when i write about the ocean—about water, about the boy who grew in my womb, who turned me inside out, showed me that healing myself would be the greatest gift i could ever give him—i can only think in all the shades of blue that i find lying around inside the rooms behind my eyes.

i pull them out carefully—unthreading is precise work, unlike un-becombing, which is more like a thousand little wars, i say the word ‘deep’ over, and over, over, and i find a whale and her baby, and i put them in the soft belly of the sea.

the one holding the other, the other holding the one.

all the ways in which i am a womb, all the ways in which i am water.

all the ways in which i am life.

when i say your name to my self, i say—you are wonder and courage and treasure and i love you and i hope i am doing this right and mothering is not always easy and you are my favourite mammal in the whole world and look how far we have come and also this…may you never have to recover from my wounds.

{📷 detail from my current work in progress and a photo of the waters at Oban, Scotland}

some softness for the start of your week.

i am stitching a poem about motherhood and my boy, and about whales and the ocean, onto the most beautiful little vintage cotton dress.

i am loving the softness under my fingers—the colours of the stitches, the bringing words to life.

all the ways in which i am life, a womb—all of this deep work inside of me, all of this beauty.