And then there was a moment to type...

The fridge hums. The peace lily flowers white. The lights are low and my daughter sleeps in the next room. She cries. Whimpers. I wonder how much of my emotional storms have cast into her body. Do they meet her in the dream space? A few days ago she turned to me. Eyes glossed with tears that fell across her cheek, she looked to me, bottom lip puckered. She showed me her sadness.

I discern what is to be shared and what is to be kept private. Emotional hurricanes have blasted through our home. Mr Dzedze has been away working on a new TV show. I've been left to pace and process solo, often lonely. When we're together, our communication is impeccable. When apart, in different worlds, riding different waves, it's been disastrous.

There's a fire inside and it pops and crackles, snapping at me. I gaze at the screen as though staring into internal flames. Imagine I'm back in the UK, sat around a fire with kith and kin. The air bubbles with laughter and I daydream into the infinite. I miss people. I miss my childhood. I miss the air feeling full with human breath. The village that raised me. I feel swallowed by memories that are so present, yet so far.

I miss my Dad. How the bass tones of his voice carried me to safety. How we jumped off cliffs, trekked through jungles, swam deep in the ocean, and made friends with the wilderness. How every step of the way I was held. I sometimes feel him in the wind and the song of the birds. I imagine how he might look at his first grandchild if he had eyes to see her through, if he was still here. I feel the heartbreak of how gone he is. My heart breaks again to feel how near he is too.

Mama's coming. In a week. We might cry together. It's been fifteen years since Dad passed away, but it never really hurts any less. I feel excited to see her with our child. To watch them together. Bounces, cuddles and songs will initiate her as Oma. Each of us a baby and an elder, filled with wisdom and wonder, and totally clueless too.

Life is wonderful, and it's challenging. I believe in meeting it all as fully as I can. Sometimes that means engaging with what arises. Other times it means leaving it alone. I trust there is always a deeper wisdom at play. Last night a friend came over and we talked for hours, caught up, shared food. I miss sharing food. Today's take-out is half-eaten, cold on the countertop.

Nyaniso's absence angers me. I understand it, but it hurts no less. I wonder if he feels the speed of time. How these precious early months of our daughter's life will never come again. How with every suckle and sleep she grows. I wonder how the word 'family' moves through his body when he's so far away. Is this distance our new reality? The standard now?

Birth of the mother, death of the fantasy. Never have I felt my face so firmly pushed into the facts. Into the shadow and light of life, the blessing and burden, the simplicity of what is and what isn't. I'm grieving. All that once was and all that will never be. The only way to move is slowly, speaking gentle words to myself. I listen with my belly, love with my hands. I hold us both. My daughter is me, I am my parents, and god is made from all that comes and goes.