I write these words, these first ones, with my baby on the breast, asleep, dream feeding, pressed into the curve of my body, both of us sinking a little into our bed, its softness, held safe in the quiet of the house, bird chatter at the window, the gentle movement of leaves, the distant sigh of the road, and above of the skies, just the two of us, bathed in beige green light. Hello, welcome, let’s see what we can create in this space.
I have named this writing Hospital and Home, because this is my life, right now, it is my life, it is everything. It is everything, and I love it, and also always my heart longs for more: the sea, late evening, solitude, silence, the trees, hot sunshine, movement, stillness, to read, to write, crisp mountains, cool grass, family, friends, freedom. One day. Not today. For now: the training years. Hospital and home. And writing.
I write these words, with hope, with lightness, with abandon, at the end of a week of leave. Feet firmly into the new year, mind twelve eighteen months ahead. There is an out of office in my inbox and a load of work awaits, hard work, personal work, but for now also there is this, just this, the soft weight of my baby asleep in my arm, the grasp of his hand deep into the warm pillow of my breast, the hospital looms, and this is everything, it is everything.
Nota bene. For former readers of my currently sleeping blog, this is where I’ll be writing for now, in shorter bursts, in what is manageable, until there is more time. A little different, but really probably in many ways much the same. I took the liberty of sending you these first words because I thought you might be interested. It’s all I’ve got for now, all I can offer, I hope you enjoy, I hope you read on. But of course, please opt out if it’s not for you.
As for new friends: hello, welcome.