finding and seeking and being

I’m always looking for something.

I don’t quite know what it is.


Something I want to do.

Someone I long to be. She flees away from me, as if she thinks I’m not ready yet. Or, knowing me, she’s just teasing me.

I keep on looking, and in the meantime I just am.

He looks for me. A worn out knit blanket and a teddy bear that is losing his fur travel with him. He knows very well what he wants.


He couldn’t care less that I should be peeling carrots and crying over onions.

I sit down with him on my lap and he’s quite willing to share me with my book. He found me.

I hold him tight and his hair smells like summer and sunshine.

I inhale the smell like I’m an addict, because that’s what I am. This is me. I am just a mama kissing a sandy head of hair.

The head dives away under my chin. I slowly turn my head towards my book.

We sit, we are. |

Being might just be the most important thing you can do.

And so we sit, being important, with sand between our […]

Acceptable and unacceptable blood

“Do it yourself”, I say.

“Just go play.”

I wish he were big and independent already.

“Quit whining.” “Don’t be such a wimp.” “Blood isn’t that bad. That will heal nicely.”

I think my empathy and worrying mother’s heart are hard to find.

But there they are:

Someone hurts his heart. Deep down I feel a raging hurricane coming up, aimed at the cause of his sadness.

Blood that seeps out of your skin? You’ll be fine.

Blood seeping out of your heart? That’s serious business we’re talking about.

I want to hold him close. As if I can stop all the pain this world can give from touching him. As if I can protect him this way.

Still, I force myself to loosen my arms, pushing him out into the wide world every time again.

I feel my eyebrows wrinkle up with worry, feeling his pain deep within me.

All the pain I have ever felt comes floating up like black oil in clear water. Am I worrying about his pain or mine now?

My eyes follow him as he goes on, each step taking him a little farther into a part of the world. Without me.

Because […]

The last hour of this day

The day has slipped into the night a long time ago.

Children’s sweaty bodies are draped across their beds. Miniature chests move up and down, gently letting air in and out and the little mouths open up halfway to let it all happen a little more conveniently.

Behind closed eyelids little boys awaken in another world, slaying dragons and flying over roofs.

Beside me lies their dad, in whom I can see little pieces from all of them. His labored breathing could almost be called snoring and his mouth opens just like theirs.

I tiptoe down the stairs to close the door and can’t resist going outside for just a few minutes.

To lie down on the damp grass and stare into the night sky. The stars are staring right back.

They can already see the day of tomorrow coming. Far, far away over the horizon. I beg them to keep it at bay for just a few more hours, but all they do is stare back at me wordlessly.

The cool night flows around me, crawling up my skin as if it’s a paint brush just dipped in goosebump-paint.

I don’t want to go to sleep yet. I want […]

what I need

I’m paid with a price. But He’ll relinquish me if I want to be relinquished. I can walk away and He’ll let me go.

I don’t, because I want to be bought. I want to be bought back and saved and made into me.

The me He had in mind when He was creating my soul.

Because I don’t always know who I am, and what I should do. I don’t always know who I want to be, and what I want to do. And sometimes I am who I don’t want to be and I do what I don’t want to do, not knowing how to stop.

But the one who made me and bought me when I fell into the wrong hands, He knows how to lead me back to the one I should be.

He holds me close to His heart, so close I can hear it beating, and shows me who I can be.

I stay and I trust and I feel the water wash of the grime I didn’t even know was there.

For a second, it feels like He is the cause of the dirt washing up. I consider just turning my […]

Never alone

For 10 days, purple flowers blanketed the forest floor in the Hallerbos, enchanting thousands of people.

The bluebells do it every year again: prepare all year, to give everyone a peek into perfection for just a few days. They are fragile, vulnerable, and all over the place.

If someone steps on the flowers, they never recover. But they’ll leave their seeds. If uncaring shoes walk on the bare forest floor more then 25 times, the seeds have no chance to take root. The surrounding flowers take years and then some, to encroach on the empty spot and fill it up again.

It can be hard to get back up when all life seems to do is knock you down. Again. And again. And again.

It can seem like it isn’t worth it, when people keep walking over you like you aren’t even there.

When life drags you down with yet another wave, leaving you in the forgotten depths of the ocean.

It’s the most cliche thing to say… But you’re never alone.

Even in the depths of despair or in the black numbness that envelops you, making you oblivious to despair and joy and any feelings at […]

The past in the now

The past is in the past. And it always stays with you.

I’ve wanted to go back to the past, to who I was. To a place that was home and to people who used to belong in my story.

I’ve held on to my past and I’ve wanted to turn back time. I’ve thought that, if I could do that, I’d like to take some things from now back to then. And I’ve thought I’d leave even more things behind in the now.

But then is then, and now is now. “Then” lies behind me, “now” all around me, and “what will be” stretches out before me like the ocean, covered by a fine mist.

And yet there’s a bit of what is behind me inside of me. Like a shadow that stays in the mirror. The red stain that stays in the white container years after the spaghetti sauce has been washed out.

I’ve often seen my childhood as a burden, something to forget.

And I’ve seen it as the only thing that matters, something to anxiously cling to when all the other things in my life and in the world seemed unsure.

I’ve realized […]

Being small

From the time that we are very small, we long to be very big.

Dads and moms and teachers say, or at least it is generally thought to be desirable that they say, we are important and unique and special.

And then we get bigger and we see we are just small dots. Dots among dots, like sand at the beach.

We are not inclined to feel grateful for that feeling.

So we stand on a platform. We swing our arms around. And they walk right on by.

We sigh a deep sigh and wave our arms around halfheartedly before sitting down despondently.

Grains of sand accept they are part of the whole, they won’t be put on a pedestal to be admired above all the other grains of sand on the beach, but we don’t accept our fate so easily.

We want to be seen. Preferably alone. The numbers of admirers are never quite enough. We feel out, despite the high numbers some of us manage to accumulate.

As if there is an elite in-group, and if you can only be part of and call out their admiration, that it will fill all the empty places, the vague […]