Over the summer I suffered from burnout. My husband worked in London full-time six days a week from June to September and I had the children, the dog, a flower field and ten weddings to manage. The final straw was when my young daughter and I caught viral tonsilitis. All I wanted to do was sleep but at night, she was sick. During the day she was cantankerous and clingy. I was desperate for help – absolutely desperate – and there was no one.
I thought of all the times I’d been desperate for help in 38 years. Why did I still expect someone to come? Why did I still think that someone would mother me?
One Sunday, when my husband was home, I locked myself in the bathroom and stayed in the bath pretty much all day. I dragged myself out of my poorly pitiful hole and got on with my weddings and started the children back to school.
In September, a period of calm began. There were no weddings, no children and lots of seeds to sow so I spent my days in the greenhouse looking up at the sky and over the valley.
I was overwhelmed when a giant sea of grief surged over the valley towards the greenhouse. I had no idea it was coming but instead of putting up the storm walls, I let it consume me. I had a safe space - my greenhouse – and let the storm swell around my feet. I finally allowed myself to grieve.
Grieving in the Greenhouse
I pot on, I prick out, I sow seeds and I cry for my loss.
And what a loss it is to have a never had a mother. I cry for the sombre baby, torn from her mother’s side. I cry for the lost child, confused by her childhood. I cry for the teenager, trying to find her own way. I cry for the young woman, who was still so lost.
I go deeper and deeper into my loss – it is like a well – a bottomless pit of despair. There are no memories of her, no ropes of gratitude to hold onto – she simply was not there. She was not there all those times. She is still not here. And I still need her. I want her. I want her to hold me and say - ‘it is all ok.’ I want to feel what that feels like just once.
I blink in the darkness at the bottom of the well. I gulp and I sow seeds. I sniff huge sniffs and I pot on.
But she was there. In my earliest moments she was there. This is my rope. I hold onto it. I hold on even tighter, willing it to pull me out of the well.
She gave me life. We had six months together where she loved me. She held me. She wanted me.
And in turn, I gave life to my babies. I got to hold them as you held me. I get to be the mother you couldn’t.
And finally, I can see the light.
Thank you, Mum, for giving me life. Thank you for my children. I will love them for both of us.
A smile breaks through the storm clouds. I have resurfaced stronger, grateful and a flame burns brightly in my heart.
I look out across the hills beaming. I sow, prick out, pot on.