Purpose

It is raining. At this time of the year it is always raining. No socks, just shoes and Peter's jumper with a white snowflaked scarf and the trousers that Ma has stitched using discards from the Resource Centre to nip down to the local Spar. The beech tree is entrely bald now, although the spurs of tiny buds are beginning to appear. Sheathed in that papery casing that will suddenly litter the garden when spring arrives and the green fuse ignites. For some reason i felt elated, entirely happy. I was thinking of Mrs Dalloway, which i had watched last night, and the compromise that Woolf struggled herocially towards as she concluded the novel. A struggle she wasn't able to overcome in her own life as she took it.

There are times in the past when i have felt like a faithless lover to life and allowed myself to slip away, to ignore it, to say no. To be so terrifically angry, but it impossible now to do this when i have a child and am about to have a child. As i returned with my treasures of cream for the coffee, 2 pints of milk and an Observer - i would have preferred the Independent, but clearly there is no market for it in East Belfast - i thought what is our purpose? For instance, could we reduce life to purpose? Surely not...but...


If Oisin had a purpose, what would it be? To me it would be the constant reminder that life is so tenderly and tremendously beautiful. That as his parent, it is my duty to allow his soul to expand as much as possible to embrace life. It is not easy as you protect and respect him as much as you can to allow him to grow into his own version of life. To not possess while simulatenously sharing as much as i can. That expression of wonder on his face - to hold wonder continuously for the rest of his life. Our lives. If i can do that and if he reminds me to constantly do that then we would have lived.