There’s a black wrought-iron gate at the side of our house. It’s heavy, and when it closes it bangs against a sandstone post. I always know when the postman is coming with the mail.
It’s also the sound of my daughter leaving for school, and coming home from school. It’s the same sound both times, of course, but somehow, in my heart, it feels different in the morning when she’s leaving to catch the bus than in the afternoon when she comes home.
At 4.30pm, the gate swings shut, and my heart opens wide. My daughter is home! Now that the days are drawing in, and there’s a distinct nip in the air, my goal is to be finished work before she comes home, and to have the wood stove lit, and the kettle on.
This is our time. The hour or so before dinner when we get cosy by the wood stove, sip tea, and chat about our day.
Yesterday I told her what the sound of the gate means to me in the afternoon. She replied that she takes her headphones out of her ears before she opens the door so she can hear my voice. Seems this afternoon greeting is important to both of us.
When I wrote The Mystic Cookfire, it was meant to be a small collection of recipes from the camps I hosted when editing The Mother magazine. But like most of my books, it had a life of its own…it grew to more than 424 pages! It’s a heavy recipe book!
It is inevitable with most lengthy documents that the eyes glaze over when proofreading…
I’ve been conscious of errors and omissions, and now that I’m no longer editing The Mother, I feel it’s time to fix up any typos etc., and change the writing to the present tense to make it clear to new readers that that part of my life is over.
The Mystic Cookfire, available from www.starflowerpress.com, Amazon and good bookshops
If you have a copy of The Mystic Cookfire, and have noticed anything amiss (for example, an ingredient mentioned in the method but not in the ingredients list, or something unclear with a direction, PLEASE drop me a line or more to let me know what recipe/page needs amending.
Doing this is one of my Autumn jobs, and if you can help me with that I’d be most grateful. To be clear, the revised edition won’t be containing new information, just an amendment of any errors.
I’m still really proud of this book, and sometimes I just stand back and go ‘wow, there is a lot in this book’. It was great to send my daughter off to uni with a copy, knowing that many of her favourite meals are in there.
The illustrations, by Sara Simon, are fantastic! I love each and every one of them. She’s a very talented lady.
I’m still working on my next two recipe books, which I’ll complete when I’ve got The Mystic up to date.
On an Autumnal day in New Zealand in March, 1996, I gave birth to my first child at home in a birth pool by candlelight. Mozart’s music played in the room, and she arrived in this world peacefully. She didn’t cry or fuss, but just looked into our eyes and took in her surroundings.
Half an hour later, it was time to cut the cord (if I knew then what I do now, we’d have had a *lotus birth and not cut the cord). She howled and screamed. It has been said that cutting the cord doesn’t hurt, but she clearly felt ‘something’ as our physical connection was severed.
Seconds after giving birth at home, by candlelight and Mozart, to my daughter Bethany.
For eighteen years, we have shared our lives. At seven this morning, we waved goodbye. That umbilical cord was well and truly cut. And it bloody well hurt me too. She’s on her own now. This part of my mothering journey with her is over.
I’m no longer there to protect her, make sure she eats her greens, warn her off certain boys, and prompt a bedtime to ensure adequate sleep. My job is done.
I look forward to hearing all the stories about university life. But today, I grieve. Today I trust the tears which fall so freely to cleanse old wounds.
I have found it interesting in these past few weeks how differently people respond to pain. Those who have attachment parented their children ~ they understand. They allow me my grief without trying to band aid over it.
And then there are people who are quick to remind me that she’ll be home in ten weeks. It’ll zip by, they say. Maybe. But I doubt it.
If you ever miscarry, someone is bound to say ‘never mind, you can try again’ or ‘it wasn’t meant to be’…rather than just honouring the loss. They mean well, of course, but it doesn’t help.
Yes, Christmas might be just around the corner (at my age it’s always just around the corner!)…but that’s more than 150 meals we won’t be sharing together. More than seventy mornings where I won’t get to see her smile or share a cup of tea.
As a bonded family, every day is a lifetime to savour. So, in some people’s world ten weeks is nothing. This morning, for me, it is a long time away.
I appreciate she’s not going off to war or ill in hospital. She’s a beautiful, healthy young woman with adventures ahead of her ~ but that doesn’t make the cutting of the umbilical cord any less painful.
The eighteen years between giving birth and saying goodbye, now THAT has zipped by.
Do you like to read romance novels? You can find the first chapter or two of the five contemporary romance novels I wrote last Summer here on Wattpad. Pop on over. They’re free to read! http://www.wattpad.com/VeronikaRobinson
You can find my first two novels on my website www.veronikarobinson.com, Amazon, good bookshops or www.starflowerpress.com Bluey’s Cafe is also available on Kindle.
