dollhouse

I spent my childhood daydreaming about having nice things and a Dollhouse was on top of my wish list. My parents did not buy me one, but my dad worked for a factory that manufactured hospital furniture and he brought home the “faulty” tables for my sister and I to play with.

I improvised by placing a blanket over the table and pretended that it was a caravan. It was a challenge to push it on our carpet floor, so my arms got a great workout. Good times. Maybe I shouldn’t deprive my children of the opportunity to be creative and innovative, and just give them a broken hospital table to play with.

wishful, not willful

Missing is a strange, unpredictable feeling that doesn’t follow any clear logic. I am not always entitled to the things I miss. A bittersweet aspect of maturing is recognising that longing doesn’t necessarily prescribe an action.

I once believed that to address the ache of missing, I needed do something: reach out to the person, visit the place, savour the food, or seek out the clothing I once owned.

Now, I find myself learning to sit with this feeling, uncertain how to engage with it or soothe its presence…