I don't recognise my life.
Part two.
Prepare your heart for this piece with this voice note my daughters created a few months ago that felt fitting for all that has been written here.
It’s also important that you have read Part One before entering, as it is the door to all that has been written here.
I don’t recognise my life right now.
As I’m writing this sentence, we have 5 days to find somewhere to live (a common story of this age, I know).
Waiting to cross Oxford Street in the rain, my three little women in tow after circling a busy city block 5 times to find a car park. The little red walking man feels like he’s walking for about 10 minutes whilst we wait to cross, our clothes becoming drenched. He finally turns green, giving us 5 minutes to run another block to the house inspection before our viewing slot ends.
In this little running red man moment, the “do not cross” beeping sound he makes dongs in my overstimulated body in the same way a jackhammer feels when you come too close in proximity to a construction site. Admittedly, I am more and more becoming not resonant with the city.
Under my breath, while the rain beats heavily on me, I have a bit of an out-of-body experience. I am holding my daughter’s hands, watching them become drenched. I see them so patiently waiting to cross the road, no complaints, whilst I feel dishevelled from all that has been of this year.
I am in disbelief in this moment,
disbelief about absolutely everything.
It’s not disbelief about this particular moment, but about everything, everything that has unfolded this year—And in a sigh that is as loud and as common as a prayer these days, I can hear its language, this particular sigh is saying “I hope you know what you are doing, God”, because I certainly don’t.
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