Free AI web copilot to create summaries, insights and extended knowledge, download it at here

Abstract

by.So did the man who walked down the lane at 2 am that morning. No need to fear any aggression because he was too surprised to see us out wandering down the silent, moonlit lane.The cows were kind. The man was kind. Now it was time for me to learn to show a bit more kindness to myself.Unlike most people who decide to spend several months in India with their young family, it wasn’t a positive and happy decision that we’d made together. On the contrary, it was a combination of my partner fighting a depression and me feeling pushed into a corner.I was self-absorbed, writhing at the injustice of the situation, and he was non-communicative. Which left us with a pretty dire situation that had little chance of improving. In my mind, this was a last chance for him to stick to his promises and for us to try to make the relationship work. All his persuasive lines to get me to agree to giving up our rented home in England and embark on a trip to India were based on him taking on some childcare and freeing me up to remember what it was like to be a normal human being.But he had already gone back on his word too many times in the two months we had been here, and I had already checked out of the relationship. The 2 am crying incident was just another one helping to seal it for me.The greatest lesson I learnt from that relationship was that when loving support does not manifest within a relationship, it’s vital to reach out beyond it in any wholesome way possible. And when I did, I was bowled over by how open and generous people were with me.Such as the kind-eyed guesthouse owner who offered me the perfect accommodation for myself and my two girls. He had several huts, all built of concrete, a couple of which had a kitchen. And one of those was available.Being away from home with two young girls didn’t overwhelm me. Nor did being in India. But the idea of being unable to get up early while the girls were still sleeping, to sit with a hot chai, see the world at dawn, and write in my journal undisturbed — that would have been a dealbreaker. So a kitchen it had to be.Although, in my mind, I was moving to that room without my man, of course, he had no intention of not coming. So we took a second hut— one without a kitchen.And my littlest and I ended up in that one while my four-year-old slept in the one with the kitchen attached, with her dad.And which is why my mornings didn’t turn out to be these blissful mornings with silent babies, a cup of chai in the early sunshine, and my journal. But, instead, venturing out at first light, to be beside the vast Indian ocean, its cool, fresh breeze, and the morning hum of the beach. My little girl would awaken as the first light was dawning, and I would rise f

Options

rom my bed, pop her in the sling, slip on my flip flops, and walk.At those early hours, the beach was a hive of activity that no one else got to see: the local fisherman pushing out their dugout tree trunk canoes to go in pursuit of their day’s catch; the restaurant workers arriving, sleepy-eyed, to put out the tables and chairs for the morning customers, and the morning parade of the cows — those large, bolshy beasts, looking fearsome to the little girl on my hip, yet without even a hint of acknowledgement cast in our direction. They waddled, they pooed, and they carried right on.No longer stuck in the dark, claustrophobic space of intimacy with a man I could no longer feel any sense of love for or from, I found a reason to look forward to each morning.It gave me a sense of freedom. I felt empowered at this time of day, while I could breathe unencumbered by the anxiety and sadness that hung around my loveless partnership, and before the heat knocked me out.There were some poignant moments spent on that beach in those early mornings.One morning, I gazed out west towards the sea and felt the orange glow of the rising sun as it lit up the earth. I turned to look at it and saw its massive form suspended in the sky with what looked like a great big bite taken out of one side. It was the earth’s shadow causing a partial solar eclipse — a majestic phenomenon of nature that had me bowing in awe.On other occasions, I saw a family of sea otters swim up the beach, working in a straight line parallel to the shore, all the way from the south to the north. And then back again. I don’t know what it was about those sea otters — a creature I had never set eyes on before — but they restored in me a sense of belief in the natural loving bond of families. I didn’t have it in my own life but at least I knew it existed.Sometimes, there were dolphins. A pod, fleetingly dipping into the bay and then disappearing again, just as fast.But mostly, it was just us and the cows. We, watching their complete domination of the land, uninhibited by anyone else’s presence, and utterly indifferent to us or any other human as long as that human left them to wander as they pleased. Treading slowly yet carefully to manoeuvre their large bodies across the sand, flicking flies off as they went.Watching them each day, in those few short weeks I learnt more about life, love, and myself than I had in the previous thirty years.Perhaps it was that indifference that made me feel at such ease with them. Like love itself, they were unpretentious and unassuming. Laughing in the face of utopian ideals of parenting and reminding me that life just is that — full of flies, shit, and the weight we carry upon ourselves wherever we go.</article></body>

RELATIONSHIPS | FAMILY LIFE | MOTHERHOOD

I Was Happier Sharing the Beach With the Cows Than My Man

What daily sunrises on the beach taught me about my worth

Love is a magical thing yet can be surprisingly confusing.

I pondered this as I watched the sand run off my upright palm and fell to join the trillions of other grains of sand on the beach below it. I could liken this falling sand to the love in my life with my supposed life partner as I watched it gently fall away.

The love we had experienced when I was just twenty had seemed like something so pure but now, eleven years on, I knew it had long since faded into being a dependency-infused relationship rather than a love-filled one. Who was more dependent on who, it was hard to tell. I was happier on my own when focusing only on the present moment, but with two young children, I couldn’t see past the next few hours alone with them.

And besides, the one I brought with me to the beach each morning — only fifteen months old at the time — was deep in the throes of teething pain and the after effects of a horrible bout of Delhi Belly. The nightly wakings and crying were the instigator for change.

“You need to get her out,” he said to me when she woke up bawling her eyes out and was completely inconsolable. “She’s waking all the other guests up.”

We were staying in a posh kind of beach hut on the edge of a sweet village in southern Goa, India. The walls were made of woven palm leaves but the inside was four-star quality. A large, comfy kingsize bed. An ensuite bathroom. And the beach right outside our door.

But the woven palm leaf walls meant that everyone could hear the midnight crying.

So we went out. It was…I don’t know…perhaps 2 am. Even if I had said no, I was too furious at being ordered to take her out into the night to even remain in his company. So, instead, I stepped out with my little one in a hip sling, and we walked the lane that led out of the village and alongside the sea.

I could see the silhouettes of pregnant cows wandering along towards me, their enormous bellies swaying from side to side. As they approached, I wondered if there would be enough space on the lane for all of us to pass each other. Would they mind me or barely even notice me? And if something happened to my little girl and me, who would know?

It turned out I needn’t worry. They walked on by.

So did the man who walked down the lane at 2 am that morning. No need to fear any aggression because he was too surprised to see us out wandering down the silent, moonlit lane.

The cows were kind. The man was kind. Now it was time for me to learn to show a bit more kindness to myself.

Unlike most people who decide to spend several months in India with their young family, it wasn’t a positive and happy decision that we’d made together. On the contrary, it was a combination of my partner fighting a depression and me feeling pushed into a corner.

I was self-absorbed, writhing at the injustice of the situation, and he was non-communicative. Which left us with a pretty dire situation that had little chance of improving. In my mind, this was a last chance for him to stick to his promises and for us to try to make the relationship work. All his persuasive lines to get me to agree to giving up our rented home in England and embark on a trip to India were based on him taking on some childcare and freeing me up to remember what it was like to be a normal human being.

But he had already gone back on his word too many times in the two months we had been here, and I had already checked out of the relationship. The 2 am crying incident was just another one helping to seal it for me.

The greatest lesson I learnt from that relationship was that when loving support does not manifest within a relationship, it’s vital to reach out beyond it in any wholesome way possible. And when I did, I was bowled over by how open and generous people were with me.

Such as the kind-eyed guesthouse owner who offered me the perfect accommodation for myself and my two girls. He had several huts, all built of concrete, a couple of which had a kitchen. And one of those was available.

Being away from home with two young girls didn’t overwhelm me. Nor did being in India. But the idea of being unable to get up early while the girls were still sleeping, to sit with a hot chai, see the world at dawn, and write in my journal undisturbed — that would have been a dealbreaker. So a kitchen it had to be.

Although, in my mind, I was moving to that room without my man, of course, he had no intention of not coming. So we took a second hut— one without a kitchen.

And my littlest and I ended up in that one while my four-year-old slept in the one with the kitchen attached, with her dad.

And which is why my mornings didn’t turn out to be these blissful mornings with silent babies, a cup of chai in the early sunshine, and my journal. But, instead, venturing out at first light, to be beside the vast Indian ocean, its cool, fresh breeze, and the morning hum of the beach. My little girl would awaken as the first light was dawning, and I would rise from my bed, pop her in the sling, slip on my flip flops, and walk.

At those early hours, the beach was a hive of activity that no one else got to see: the local fisherman pushing out their dugout tree trunk canoes to go in pursuit of their day’s catch; the restaurant workers arriving, sleepy-eyed, to put out the tables and chairs for the morning customers, and the morning parade of the cows — those large, bolshy beasts, looking fearsome to the little girl on my hip, yet without even a hint of acknowledgement cast in our direction. They waddled, they pooed, and they carried right on.

No longer stuck in the dark, claustrophobic space of intimacy with a man I could no longer feel any sense of love for or from, I found a reason to look forward to each morning.

It gave me a sense of freedom. I felt empowered at this time of day, while I could breathe unencumbered by the anxiety and sadness that hung around my loveless partnership, and before the heat knocked me out.

There were some poignant moments spent on that beach in those early mornings.

One morning, I gazed out west towards the sea and felt the orange glow of the rising sun as it lit up the earth. I turned to look at it and saw its massive form suspended in the sky with what looked like a great big bite taken out of one side. It was the earth’s shadow causing a partial solar eclipse — a majestic phenomenon of nature that had me bowing in awe.

On other occasions, I saw a family of sea otters swim up the beach, working in a straight line parallel to the shore, all the way from the south to the north. And then back again. I don’t know what it was about those sea otters — a creature I had never set eyes on before — but they restored in me a sense of belief in the natural loving bond of families. I didn’t have it in my own life but at least I knew it existed.

Sometimes, there were dolphins. A pod, fleetingly dipping into the bay and then disappearing again, just as fast.

But mostly, it was just us and the cows. We, watching their complete domination of the land, uninhibited by anyone else’s presence, and utterly indifferent to us or any other human as long as that human left them to wander as they pleased. Treading slowly yet carefully to manoeuvre their large bodies across the sand, flicking flies off as they went.

Watching them each day, in those few short weeks I learnt more about life, love, and myself than I had in the previous thirty years.

Perhaps it was that indifference that made me feel at such ease with them. Like love itself, they were unpretentious and unassuming. Laughing in the face of utopian ideals of parenting and reminding me that life just is that — full of flies, shit, and the weight we carry upon ourselves wherever we go.