…obviously new life and a chance to start over. The bricks…seem to be the rubble of a life I tried to build on my own with a wrong foundation. Altogether it represents a hope within me that out of the rubble a new life beginning with the essence of who I am can be formed. The outside is broken and only rubble is left but the inside…well now that’s a different story!

Providence

I look for God’s constant provision now. I am often surprised at the way my needs are met. It’s in the subtle help; someone offering to mow the lawn, my family offering to take the boys for an outing…to the train museum — no less! A huge bright yellow flower arrangement with tulips and gerberas delivered to my door for encouragement, a stranger bringing a meal, another offering to do my shopping, someone else dropping by a huge parcel of home grown vegetables and a Christmas card with money at the bottom or an envelope in the letter box with money just when I had a bill to pay…and I had told no-one. It’s also in the new friends He has sent my way. Realistically, no one person could support me without assistance.


Bundles of hope





I love how young children wake every morning with a brand new lease on life. Excited about what their day will bring even amidst very trying circumstances. They are little bundles of hope. Hope for a new day and a bright future.

I can now see why pets are so crucial in families. On many occasions, I’ve wanted to streamline our home. In darker times wanted to eradicate our home of extra work. Our pets somehow fell into this category. How? I don’t really know. Now I see that they are quite an integral part of our family. The day Bella, our Staffy, escapes and goes on an adventure to visit our local school. An expensive ride to the pound follows her adventure; I haven’t even noticed she is missing until he tells me he can’t find her.

That day I realised that her solid, predictable presence in his life often offers some stability to our family that I really had taken for granted. I think her sloppy licks, her constant delight at our presence and her rounded, stoic little personality reaffirm hope in our family.
Healing, for me, is a process. Just because it appears as though I have, all of a sudden, hit a brick wall it stands to reason that the recovery process ‘should’ be in my mind, equally as instant. To my surprise it is not the case. As my world begins to unfold now, it seems that my journey was eminent.

It occurs to me that it has been building for quite some time. Accumulated emotional pain like a nasty boil festering, not so obvious though. It makes me uncomfortable. It’s painful every time it’s bumped. I have compensated for it. And pitifully, I have justified why I hoped that it would improve with time, without any outside interference. But…it gets bigger. It becomes more painful and uncomfortable. As its size increases so too, proportionally, does the pending surgery. Scalpel, pain, anxiety, blood, pus—stitches. Emotional and spiritual surgery is like physical surgery. Once all the offending matter is removed. The body needs time to recover, repair and rehabilitate. Learning to walk without that compensating limp is taking time too.

A true metamorphosis is on the brink, hence the butterflies. Hidden away and cocooned with only positive people, practising a changed pattern of thinking and nurturing my own little pocket full of hope. Hope, that was left behind long ago. This is the start.

So, all the dark furniture is being, very roughly, much to the concern of loving family members, painted to resemble shabby chic— in white. Curtains are being pulled down and furniture is being re-arranged to take advantage of some natural air, breezes and outdoor scenery. I am de-cluttering everything and donating or tossing anything that I am not using now. Artworks that do not have a good ‘feel’…burned! Books I don’t read, music I refuse to listen to because it’s depressing or angry and negative, furniture I am not using, clothes I am not wearing— all gone.

I even line my bedroom drawers, swap all my old wire coat hangers with all-be-it cheap wooden ones and I love it. I wake in the morning and don’t dread opening the cupboards to shrink back with dismay at the question of ‘what will I wear?’ Shortly followed by ‘why bother?’ Then, ‘my pyjamas are really comfortable’, which is closely and finally followed by…‘nobody cares.’ Now I care. I get dressed. Prepared for what the day brings and each one is different.

My home is fresh, clean and simplified. The lack of clutter is liberating. Slowly, the oppressive cloud of stale air in our home is lifting, as are the piles of ‘stuff’. Everything has a place and the sense of order and balance seems to reinforce the rest and peace in my spirit. Yes, I do get a few sideways glances and some negative comments but…is there a hint of respect there too?

We walk to the park. We picnic in the backyard or toss a ball around. A help chart is on our fridge and a roster sits next to it. There is no facade. Just us needing a bit—
Quite a bit, of help… My new conviction is that some people, who do really want, just don’t know how to help and I often don’t know what help to ask for. My hope is that my chart will identify that I still need help and that willing helpers will offer a little bit of assistance where I need it most.

Like putting a jigsaw puzzle together. I can’t rely on just one person but a combination of little bits of help from lots of people will see the puzzle of my fragmented life come together. We’re registered for a nanny. She is one more piece in the puzzle. Shouldn’t be long now!

A very special friend gives two nights a week after exhausting long workdays to help. There is no hint of her kindness needing to be re-paid; I have nothing to give, and no suggestion of an expiration date for her help. She is showing me how to multi-task and do it well. This is her creative excellence. It’s in her ability to creatively problem-solve and efficiently use her time. It is an art form that she has mastered. She can apply her lateral thinking to any situation effectively, including mine! Not a mother herself, she single-handedly swoops in and does three days of laundry, cleaning dishes and child minding plus dinner, shopping and somehow manages to allow me the dignity to rise up instead of feeling pathetic.

She stands on one foot in my kitchen, washing dishes and rocking a pram with the other. She has dinner cooking and I know this is a task preferably avoided by her in her own home at all costs. She’s chatting to my eldest son and has both the washing machine and clothes drier thumping out a syncopated rhythm in the background. She is telling me to go have a long, relaxing bath. No easy task, and she has shared that there have been a few nights where she didn’t think I’d make it. She doesn’t let on for the moment though. She just encourages. Helps me see how far I have come and makes it clear that she’s got faith in me. I tell her that I have faith that God will turn this around. She smiles. I wonder what she is thinking. I’m not brave enough to ask. I’m just thankful for her presence, capability and reliability with the comfort it offers. They reinforce the knowledge that she’s giving me the space to work through things with my own convictions and in my own time.

An Odd Couple

I have discovered that one of the most therapeutic steps towards healing is to help someone else. Now, I am flat out doing the very basics for my family and myself so I’m thinking I have very little to offer anyone. Walking to the local shops is the limit of my activities and that is only manageable with help twice a week. I have come to terms with and accept what I am now starting to believe as my new, but temporary personal limitations. It’s much easier than fighting and denying them.

But now, I am presented with an interesting opportunity. My wonderful friend has been recently diagnosed with a degenerative and possibly life threatening combination of medical concerns. And, yes she is helping me! So I take the liberty of researching the condition, on the Internet, for some more insights into treatments available. As it turns out the condition can be influenced by diet.

So I march up to the local fruit shop and explain the situation and request discounted blueberries and strawberries for the duration of her visits to me, so that I can endeavour to make fresh juice for her — antioxidants. They are terribly kind and the owner has offered to shop around at the markets for me to get the best price. He then offers to sell them to me at cost price. Amazing! I also download some information to better explain the conditions and understand them so that I can stand alongside her, for what it’s worth to her, while she gets it to a manageable state. She has lots of reading to do! I offer to make her lunches, for the next day…after she helps me!

What an absolutely hilarious scenario. Sometimes I even have to ask her to stop at the fruit and vegetable shop to pick up my box of fruit and vegetables on her way over, so that I can make her juice. But it makes me feel important and needed by her. It helps to restore my fractured self-esteem. It is valuable in that she allows me to help her.

A new whistle

My own creative journey

I am inspired to begin my own creative journey. Writing my very first children’s book. Another huge battle waged on the frontier of my mind. It’s a lengthy battle. There are so many times where I reach an emotional crossroad and it can be won either way. I can wave my little white flag of surrender to those feelings of rejection and fear. Tossing my ideas out thinking that I have nothing to share and even if I did, my creative ability would be lacking.

No one would know. I could continue living with that erosive and insidious feeling of compromise. Compromising who I am, ignoring my own dreams and denying the gifts that God gave me to share with others. Why? Obviously, I want to be spared further possible pain…

But, now they are more clearly revealed through the light of brighter days. It adds perspective. They have become pivotal landmarks of my journey. The little details that have started fading in my own memory are instantly triggered by the smallest smudge or shadow in the illustration or tone of phrase in the story. I am drawn back into that moment. I take a step closer curious to discover just a little bit more. But, on this visit I have the luxury of exploring my own feelings with added insight, and possibly less scrutiny of myself that comes from more perspective gained with time. Those wizened onlookers share their insight. They remind me that each step in my journey, though largely emotional, is still very real. They form imprints of my life.

Like a child’s handprint, no two are the same, and rapid growth, changes the ability to duplicate it. In such a short time those moments have passed but the imprint always remains in the palm of the hand. Changed with growth but still reflecting those early transformations.

I tell myself that stepping into your dreams starts with a leap of faith. I’m exactly where I need to be. Living in the past negates change and perpetuates regret and bitterness. Obsessing about the future creates anxiety and feelings of unworthiness. Relaxing in and enjoying the present brings satisfaction and contentment.

As I complete each page, finding more motivation gets easier. I’m not sure where or when it dawns on me, but I begin to see that each illustration unveils a new page of victory. Something that I have overcome: maybe quite insignificant to others looking on but a milestone in my life. My project is neatly broken down into twelve, succinct and manageable pieces. A definite beginning and end to each. Individually they give me focus and help me to discipline myself. Together, they give me purpose even though their final purpose is largely unknown.

My life! My mind! It is life and death. A spiritual and emotional life that daily gains ground in either life and freedom or death in a self-perpetuated oppression. I can’t remain stationary on my battlefield. To do so is to lose. Who will be the victor? Why it will be me!

Juicy Berries





There’s something very special about those warm, juicy, red berries. The first time we went to the strawberry farm my eldest son had been so very sick and was on the road to recovery. My personal chef and delivery girl from the local church had thoughtfully brought…just as a treat, the most delicious punnet of sweet strawberries from our local farm. Not those hard, bitter, shelf reddened supermarket strawberries but beautiful, sweet, vibrant, sun ripened berries bursting with flavour. Along with an absolutely divine cherry ripe slice, casserole and rice for dinner. As we chatted we planned to visit the strawberry farm together. My little family had not been out of the house, all together, for months.

It is one of our first outings. I make sure that she is primed and prepared in the more-than-likely event of me having a complete meltdown and turning around as soon as we arrive. So my plan B, in the event of that scenario becoming a reality, is that she will pick strawberries on her own. Plan C is that she can buy a couple of punnets for both of us.

How funny looking back now. It was such a big deal at the time. Emotions were still raw nerves.

Excited at the prospect of an hour out of the house I have my own escort. We cruise out over bumps, surrounded by bush and dust through properties wilting in the drought. Naturally, we spot the giant, red, hand-painted strawberry perched out on the side of the road dangling on wire thread from a plank of recycled fencing timber. I don’t know what I was thinking. Really. A farm Flavia! It is not glamorous. A packing shed, a paddock, mud and lots of strawberries of course. Encompassed by rows upon rows of strawberry plants, mud and stinging nettle it still feels so good to be dressed in something other than pyjamas. A T-shirt and track pants are a big step up. I don’t think I will ever forget the size of those strawberries. They huge are like tomatoes, just sunning themselves in the winter sun. Luscious and deep red— weightily dotting the paddock of healthy, bright green plants.

We pick over a kilo of strawberries while our baby sleeps in his little snuggle pouch. The conversation is light. The day is magnificent. We eat nearly half the punnet on the way home and the rest we devour with relish during the following couple of hours. We talk about it for days afterward.

Even on the many visits we made after, I am sure that all the strawberries were smaller. We have visited several times during the season. Pancakes with maple syrup, fresh strawberries and ice cream have become a staple for breakfast. It still remains a firm tradition. A treat. A reminder of how far we have journeyed together.

I wonder what was so poignant about the strawberry farm. What did it symbolise to me? How special that day is in my memory, almost as special as the arm of friendship that was extended with understanding and love and that since, has grown into a quirky and interesting bond. In reflection my life is much richer because I like to think I have had the courage, but actually I know deep down it was closer to desperation, that urged me to speak up and ask complete strangers for help and then welcome them into my rather scary world. A privilege that was reciprocated much to my surprise and delight. I would have missed out on so much trying to be brave and doing it alone.

It is difficult and I am exhausted on returning but the liberation I feel will ensure that it will not be long before we intrepidly venture out again. The lure of sweet, warm strawberries and a change of scenery beckon us. It will be even easier the next time.

Is it the invigorating warmth and comfort of a sunny day outdoors, a hint of the whimsical, and a new adventure that triggers senses? The priceless look on the face of a sick little boy that is matched by the hearty squeals of delight in ‘Shawbees Mummy!’ when he first spotted those strawberry plants absolutely laden with succulent fruit? Or could it just be all the Vitamin C consumed in a bucket load of juicy, red berries?

Let’s play

I needed to step back into my childhood for just a brief moment, to restore one of those fragmented pieces of my personality development…an imagination! I recognised it was missing as I sat on the floor to play trains. All I could do was crash them. I knew there was more to creative play because I had watched plenty of little children do it. I knew what it looked like I just didn’t know how to access it within myself. It has occurred to me that even as a child I remembered thinking that such play was a frivolous waste of time. From my earliest memories life, for various reasons, my play was far too grown up and far too serious. I have concluded that I have a deficiency of pure childish fun.

This is where I reclaim my own childhood. The pure imagination and unstifled creativity that is a privilege of the very young is what I desire. It is so natural as they blend reality and fantasy, so naturally in fact, that the distinction between the two is very blurred and that’s the way they like it. It’s brimming with tea parties, jungle adventures, precious treasures, heroic characters and special surprises. It is not absurd for a railway to float over an open mine and for gold dust to create glittering rainbow whirlwinds. It’s the freedom and creativity to sculpt a scenario to suit your own whims, including predicting, planning and orchestrating the final outcome. Recently, I have discovered what a vast cry from reality this truly is. Why? I think it’s because as an adult I like things to be ordered for some sense of control.

But is that the way I really like it? Well, yes there’s time for responsibilities but as an adult I crave that sense of being young at heart. The way they choose to look for the fun and the joy in life.

Housework is so much fun when we pretend to polish the palace floors and shine the magic windows guessing what special things we might see through them when they are clean. Grocery shopping is such an adventure, as we collect treats for a teddy bears picnic on the carpet in our lounge room.

Let’s play! I want to spin in circles in our lounge-room only to fall in giggling dizzy heaps after bumping each other over just because it feels good. I want to enjoy the whims of swimming with snapping ‘snap-o-diles’ in the bathtub and hiding from scary dinosaurs in stomping boots as they roar through our kitchen. Stomp, stomp, stomp!


Special whispers

I want to hold on tightly to the things that I previously might have taken for granted, the privileges my station as a mother offers in our society and the precious time I have with my two little boys. I am the only mother they have. No one can fill my shoes. No one can love my children the way that I do. Yes, others might be able to substitute, but they are my babies for a reason. Of all the people who will cross their paths, I have been elevated to a very special position in their lives. One that I refuse to take lightly and one that I resolve to fulfill diligently.

I like to pretend to be a grumpy mummy engine that keeps getting lost. Bumping into other trains just to watch the delight on a little boy’s face is an opportunity I won’t be passing up for anything.

The special whispers…? Ah, now that’s just an intimate dialogue between my special boys and myself. Those private almost stolen moments that no one else is privy to and if I’m not paying close attention would be missed and never reclaimed. Fleeting moments that must be held onto with both hands and treasured in our hearts, deliberately and consciously. They might happen in a busy park or at a restaurant or in the close comfort of our bedrooms. It’s in that staggering, awesome ease of relationship and freedom of intimacy between a mother and child that is reflected in a comfortable, warm atmosphere of loving kindness, predictability and clear boundaries on every level.

It’s acknowledging that we have been through a rough time together but that we have conquered that mountain. We have a more secure and close-knit family as a result. It was just a brief moment in time, but its not forever. It’s the reassurance that they always have been and always will be, loved to bits and then some. Their safety and well-being are unreservedly my first priority.

Occasionally, I catch myself drifting towards a more negative way of thinking and negative way of approaching situations. I do have to pull my self up and acknowledge that there will be no room in my future for yesterday’s regrets. I will expect the best of life. I vigilantly need to persist. Sometimes situations don’t work out the way I’d like, but I believe the resilience I have developed allows me to pass through the not so good moments. For that is what they are. Just moments. Some are longer than others. Resisting the temptation to toss my hands up in the air at the first hint of discomfort and let the mud swallow me up again is a way of life now.

The rest, I believe, is to do with a comfortable relationship with God. It’s not for the faint hearted. It’s choosing an unfamiliar lifestyle, possibly making life-changing decisions, and re-assessing how I choose to spend my time.

Am I happy now? I can say that just like anyone else I still have the odd moment that gets the better of me. But it’s balanced with a healthy perspective of life, resilience and the ability to move through. It’s in the knowledge that my life now is built on choices that reflect my true values. It’s based on faith that God has everything I need to be able to confidently face whatever life presents. I know that I don’t have all the answers and my journey is not complete. But, I do have a stable peace, contentment and joy in my life.

Now, I often find myself smiling amidst unpleasant circumstances because the negative circumstances do not totally consume me. They no longer have the room or the power to overshadow all the wonderful things that, each day, pass my way. The renewed perspective I struggled for is daily becoming more automatic.

Oh… and the nanny. She has finally arrived, but to my utter delight, I don’t need her quite as desperately as I thought. The knowledge that we have made it is elating. Now her help is just a treat!

Juicy Berries Journal – Journey through PND – Mummy, Let’s Go! © 2009 Flavia Guarino. All Rights Reserved