She had smelt like sweet milk, fresh sun-dried laundry from a spring day and ricotta drizzled in honey.

But then she began to explore the world beyond my breast and her smell changed.

Birth ~ savage, gentle, loud, silent. Swearing, doubting, believing, breathing, roaring. All of it. Wholly. Fully. Me. The most transcendent hours I’ve known.

I reach under the leaves and branches of the fig tree to find the damaged fruits - the ones pecked at by Australian Ringneck parrots and the ones split at their bottom from the skins’ inability to contain the sweetness.

I haven't shared any writing for almost a year. I’ve been at my desk writing and writing but also hiding and hiding. And in all of my hiding I came across a beautiful description about my state of living. David Whyte writes in his book Consolations…

My head bows as I take the blow and I stare down at my feet as I feel the tears swell to the surface. The sounds in the room turn to white noise. I keep my head bowed as tears ride the waves of my cheekbones and chin before falling from the cliff of my face and onto the wooden floor between my legs.