Downright Joy

Discovering joy in unexpected places – a journey into Down's syndrome, Dyspraxia & Autism

Category Archives: dyspraxia


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Bucket List

Photo by Phil Hearing on Unsplash

What’s the correct name for it? The sparkle you get on the surface of the sea especially in summer…… as sunlight catches the ripples, usually on a calm day. A gently moving carpet of glittering diamonds, shimmering and shimmying as far as the eye can see. 

I’m not sure there is a name for it. It’s far too beautiful a sight to be contained by a single word. It takes my breath away every time I see it, which is not that often as I do not live by the sea.

I wonder if I would tire of this sight if I did? It’s a sight I long to see every year. Most years I’ve been blessed enough to see it. It makes me smile. Every single time. 

I don’t have a Bucket List. You know the sort of thing, a list of places I want to visit in my lifetime, and or experiences I want to have at least once before I die. A cruise perhaps, or a trip to the Northern Lights. I’ve never fancied jumping out of a plane but I wouldn’t say no to a Trip on The Orient Express. Or Vienna. I’d quite like to visit Vienna. But I don’t have a Bucket List. I don’t really have a list at all.

Bucket lists are hard to fulfill when you are the main carer for someone you love. A list filled with experiences that may never happen simply because to make them happen would require the movement of both heaven and earth for most carers and the one(s) they care for. I don’t think many would deny that being an unpaid carer involves a level of sacrifice and loneliness that most people will never have to give or experience…unless they become one themselves, that is. Not only that, but the name Bucket List doesn’t sit well with me, it feels sort of depressing; though of course I know that one day I will ‘kick the bucket’ like every other mortal on the planet. 

Personally speaking, having a Bucket List is a pressure I can happily live without.  Don’t get me wrong, I would love (I think) every one of those experiences I mentioned and may have dreamt about as well as more, should they ever come my way. For now, and for the foreseeable future (which is a strange thing to say I always think, because the future is not really foreseeable for any of us) I am content to enjoy those experiences that often come with no name but that make me smile, make me catch my breath. And there are some I don’t enjoy at all that are also to be collected, valued even.

Some happen to me occasionally, like visits to the seaside. Others daily, hourly. Often.

Like the moment my daughter, who has Down’s syndrome, laughs out loud at who knows what. It’s a mystery but it’s very funny.

Or the moment she is given shoes that don’t rub her little feet red raw anymore, along with splints that fit correctly. She marches off, instead of hobbling. Her legs still tire, and when they do she beams as she sits back into her wheelchair. She cannot tell me her joy or her pain in words as she has none. These moments sparkle as much as the sea sparkles in the height of summer.

Or the moment her sister instinctively helps her off with her coat or shares an armchair with her. Though she shares more than an armchair; she shares her time, her attention, her love. Getting back in return seemingly nothing sometimes, but in reality everything and more. What is the name for that? Some say siblings of people with Down’s syndrome suffer. They give it a name, even though they have never sat in the same armchair, or taken off her coat. How dare they so falsely name an experience of which they know so little.

Sometimes it is the moment just after another procedure, operation or clinic appointment. Heart heavy with loving her through yet more trauma. Hers and mine. Tear stained walks along hospital corridors, telling myself and her “It’s over now, it’s ok, we’re going home”. Knowing that it’s only over until the next time. Knowing that it doesn’t really get easier. 

Even the kindness of the medics can be painful and I have been known to crumple.

These moments are harsh, but they are also profoundly beautiful. The love swells, mingled with pain, making it ever more precious.

Oh but I do have a Bucket and I am very fond of it. It’s not shiny, it has holes and probably needs a good clean. Yet it is filled with experiences I would never have imagined possible before I was gifted the responsibility and privilege of caring for this disabled child and her sister. 

Many of these experiences have no name, some are incredibly painful, others joyful beyond measure; and I treasure them all.

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Songbird

bird in cage

I know why the caged bird sings is a book that profoundly moved me when I first read it years ago. The author, Maya Angelou, vividly recounts her childhood against a backdrop of racism, discrimination and poverty.  A book filled with moments of joyous discovery weaved into and through a history lesson on brutality.

I’ve been re-reading it again recently.  I say recently, but it’s taken me over a year and I still haven’t finished. Not for want of trying – I’ve quite an impressive stack of literature next to my bed; but for the fact that the moment my head hits the pillow I’m gone.

As a parent and carer to two children with a range of both complex medical needs and disabilities between them; Autism, Down’s syndrome, Dyspraxia (let’s just say the list of conditions at the top of our hospital letters takes up most of the page) – reading for leisure, in fact most kinds of leisure tend to take a back seat. Sleep is more of a priority as it can often be in short supply. Tube feeding my child every night tends to cut across most socially acceptable leisure pursuits at the best of times.

(She’s worth it of course, of that I have no doubts. They both are).

Therefore, a trip to the hairdressers every eight or nine weeks or so is something I guard jealously. A self-indulgent hour and a half that serves also as an opportunity to read.

Maya Angelou comes with me. She sits beside me in the salon. She laughs in the mirror and tells me her tales. That laugh. From her belly. Gets me every time.

My hairdresser is too polite to mention that I am still reading the same book as last time, and the time before and the time before that.

Last week, chapter twenty five was waiting for me. Three quarters of the way through. I looked forward to Friday and my appointment.

Chapter twenty five is still waiting for me. Like everyone else in the nation, no, the world pretty much….a haircut now has to wait. Appointment cancelled. Salon closed. It’s on hold.

Everything is on hold. In some way and to some degree.

And, for families like mine, it’s vital support systems that have been put on hold. Systems we have fought for, prayed for, cried for, pleaded for. Systems we have celebrated gaining access to: education, healthcare, social activities for the disabled, respite for carers and much more. Support systems gifted to us by the kindness and dedication of numerous volunteers. Families, like mine, suddenly find themselves without these vital networks. More than that, they watch in disbelief as people panic buy medical supplies such as gloves and clinical wipes – items we rely on for daily life, regardless of a pandemic, are now in short supply. Respite centres close, lifelines are cut off. And though the world moves online; excellent programmes and meetings are created and made available to those who now have lots of time on their hands, these are much less accessible to families like mine. These families wonder how on earth they will cope. I wonder that too.

Then I remember Maya.

I remember thankfulness. I remember beauty in hard places. I remember to live one day at a time. I remember to not worry about tomorrow for tomorrow will have enough worries of its own.

I look at my daughter who has Down’s syndrome. She is non-verbal,  yet she tells me all I need to hear, loud and clear.

She tells me that there is joy to be found in the waiting, in the confusion and in the uncertainty. In the now.

She loves her life. Her school, the farm she visits, the lambs she strokes, her home, the park, the shops, her beads and ribbons, Granny & Grandad’s house….

She has no idea why she cannot go much beyond her back garden at the moment. She is confused. Sometimes she is upset. Yet she searches out joy and brings it to me in some small, gigantic way every day. Today it was in a belly laugh. A bit like Maya’s. From deep within yet at what? I have no idea.

Hardship is, well, hard, yet it does not have to be devoid of joy.

Our lives are not really on hold, even on the hardest of days when there is no respite to be found. Even then, I have found there are always reasons to be thankful, always opportunities for joy.  My daughter with Down’s syndrome eloquently tells me so.

And I remember Maya. And I think I might know, a least a little bit, why the caged bird sings.

 

And Still I Rise – Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou

 

 


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Framed

Today is my birthday. It’s a big birthday.

Its ten years since my last big birthday. The biggest birthday I’ve ever had, though there was and is no zero on the end of it.

Ten years since I woke up in hospital, 29 weeks pregnant, surrounded by monitors and hooked up to machines. A nurse stationed at the foot of my bed. I’d spent a week in Intensive Care as doctors fought to save not just my life but that of my unborn baby. One by one, my major organs gradually shutting down. My husband told to expect the worst; doctors didn’t know if either of us could be saved. I was hours from death.

Ketoacidosis- a condition I’d never heard of, had crept up from nowhere. We had been enjoying our last holiday before the baby was due. Brixham; a pretty little fishing village on the Devon coast and a place I’ve not been able to revisit since, such are the painful memories it evokes. The holiday had to be cut short. It’s a condition that is fatal if not immediately treated, brought on by poorly managed or untreated diabetes. As I’d had no previous indications of diabetes in my pregnancy it was a mystery why I became so ill. So unusual, that doctors later asked my permission to write a medical paper on me for their journals.

I woke up and the doctor wished me happy birthday.

For ten years I’ve always considered it a terrible birthday. On my discharge from ICU, I was offered counselling- such was the potentially traumatising effect of a week in ICU.  I declined. I felt no need – I had survived and so had my unborn baby. I had something wonderful to look forward to and that was enough.  Over the years I’ve pondered on the experience more so. Only recently discovering, for example, that the weird hallucinations I had whilst there were as a result of the cocktail of drugs being pumped into me. Perhaps if I’d taken up their offer I would’ve known this.

It’s taken ten years for me to celebrate that birthday. May 7 2009 is the day I got given my life back. It’s the day I knew I was still going to be a mum.

It was the start of the next ten years.

Ten years that have brought much joy into my life as well as difficulty. Ten years that have brought formal diagnoses including Down’s syndrome, Dyspraxia, and recently Autism into my life through my children. Diagnoses that, at one time, would have filled me with fear but that have instead brought me into the most amazing community, and given me two unique children who, along with the challenges, bring me indescribable joy.

There is much talk in the Down’s syndrome community about changing the narrative around a diagnosis. A well-worn phrase that I wonder may be past its sell by date. Too clichéd perhaps; I’m not sure. Yet the desire behind it to see a story told differently is one I applaud. For so long, pregnant women have been told of the ‘risks’ of having a child with Down’s syndrome. These are well known and documented. A quick google search will (sadly) bring up all kinds of fear inducing scenarios for a new mum; many of them based on outdated and frankly incorrect information, using terminology long since thrown into Room 101 by those who know better.

A snapshot of my own experience in the last ten years shows there’s much to be done. Ten years ago doctors fought to save the life of my unborn baby at 29 weeks. A little over two years later and doctors and midwives in the same hospital were telling me I should consider aborting my second unborn child even up to birth if I wanted.

Why? All because of a possible extra chromosome and the fears surrounding it. One life worth preserving, the other disposable according to their rule book. Though I am thankful to the doctor who, after initially offering me this ‘way out’, apologised saying he wished he didn’t have to but that he had to ‘follow strict guidelines’. The stats bear him out. Over 90% of babies found prenatally to have Down’s syndrome in the UK are routinely aborted.

The story of Down’s syndrome played out in many hospitals and clinics is a story that needs to change because it’s not the whole story. Parents are given only a snapshot of what life is really like with an extra Chromosome. And that snapshot is often out of focus. Framed in such a way that obscures the joyful reality of loving a person with Down’s syndrome.

It’s not lost on me either, that my first child – the one doctors fought to save has since had more than her fair share of challenges; diagnoses of conditions we didn’t know she had in utero. Yet no one ever suggested terminating her life. This will change if the proponents of pre-natal testing get their way and more conditions are targeted in the womb. So much they will be able to tell you and yet so little.

Ten years ago I almost died. A horrible, dreadful experience.

Ten years ago I was given a chance to live.

Ten years ago the doctor stood beside my bed, a week after he said I might not live, and wished me happy birthday.

Ten years since he and other skilled professionals saved my life and that of my baby. Ten years since many people prayed for me. A few came to ICU and prayed over me.  Some are no longer here themselves. I’ll always remember my dear friend Vicky (whose birthday I shared) getting past the tight security that would only let family or clergy in. Vicky was not one to ever let protocol get in her way and she came to hold my hand, praying as I drifted in and out of delirium.  I don’t understand why she is no longer here and it hurts my heart, but I smile at that memory.

So I will reframe my birthday of ten years ago. I won’t change the story by wiping out the painful, difficult, anxious, terrifying parts. But I will celebrate all that was good and all that began that day. I will stop remembering it in mournful, self-pitying tones but rejoice in the new life it began.

I will look at the whole picture and put it in a new frame. Some stories are worth telling from a different perspective.

Happy Birthday to me.

Dedicated to Vicky Taylor.  

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Miss you Vic, happy birthday x

 


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This Enabled Life

Pony

If you’d told thirty something me that, in ten years’ time, I would be immersed in the language and experience of the disabled (from a carer’s perspective), I would have been horrified. Certainly fearful. The language surrounding disability so often negative, conjured up outdated and prejudiced ideas in my mind as to what it really meant to be disabled. ‘Stick man’ in wheelchair symbols segregating an entire group of people, robbing them, to some extent, of their individuality.

The disabled. It was a word I was distant from.

Ten years on and, for me, the word has changed from something to fear into someone to love.

Two someones actually.

Both my children find themselves labelled, to a degree, with this word. Down’s syndrome and, more recently, Dyspraxia have propelled them and me into a world of disability.

One corner of this world is Riding for the Disabled. An iconic name. RDA. Falls easily off the tongue. And though I wouldn’t want to change the name, in some ways, it’s a misnomer. Let me tell you why. Hint…it’s magic!

You see, the moment a person steps inside an RDA arena, or is wheeled inside, they actually cease to be disabled. Yes really, they do. Honestly. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.

Time and again their disability, whether it’s an obvious one or a hidden one, appears to disappear! Like magic. At least, that’s what’s happened to both my children whenever they’ve gone there.

Feet that could not walk given an opportunity to run on borrowed legs, four not two. Instead of staring up from the confines of a wheelchair, eye contact tricky when level only with an elbow; they now look down from a great height and are masters of all they survey.

Arms and hands that struggle with the simplest of everyday tasks take hold of the reins and quickly learn to control the gentlest of giants.

Voices that are mostly silent now dare to be heard. A whisper or a shout, for the first time perhaps. Sensing their non-verbal rider has an untold story to tell, the pony lends a listening ear, without comment or expectation, without judgement or prejudice.

Self-esteem, buried deep by exclusion or failure, emerges into warm sunshine. Bursting out in a smile that wasn’t there before. High fives and fist pumps were made for moments like these.

No longer disabled but enabled.

Enabled to do something physical, something challenging, something motivating, something rewarding. For some, it’s life changing.

Riding for the Enabled.

I know it’s never going to be a strapline, nor does it need to be. The real magic has nothing to do with the name, or even the ponies, precious and vital as they are. It’s the people. The volunteers. The enablers. Those individuals who sacrifice time and money to enable others. They are the ones who make the magic happen. Without them, each and every one of them, the disabled, would stay as they are. RDA – in our case Cotswold RDA, has a fantastic team of enablers. They deserve to be recognised far and wide for their selfless work. Work that changes lives, quite literally.

In the last 10 years I have come to know lots of enablers. People who go out of their way to enable our children, our family. Some are professionals. A Paediatrician who has given us unequivocal support. An Occupational Therapist who has pulled out all the stops to bring about positive change. A SENDCO who consistently validates our concerns and works with us to help our child. Teachers & TAs who go the extra mile to create the very best learning experiences for both our children. Nurses who have given us respite and support. GPs and their staff who make difficult times easier to bear. Charities and therapeutic services, speech & language therapists, physiotherapists, music therapists. People who work hard to enable others. This list is endless.

This is not to sugar coat living with disability. There are many tough times. Next to my laptop is a letter I received this week from our Paediatrician, summarising 18 months of assessments, hospital visits and other appointments. It’s a letter that those who have been on the road to a diagnosis will be familiar with. One that lists, in its heading, far more issues for our eldest child than we had perhaps realised. But the sharp in-take of breath that is needed on first reading a letter like this has been quickly replaced with relief and, most importantly, hope. Why? Because of the enablers we will now meet as a result. People who will help our daughter to succeed not fail.

Sometimes we look for them and can’t find them, this is true. Sometimes they are there but we are prevented from meeting them due to tightly held budgets or politics and red tape. Sometimes the fight to meet them is extremely frustrating, overwhelming.

But they are there.

And so we go into this post-diagnosis stage of our lives looking forward to meeting more enablers.

People who make a disabled life an enabled one.

M & H at RDA

Find out more about the amazing work done by Cotswold RDA

 


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If the cap fits

mannequin-732631_1280

“But what do you do all day?” Is a question I am sometimes asked and, well, I don’t like to be impolite but, seeing as you asked (and even if you didn’t) I will try to answer it.

Today I went into battle. On the front line. I pushed back into enemy territory. My efforts were resisted but I persevered.  I took ground that was being strongly defended. I claimed it for my severely Dyspraxic child who needed a service that was being denied. Today I was brave, but I was scared.

Today I was a Soldier.

Today I changed a broken feeding tube, in an emergency.  I bathed an open wound and I administered yet another new medication. Today, as every day, I tube fed my child who cannot yet feed. I was scared, but I was brave.

Today I was a Nurse.

Today I learnt all about Proprioception and how understanding it could really help my Dyspraxic & Autistic child. But first I need to learn to say it. Today was enlightening.

Today I was a Student.

Today I took my child who struggles with reading to Hogwarts. I read two entire chapters at bedtime. We found Platform 9 and 3/4, ate chocolate frogs and fought bravely against Lord Voldemort. Today was magical.

Today I was a Storyteller.

Today I gave my child a haircut at home. A trip to a hair salon too distressing for a child with sensory issues. Today my home became a salon. One with toys and television and iPads. Today I felt like I achieved the impossible.

Today I was a Hairdresser.

Today I trawled the internet. Endless articles on Down’s syndrome, on Dyspraxia, on Sensory Processing, and on Autism. Today I drank a lot of coffee.

Today I was a Researcher.

Today I made some gadgets and gizmos. Stress balloons filled with cornflour, spinning bottles that rattled with shiny shimmery beads and bells, ribbon twirlers, baskets brimming with tactile treasures. Today I had fun making toys that would help my children make sense of the world around them.

Today I was an Inventor.

Today I attended another appointment to discuss the needs of my children. The sixty something appointment this year. Yes, honestly. I’ve counted. Today I was early.

Today I was an Advocate.

Today I wrote a blog highlighting the discrimination faced by those with Down’s syndrome. I challenged the view held by many that my child should not even exist simply because she has an extra chromosome.  I tweeted my MP. Today I got angry.

Today I was a Campaigner.

Today I watched my anxious child find new confidence in an activity she had previously not coped with. Today was brilliant.

Today I was a Cheerleader.

Today I lost count of the phone calls I made, the emails I sent. Today I opened yet more appointment letters on behalf of my children. I cancelled plans, I turned down invitations. I had to let people down. Today I despaired.

Today I was an Administrator.

Today my glass is half empty. Yesterday, it was half full. Tomorrow is a new day.

Today I am thankful for the glass.

Today I met with Trainee Doctors and told them about life with a child with Down’s syndrome. Today I busted some myths.

Today I was a Teacher.

Today I took my child for yet another blood test. I wrapped my whole body around hers as she wriggled, kicked and generally protested about this latest injustice. Today I tried hard not to cry.

Today I was a Wrestler.

Today I cradled my child as she drifted off to sleep under anaesthetic for yet another procedure. Gratefully surrounded by skilled, caring people who only want the best for her.  Today I could not do any work.

Today I was broken.

Today I visited my child at school to watch her assembly. I saw her walk in. Slowly, gripping the hands of her teacher as she stepped tentatively into the hall. Her legs are getting stronger, her world is opening up. She is surrounded by the support, care and expertise of some incredible professionals. Today I thought my heart would burst.

Today I was the happiest woman alive.

I am a mother to two amazing children,  both of whom have disabilities and additional needs, both of whom make me incredibly proud every single day.

Today, and every day,  I have the best job in the world!

 


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Abracadabra

 

Magic photo (2)

Abracadabra

This afternoon, my 9 year old daughter rediscovered her Magic Set, a gift for her birthday some years ago. A happy hour or so followed this discovery as she relearned and performed some old tricks. Tricks made trickier by her dyspraxic brain, we none the less cheered and applauded her with “wow” and “amazing” and “how did you do that?” Ignoring a dropped card here and there or the not so slight of hand that kept revealing its secrets, we allowed ourselves to be thoroughly entertained by her enthusiasm and joy.

Magic.

We smiled as we recalled her much younger self with the same magic wand. Sent to her room for some misdemeanour or other, she slammed the door, waving her wand as she did so, shouting those magic words “abracadabra, make everything MY WAY!” Her foot stamping in time with the last two words.

In a year when she has discovered that Santa isn’t real and the tooth fairy is not to be trusted, you’d be forgiven for thinking that our house is now devoid of magic.

In the words of CS Lewis, there is a magic deeper still…..

It has nothing to do with fairies or elves, magicians or illusionists.

Before I was a mum I would imagine magical moments like this: happy parents swinging their toddler on the count of three as they walked along a path to a park. A familiar scene, but one that, in reality, never happened. Neither of our children could walk when they were toddlers. The shout it from the roof tops moment when my first born took her first steps as a 3 year old was soon eclipsed by another. The deeply personal moment she stood up at home, later that day, and whispered proudly to herself “I can walk”.

Magic. Deep Magic.

The magic happens when we least expect it. Like it did yesterday.

Yesterday, Hazel walked hand in hand with us, her parents, very slowly along a path for the first time in her life.

Nothing remarkable or magical to the untrained eye. To the non believer, there is nothing to see.

Hazel is my almost 7 year old daughter who has Down’s syndrome and cannot walk by herself. Hazel is wheelchair dependent.

Deeper magic.

And, just a few days earlier, this same magic had appeared at bath-time. Her favourite toy that blows bubbles and plays a tune had stopped working. The bubbles had run out. A regular occurrence. Usually Hazel would simply turn away and look for something else to play with. Not this time.

Magic was in the air.

She turned and looked up at me. Directly. Urgently.

Mum you need to fix this for me she said.

Except she didn’t say a word. She can’t. She does not yet have the words to tell me when something is wrong or when she wants something.

But she looked at me. For the first time in 7 years she told me what she wanted by looking at me.

Magic. Deeper magic.

I’ve been taking a break from blogging and some social media recently. Not because I don’t like it, the opposite is true. But having my head in a screen as often as I was meant I was in danger of missing the magic. I want to be fully present in these moments. They are a long time in coming and all the more magical because of that.

When a child reaches a milestone it’s always a magical moment.

When a child or person with a disability reaches a milestone, or does something they have never done before it is beyond magic.

Deeper magic.

 

“There is a magic deeper still that the witch did not know”

CS Lewis, The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe.

 


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Windmills and Bicycles

I love the Chelsea Flower Show. Glorious, decadent, sometimes ridiculous, but always sumptuous. A televisual feast that I dine out on each May. A week long explosion of colour in my living room (I’ve yet to actually go there). Designers clamouring for hard won awards from the judges. A label to be proudly displayed for all to see, opening doors to further fame and success.

Inspired by this sublime, horticultural festival I annually turn my attention to my own patch of ground or ‘garden’ as it’s rather hopefully known. I imagine how I will transform it into my own haven of tranquility; one with an edgy, urban, free flowing design, softened by wispy aromatic planting and ethereal water features. Award winning. Gold Standard or at least a Silver Gilt.

But not today.

Today the paddling pool is out. A large blue inflatable bath sits slap bang in the middle of the lawn. Well, perhaps lawn is a little optimistic. But there’s definitely grass, of varying lengths. Quite a few patches of the stuff in fact.

There is a border…of sorts. Hardly wispy though. More weighty. Overgrown even. A tree or two. A couple of swings, a small trampoline and a shed.

Oh. And a windmill.

A bright, colourful and very large plastic windmill.

You see, the garden of my dreams is not the garden of my reality.  The garden I envisaged is not a bit like the one I actually have. A different reality.  Not how I imagined.  A bit rough around the edges in places. Needs maintenance.

The garden I have is magical.

Yesterday, she made the windmill spin. My daughter has never done that before. The windmill I purchased on a whim from a cheap and cheerful retail outlet just the other day.

She’ll enjoy looking at that.

But she did more than look at it. She made it spin. She actually made the windmill turn. Over and over again. An action that most children would learn to do in a heartbeat has taken her years to accomplish. It does not matter. She did it. And she loved it.

Our garden is a safe place for a child with Down’s syndrome.  A place for her to be. To feel, to smell, to touch, to taste, to explore. Our garden is her space. A safe space. A nurturing space. A joyful space.

It’s also a place where her older sister can be herself. It’s where she can, if she chooses, practice riding a bike – away from the quizzical looks of others. She has yet to be able to ride a bike properly. Dyspraxia – a life-long developmental condition – has recently been added to the list of our own awards. Another formal label now appears at the top of the endless stream of hospital letters that we receive; I’m not complaining – labels can help open doors to a different kind of success. Dyspraxia makes the things that most children take for granted so much harder for her. Climbing, swimming, running, jumping, riding a bike or a scooter – they are all typically huge challenges for a person with Dyspraxia. It also brings with it a host of daily sensory challenges and stresses.

Our garden is her safe place too.

We are soon to have some long overdue landscaping done. Some order is most definitely needed, I have to admit.  A patio would be nice.

Chelsea is glorious. Perfection. But in many ways it’s an illusion. Temporary. Taken down once the cameras have been switched off.  For most people, their gardens are not like that. And, as much as I love Chelsea, I am sad at how it leaves me feeling when it’s over. As though my garden isn’t good enough. Defective. Less than.

Our garden is not a Chelsea garden. Yet, despite perceived flaws in its design it brings great beauty and depth to our lives. Sometimes chaotic, sometimes peaceful. It is an ever changing landscape that challenges me and captivates me at the same time. It is a tough but beautiful place to be. I want no other garden.

I think Chelsea is perhaps selling fake flowers. Artificial.

Someone told me once that I could aim for perfection with my unborn child. By not having her. By ending her life before she was born and trying again for a better one. A gold standard, award winning one.  I like gold, I really do.

But I prefer windmills.

Hazel and windmill