The Four Most Powerful Words to Me

I went quiet.

The joyful busyness of the start of the school year, and the shift of the rhythm from long summer days to class meetings and notes and curriculum and cello practices and drop offs barely subsided...

Our yearly family holiday to Earth Frequency Festival came upon us quicker than ever, it seemed, and all that school focus collided with building a festival trolley and cooking preparation days for a week of camping and washing and drying and packing and counting out our hard earned money into a daily budget and all this through a heat wave;



And then we left at 3am and by 10am I was alone with the kids in an isolated playground in a small town with no nappies and no car and no food and the temperature was approaching forty degrees and Zai was suddenly at a doctors surgery, having caught a nasty infection in the barest nick of time not to be contagious and I had no idea what was going on and then he came back and was in a huge amount of pain and the temperature grew and grew and finally we found respite in a dingy motel room with airconditioning and a television and then it was the next day and it was hotter still and it took six hours to set up camp but we were here and it was wonderful and then the next day the festival started and there was workshops and dancing and beautiful art installations and cacao workshops and crazy wild storms, twice, and sound healing and pirates and flash mobs and queues to the showers and espressotinis and bioglitter and my son dancing in the opening parade and the stillness of the camp when all the kids were asleep-

and then it was Sunday morning and I woke up to the littlest vomiting, and vomiting and vomiting, and she laid on my chest as it grew hotter and my Mama Radar starting blaring and we went for our second trip to the medical tent that morning; and then there was an ambulance and a large district hospital and more vomiting and trial of fluids and then more vomiting and air conditioning and a bag of fluids and a quarantined hospital room with just my little one and I

and then there was the rest of the family picking us up the next day and there was arguments about the quickest way home and there was consideration of staying the night somewhere and there was hours of driving home into the night and then ten minutes from home there was a little voice that said "I think I need to throw up,"

and then there was four straight days of it taking us down, one by one and there was so much washing and I constantly thanked Me-from-the-past for buying a dryer for Present-Me, and there was more time off school and there was deep fatigue and bills that had to be paid and there was life

and then there was a diagnosis from blood tests I got just before we left.

Barmah Forest Virus. Deep breath out.

And then there was getting back into the rhythm of school and work again and there was pain and fatigue and an answer now. And then driving to pick my oldest up from a Cub Camp, stumbling back in through the door and

collapsing

and I spent 52 hours in bed straight, the first twelve or so with a raging fever, the rest completely wiped out

I'm down, and I have been down for months, really. I function better some days than others, and by function, sometimes I mean I drop the kids at their classrooms and cook nutrititous food and at least attempt to get the housework done.

Sometimes, when I write function, I mean being able to eat breakfast or lunch, get out of bed, or answer a text message. Some days, like the last four or five, I don't function at all.

I am not sure where to go with this Barmah Forest thing yet. I am getting lots of ideas and advice from lots of people in my circles who have had it. It's very useful, but almost like new parenthood, the quantity of information in itself is a little daunting.

I find myself questioning, why again? Why am I sick, again? What am I doing wrong? Which I answer to myself, I already know all the answers, sedentary life, poor food choices, too much caffiene. So obviously, one thing I need to do is address all this.

There's been some hidden roadblock there for a long time though- perhaps forever. Surely, if it was all that simple, I would have figured it out to cut the coffee, eat more nutrient dense food and less crap, and weave more movement into my life? What is it, deeper down, that doing these things would rob me of? That sickness fulfils?

I don't know. Perhaps that's a question that is too big to answer today.

Something is calling me to rest, however. Something I am learning, this time around (for I guess all I can do is to be open to the next part of the lesson, every time I find myself in these cycles), is the nuance and difference between conscious rest, and empty rest.

For me, the difference is this: conscious rest is the lying down in a little nest of my own whilst the toddler sleeps and watching the leaves outside my window dance until I feel my body draw in on itself and curl up beneath the blankets and I feel the small but dynamic movements of my breathing; empty rest is scrolling through facebook again, searching for a dopamine hit.

Conscious rest is laying a blanket in the sunshine outside and feeling warmth seep into my body, or even a gentle stroll to the mailbox with the morning sun on my face; empty rest is going to bed early because I cannot deal with the mess or the noise of life in full force: I cannot meet it with the energy that sacred leadership of the home and family requires.

Conscious rest is cuddling with my children while I read them a story or take a bath with them; empty rest is nagging at them to clean up their messes so I have less to do.

Conscious rest is tuning in to rejuvenation. Empty rest is avoidance.

But conscious rest isn't enough. I also need reflection.

Writing is my reflection practice. It's the way I stand back and observe my world, and the inner workings of myself, my life and my resonances. It's my critique of the way I am living my life, and without this, life soon becomes unmanageable.

Over the last few weeks, I failed to bring myself back to my practice. It was easy to sweep it off as just one more thing to do, but just like when I skip a meal because I don't feel I have the space or energy, I eventually get dizzy and moody and then all I can do is to meet that hunger.

Writing is just as necessary to me- perhaps not as often as three times a day, but certainly more than a couple of days and things get all out of order for me. So I would humbly ask, as I integrate this illness, when you see me in spheres in real life or online, ask me the four most powerful words to me:

What are you writing?