The glue

In which I figure out my purpose

I always talk about not having a real role – no jobs with my initials, no tasks that are mine and mine alone. The baby quite often doesn’t, especially when surrounded by Gods of Practicality. I’ve always pattered around and lent a hand where needed: I hold up planks, check ovens, weed unruly patches, carry washing, grab people when it’s time to eat. 

But I’ve finally come to terms with the fact that it’s okay for my role to be invisible rather than practical.

I am the glue. And occasionally, the WD40.

I trot from one workplace to the next – shed, garden, house – find a perch and begin my work.

I listen for the things that create frustration, the needs unmet, and when I move on to the next person, I carefully pollinate ideas to improve understanding. 

I translate when you’re listening wholly with your assumptions and pipette an appropriate amount of humour into the situation, defusing the tension. 

I acknowledge frustration and gently attempt to lend you someone else’s shoes to try on. 

I tease, peeling up the edges of sunken spirits until the hulking mass begins to rise upward.

I soothe ruffled feathers, am silent when you need it, and my arms are always open.

And in return, I am the recipient of such utterly uncomplicated love that it flows from heart to heart with no hesitation. 

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