Breathe
Written by Holly Ruskin
Boil the kettle, steep your tea and gather your thoughts. Breathe, stretch out your body on the mat before you bring it to your desk. Gather your energy, take a slow sip of your tea and start to write. Listen out for the bird call through your open window; nature’s accompaniment to this moment of creative surrender and solitude.
…
This is how I would choose to write now and a version of it is how I’ve written in the past, before I became a writer who is also a mother. I mourn the days I would sit down to write without thinking, like eating a meal or washing my face, it was just one part of my daily routine that I took for granted. To write now means trying to find an uninterrupted hour (and one that is never guilt-free). So ironic given that it is this postnatal woman, with her pallor grey from sleep deprivation and her heart full of love, who needs a creative outlet more than ever. The soothing sounds of fingers dancing over black keys, light with passion and the sheer luxury of time.
Because I find myself at a crossroads in my womanhood. 37 years old: wife, mother, teacher, indie press co-founder and writer. There are so many ways I would define myself, and yet none of them suits me. I am a little girl, tugging at her sleeves and itching under the collar of a sweater that just doesn’t fit.
It could be the seismic shift that happens after you grow, birth and start caring for another human being that knocked me off my axis. Left me with a wardrobe full of clothes that I can’t bring myself to wear. Books bought before I realized, I don’t even know what I like to read. Spotify playlists left unfinished. Recipes marked but not yet cooked.
Yes, it could be the scorched earth of motherhood. But I think it’s something more than that. Living through a pandemic, watching people and working practices change in ways we never thought possible. That’s it, I think. Change is possible. Change IS possible and so, like exposure therapy, it doesn’t scare me anymore to know that I can grow again from the ground up. And at the same time, I am reaching for certainty, the rock-solid foundation that is self-love, and yet my hands are coming back empty.
I am a 37-year-old woman and I don’t know who I am. Not only do I not know myself, I don’t love myself either.
I am sure, though, that I can write myself back into being. There are lines to be drawn, words and phrases strung together that will lead me back…to me. While in previous years I’ve looked outside myself for answers, I’ve reached this point in my life and woken up to the fact that none of it has worked. It can’t have done, because I’m still as anxious and angry and confused as I ever was. Being a woman in a patriarchal society strips you of the tools needed to thrive because you’re too busy surviving the onslaught of fear and pain that comes with living here. In fact, you only need to look as far as fucking Texas to realize we are a long way from creating a world in which women are empowered to know, love and trust themselves.
So in the small windows of time I have now, I type hasty notes into my phone. Openings, endings and short paragraphs that might become something later on when my daughter is finally asleep. Then there’s my journal, its blue foiled cover decorated with shiny orange lobsters (found in a small independent bookshop and loved immediately for its daring and unusual bravery). Every night before I close my eyes, I spend 10 minutes writing with a real pencil and the sumptuous comfort of an eraser. Some things make it to my IG account and others stay within the lobster pages. But all of it is a homecoming, each word the layer of skin I’m growing – again.
…
Keep one eye on the girl, hand steering the scooter with the other wrapped around your phone. Sunglasses on to shield your eyes from the sun, screen just about visible while you navigate the uneven stretch of road. Tell her again where we’re going, while you write down where you hope to be next. Put one foot in front of the other as you type in each word. Pause to right her hat and reach for her snack. Breathe. Become fully present, in this precious moment of chaste creativity.
HOLLY RUSKIN has been a writer all her life, but started exploring the poetic form after the birth of her daughter in 2019. She graduated with a BA in English Literature & Film, going on to complete an MA in Film, specializing in feminism and the representation of women. She co-founded ‘blood moon poetry’, an inclusive and welcoming place for female poets to submit their work for publication. Holly lives in Bristol, UK.
The anthology ‘Faces of Womanhood’ comes out in paperback on Monday, the 9th of August 2021, and will be available through Amazon. All profits made go to ‘Womankind Worldwide.’ You can find out more on bloodmoonpoetry.com and on Instagram.