After the rain

The choices we make decide what will grow in the garden of a life. At my lowest ebb I bravely chose a path that has led to my garden of Eden.

There was cause for celebration.  I had reached a place in my life where I was wholeheartedly happy on my own.

Following eighteen months of solitude, independently responsible for upbringing two wee angels not yet four years old, I’d attended the local courthouse; one of many, on the conveyor belt of divorces heard that cold July morning.

Now a girls night out. Hitting the town, toasting all that I had become, for which I was immensely proud.

Swept up in the song of a one man band, we girls danced for hours.

Curvaceous feminine moves complimenting a masculine wave of sound.  We were separated. Hot and hive- like,  the crowd happily undulated around me.

I found myself looking up. Standing in his shadow, basking in his smile.

Tall, strong and sundrenched, breathing him in,  a warm sensual current rushed from my navel, igniting sensations forgotten.

Emus entwined in a blusterous dance we fluffed our feathers,  circling, profiling at pointed angles. Shifting our feet in a grounded earthy dance, deep guttural resonance of the didge and primal rhythm of hand upon drum skin coursed through our being.

We were flirting with the spirit of the emu, connected by a power we’d no hope of understanding.  It was just before midnight in the White Star Hotel.

He beckoned, “I want to give you my business card.” ” I want to know you.”

It would risk everything.

In a fraction of a second my mind was jarringly transported to a six year anti- depressant drug haze, that mundane codependent routine, begrudgingly wading through droll endless hours of domestic burden. Only to be abandoned by the man with whom I’d exchanged vows.

Eighteen months ago I was locked in the darkest recesses of my mind. Sucked into a circular vortex of self loathing. I had pulled the the covers over my head, laid in my deserted marriage bed crying ugly tears I’d numbed for years.  My babies cast out to my parents care, someone else could pick up the pieces while I hand fed my demons.

Cowardly, I was descending into bitterness. Bereft. Becoming the cliché. In the face of such adversity, only the brave could forge a bold new life.

Of all places, that black hole birthed an epiphany. I was less alone hiding in that dim room, then I’d ever felt in that relationship. This was my lucky escape.

After 6 weeks of rocking, crying in a corner, I picked myself up off the floor and reconnected with my wildly creative spirit.  Accepting the hand I’d been dealt, determined the life changes I’d always desired, would be my reality. Together, my children and I would know real joy.

And now, a hand extended before me.

Say no. Walk away.

My feet were glued in place. My heart stilled in my throat.

I inhaled.

I took his hand. “Ok.”

5 years have passed. Still dancing like emus, we married in Broome last year.

Only the brave.

Photo Credit: Leon Mead Photography

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4 thoughts on “After the rain

  1. Tash that is very powerfull, you have brought me to tears. What a wondeful story of resiliance and love. How did you go with the VAC grant they are pretty dumb if they dont give it to ya, xx serena

    Kind regards, Serena McLauchlan & David Edgar http://www.hotchingallery.com.au http://www.facebook.com/HotchinStudioGallery 4/229 Lower Stirling Terrace/ corner Residency Road Albany WA 6330 WA, 6330 Australia m: 0427 086 942 Open Thurs-Fri 12-3pm/Sat 9.30-12 or by appointment e: info@hotchingallery.com.au

    • Thanks Serena. It is always so nice to hear other’s thoughts about my writing. This year I am one of several artists to receive an emerging artists grant from the Vancouver Arts Centre. Tash x

  2. Tash, that is a beautiful piece of writing. I have always loved your bloke, but what a prize he is to you! The photo makes it ‘exquisite’.

    You paint vivid word pictures, Tash. It’s nice to read about how you came to be the Tash I know. To see the flesh on the bones. Love it!

    Do you think this reads better though? Dropping the ‘ *, I was*’

    … yet four years old, I’d attended the local courthouse; one of many, on the conveyor belt of divorces heard that cold July morning.

    x Carmel

    On Sat, Jun 29, 2013 at 6:15 PM, tishtashtosh

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