Dusty mothers

My mum sent me this poem by Rose Milligan called Dust If You Must:

Dust if you must, but wouldn't it be better

to paint a picture, or write a letter,

bake a cake, or plant a seed;

ponder the difference between want and need?

Dust if you must, but there's not much time,

with rivers to swim, and mountains to climb;

music to hear, and books to read;

friends to cherish, and life to lead.

Dust if you must, but the world's out there,

with sun in your eyes, and wind in your hair;

a flutter of snow, a shower of rain,

this day will not come around again.

Dust if you must, but bear in mind,

Old age will come and it's not kind.

And when you go (and go, you must)

you yourself, will make more dust.

And I just thought it was so very funny because my Mum really likes a dust-free surface and I mostly don't care, until the sun pours in through the window spotlighting the thin film across all my shiny surfaces. I love that my Mum has accepted that we have differing views on the importance of dusting and ironing and the folding of tea towels.

Why would you dust, when you could do this? This amazing painting is called 'Our voices are still singing on the margins' by Aleah Chapin

We will all make more dust, one day. But until then, to all the beautiful women I know, whether you are a mother to little people or dogs or cats or lizards, a widow, an orphan, a daughter, the fun aunt, a sister, a carer, a best friend or any other iteration of being a woman in this world, know this:

You are magnificent. You are absolutely doing your best. You are wise, and funny, and so loving. I admire you for your brains and body building and artistic talents. I admire the way you do jigsaw puzzles and keep your family together and always pick up the phone when I call. I admire your smiles despite adversity, and tears when they need to be shed. I am in awe of the way you can pick up the pieces and keep your family together. I admire your honesty and filthy sense of humour and the way you sing the words wrong. I love that, despite your inability to read maps, you know exactly where you are going. I love seeing your name on my phone and the way we launch, mid-sentence, into our conversation. I am so impressed that you have bought hiking boots at 73. I love that you wear fluffy jumpers even in the humidity. I love that you have so much fashion sense when I have none. I love that your current mantra is 'It all belongs' despite your body being ravaged. I am humbled by the way you cared for your dying loved one with such grace and honesty. I am heartened that your mothering will provide a safe passage for your daughters to heal. It makes me feel safe to know that you are watching over our suburb, surrounded by lamps, when I am away. I admire your capacity to show up and rage and rant and be angry and just as quickly dissolve into sadness. And to do this over and over again until the sadness lifts and some light creeps in. I love our hugs. Our meandering conversations. Our inside jokes. Our silliness. Our beach walks and long chats and the hilarity that is found at the bottom of a bottle or two of champagne at a bench scattered with Cheezel crumbs.

I love all the women I know. Flawed, functional, funny, fearless, fabulous. Whatever your plan is for Sunday 11 May, I hope you celebrate your magnificent self. All that matters is that you know how much you matter.

Much love,

❤️

Amanda xx

PS I love you Mum. You're the best Mum IN THE WHOLE WORLD (does this mean I don't have to get you a card and some dodgy flowers now?)

PPS Dusting is officially banned on Sunday

PPS I deleted a massive rant about the crappy marketing for mothers day. You're welcome!