I’ve always been a forward thinker. And I
don’t mean in the progressive way that the term usually implies. Mine
is way less impressive. I literally think forward. I live my life focusing on
the future. Focusing on the horizon instead of my two feet in front of me. I trip a lot, but I'm constantly thinking ahead. To when I’ll have more
time. To when we’ll have more money. When I’ll be less tired. When I’ll finally
get around to tidying the cupboard under the stairs.
I’ve lived most of my 36 years this way.
And it’s rather sad really. It means I miss out on many moments without even
realising it. Mindfulness is a state of being that’s in vogue right now. Everyone’s
trying to achieve it. The ultimate goal is to be fully aware of one’s self in
the moment by acknowledging and accepting one’s feelings, thoughts and physicality.
The jargon’s rather intense and it’s a tough nut to crack or a tough crack to nut. Especially for
someone like me. A forward thinker with little vision, but big dreams.
Since having children I’ve realised just
how dangerous it is to wish away all the little moments of mundanity in between
the big milestones. Children are a physical reflection of the passage of time. Their
childhood waits for no one. Not even a mother with a mindfulness disorder. I
don’t believe in New Years resolutions. I don’t believe in waiting for the turn
of a year to make a positive change in life. Change certainly doesn’t wait for
us. It blows by whenever it feels the need. Nudging gently or blindsiding with
bliksem. Sometimes welcomed. Sometimes not.
So without attaching a resolution tag to my
work-in-progress mindset, I’m simply going to do it. Live less in the future
and more in the present. Be more mindful. Without the mantras or Facebook memes,
mind. I’m going to enjoy the fact that my toddler son still needs me to change
his nappy. Still needs me to cut his food. Still needs me to play with him.
Still needs me to cuddle him after a fall. Still needs me.
My mum once said: “Sal these are the best
days of your life. Cherish them.”
I remember being baffled by her advice: “My God, what a crock! How can my daily domestic dogshow where I’m always rushing, barely breathing
and often feel inadequate and overwhelmed… how can this possibly be the best that
it gets?”
But then I’ll see my little girl finally let go and trust that she can swim. “Mummy look, mummy. See what I can do!” Eyes bright, her round
face beaming. Squealing with delight. And I’m there in the front row to watch my son receive a
special mention in assembly for his project on Madiba. His bashful smile as his
eyes find mine, desperately trying not to look for too long, heart-swelling pride squaring
those small little shoulders. These are the moments that matter. The moments
that need mindfulness. The moments where I’m the most important witness to the
magic that lives within the mundane. And I realise that my mother was right.
They usually are.
So I’ve finally cleared out the crap in the
cupboard under the stairs. And now I’m going upstairs to wake my son from his
afternoon nap. I’ll lift him from his cot, limp-limbed and heavy with sleep and I’ll
bring him downstairs. We’ll sit a while on the sofa as he wakes; cuddled
against my chest, his breath warm on my neck, his chunky legs tucked into my lap.
I’ll sit and simply breathe in the scent of him. And I'll treasure the quiet moment of time. Of togetherness.
My little boy on my lap.
Before he’s back to his usual full-throttle form, tearing around in all his toddler glory.
Before he’s too
big to fit on my lap at all.
 |
| My children awed in a moment of mindfulness. |
