'DOG' is 'GOD' spelled backwards

REX

No number of words will ever be enough to suppress the pain of losing our angel, Rex. If the quota were ten million, I’d write until my fingertips bled if it meant holding him one more time.

No concoction of words will have the power to bring Rex back in the flesh, but if there were, I’d experiment for the rest of my days trying to find the right combination just to be able to kiss his sweet little cheeks again.

Rex (or Rexy as he was affectionately known) was a gift sent directly from God. He was the most handsome German Shepherd (right up there with our first loyal angel, Prince) who graced us with his presence in 2002 – when I was fifteen.

Following the loss of Prince – my best friend for nine years of my childhood, it was two years until I was ready and willing to embrace another dog again. Little did I know when first laying eyes on Rex that we would be blessed with his sweet face for a surprisingly generous amount of time – fifteen years (yep, that’s 93-141 years old in human years, depending on your source!). In his final moments, I would look to him as a god.

I believe there is a reason ‘dog’ is ‘god’ spelled backwards. The dictionary will convey multiple meanings for ‘god’, one being ‘the Supreme Being, understood as Life, Truth, Mind, Soul, Spirit, Principle, and Love’. Rex gave us infinite love every single day of his life, and in return, received it from every member of our family every day.

It is hard to say whether five people giving Rex love is equal to the love Rex gave our family. Both versions are unconditional, but I believe a dog’s love is extra special. It’s untainted. It’s pure. No words can do justice to the unique gift that is a dog’s love.

Rex was a loyal dog. He guarded our home and family every day, standing watch at the front gate: pricking up his ears at the sound of the distant postie on his bike; standing up quickly with ears pointed high towards the heavens, eyes wide and a big smile on his gorgeous face when he’d see one of us walk up the driveway at the end of the school/work day; barking at the neighbourhood cat that enjoyed taunting him from under the parked car on the other side of the gate, until one of us would back him up and shoo it away; barking at Eddie across the road every time he led his dog onto the back of his ute before driving away (Dad would tell him to stop barking, because it was loud and constant. I, however, would form a possibly unwarranted distrust for Eddie because my perfect angel Rex is never wrong and I trusted his judgement).

Rex always checked to see if we were ok. When we’d let him stay indoors, he would calmly make his way around the house, room to room, until he’d identified the whereabouts of each family member. He wouldn’t stay long in the room –only long enough to smile at us, maybe receive a pat and quick cuddle, before moving on to check the next family member. Once he’d located everyone, he would turn around one, two, sometimes three times before sitting down in the hallway, at the spot in front of the living room door, where he was close to everyone and could easily keep tabs on us by sight and sound.

Rexy was also a ‘food bully’ – and we loved his about him. If Rex were a human, I reckon he would have been a bit of a foodie like me: not someone who takes photos of food for social media purposes, but someone who just adores food, food, food. Whenever mum was in the kitchen preparing dinner, Rex would be alongside her, standing and staring, hoping for treats (plural). Before he got too old to sit properly, I remember we would hold a treat up and say clearly “Sit! Sit Rex! Good boy…” before gently handing over the offcuts, which he would either take from us gracefully, or if it looked as though it might slip out of our hands and onto the floor, snap at it with lightning speed.

 If Rexy were inside with us at dinnertime, he would become perhaps a little too pushy (which in hindsight is hilarious), sitting on his hind legs right beside one of us (often me because he knew I would always give in), breathing heavily and smiling without losing sight of the food on our fork. Sometimes the panting would stop and he would become completely statuesque - intent on receiving his rightful treat. If we didn’t give in, after a while we’d feel his nose nudge our elbow up, coupled with a happy pant, and his gorgeous, glowing face would appear, excited for food.

On the rare occasion we were tired and super hungry after a long day’s work, an annoyed reaction was not uncommon - but getting annoyed at Rex felt like a sin, and I’d often find myself giving him extra treats to make up for it. 

In later years, he’d become so bold as to sit on his hind legs beside me, and tap my thigh with his front paw. But because we hadn’t had his nails clipped in a while, the tap would hurt, earning a “YARGH!” and a minor scolding. But again, that feeling was short-lived, because that face showed no signs of malice, ever. No signs of selfishness, ever. Only joy, affection, love and kindness. Anyway, how smart was he to do what a human would likely do in that same situation if they could not use their voice? What a great, miracle boy he was.

Something my husband noticed while perusing photographs I’d chronicled of his life was that Rexy was unique in his love of baths; this was probably because Mum would fill up the big blue plastic shell up with luke warm water, and lather his coat with his special skincare products as he lay in the tub, nodding off in a relaxed state. He would lay there as a king while Mum massaged his now seal-like body, falling asleep in the warm sun despite it being winter. He loved it, and even let mum get in between his toes! Watching as he’d (reluctantly) leave the tub, we’d all give sufficient space for what we knew was to come: the grand shake-off from head to toe, before trotting back to us happily with freshly washed fur that shined and glistened in the sun.

Only days before Rexy passed away, I’d spent some time loving him with cuddles and kisses and giving much attention in the backyard. As I walked up the stairs to go back inside, I found myself stopping at the backdoor and turning around, expecting to see Rex staring at me and smiling – and he was. I realised in that moment that we had so many ‘traditions’ and ‘habits’ as dog and human: I knew to turn at the right moment and he knew to wait until I’d turned so we could give each other one last smile and a few more air kisses before I went inside. I suppose after fifteen years together, this was something we did without a second thought. I’m so grateful for that moment.

Two days after Rexy had passed, I remembered another common habit. Rexy was often sat down by the front gate guarding our house, so we would call him from inside the back door to save us a short walk. Sometimes however, we wouldn’t even have to call out, as the subtle click of the sliding screen door was enough to have him trotting up the driveway enthusiastically. We could hear his paws gently trotting up the cement, and then we’d see his angelic face pop out from the side of the verandah, just past the agapanthus. “Hey, Rexy!” we’d squeal, before letting him in. He knew the drill.

Listening to the click of the screen door now feels empty and odd, as if I’m waiting for something to happen – like I’m waiting for Rex to appear. Opening that back door now encourages the ‘bargain’ stage of my grief: “If the screen door clicks, Rexy might just come running up the driveway again…” It’s a damning thought.

Dusk was a very funny time for Rex, as it was the time of day where he’d go completely nuts! There was something about this time of the day that made Rex very frisky and playful. We had so much fun with him at dusk, throwing a tennis ball, a deflated football, or a chewed-up shoe before chasing him for it. He’d not only run away – he’d sprint faster than a greyhound. He’d not only jump up on the sleeper boxes – he’d fly.

He would somehow appear to be laughing and smiling during the entire workout, despite his humans losing breath within the first minute. When we’d no longer pursue the broken shoe (or lead him to believe we weren’t), we’d give him love, attention, and the tummy tickles he so loved. He’d roll onto his back, writhing back and forth with a massive smile on his face, and his legs would kick in circular motions if you got to his ‘tickle spot’. It was such fun! Then we’d stop, let him have a moment to readjust, and steal the shoe when he least expected it! Running away, it was game on all over again.

After Rex’s passing, my husband spoke so highly of my angel and of our family. He acknowledged the love and adoration we all showed Rex throughout his life, and how happy Rex was every single day for his fifteen years. He said “As far as dogs, pets, even humans go, how many can say that they were loved and adored every single day of their lives? Food was his thing and he was showered with treats all the time, right up until the day he died. He was so loved that even when he took the chicken off the plate in the kitchen, or snuck onto the lounge to sleep when he thought you weren’t looking, he didn’t get in any real trouble because he was just so good! He was loved so much each and every day. Think about it. He never had a bad day in his life because he was so loved! He absolutely NAILED LIFE!” It’s true. He really did. And he taught each of us something along the way.

In an attempt to counsel myself before Rex’s passing, I Googled ‘What happens to the soul after it departs the body?’ I like to read about different perspectives on the topic, perhaps as a coping mechanism – religious, spiritual, scientific. One particular piece suggested that domestic pets’ souls develop over time. After living for thousands of years, the soul eventually ‘graduates’ to a human fetus. It’s an interesting concept, and I couldn’t help but desperately pray “Please come back as my child, Rexy!” In considering the idea of reincarnation though, I quickly realised that dogs aren’t the only creatures to develop in life – to learn to love, to learn to give, to learn to protect, to show loyalty, to honour their family. Rexy (and indeed Princey) developed our family in innumerable ways.

He brought us together, especially in his declining years and final moments.

We experienced true, unconditional love for a pet after the loss of our first angel, Prince, when we didn’t think it possible to truly love another dog again.

He melted away our upset and frustration with just one smile and ‘happy pant’.

He made us aware of the intelligence a dog is capable of.

We learned from and were astounded by his unique personality – his humour continues to make me laugh!

Through years of purity and love, Rex encouraged us to show selflessness in his final moments. The selfish part of me (the part that didn’t want to let go) didn’t think it was his time. The logical and unselfish part of me said it was, and we need to free his spirit so that he can run, sprint, tumble, scratch his neck, roll about and sit down comfortably on his hind legs again.

Though his final day was a beautiful one – surrounded by family, showered with kisses, cuddles, smiles and warmth, given countless treats – his final moments are stored confusingly in my memory, attached to conflicting emotions.

On the one hand (and this is the reality), he had a gorgeous view of the freshly cut lawns and well-maintained sleeper boxes full of flowers and homegrown chilies, the sprinkler in the far-left of the yard running serenely, and the family of peewees that were Rex’s and the family’s ‘friends’ twittered about tenderly. There was a gentle, heavenly breeze, and the temperature had started to warm, but not unbearably so. The rain from the previous days had passed, and while there were clouds in the sky, they weren’t dark or foreboding, but light and a good form of protection from the impending hot sun.

On the other hand, we were losing our ‘baby’. Our angel - my ‘coochie, poochie angel’. My strong man (I always complimented him on his strong shoulders). As I write this now, I’m hesitating as I don’t enjoy the emotions attached to this part of the memory, but I need to be strong. I need to be strong, like Rex was for us for so long.

It must have been an unusual sight, seeing someone smiling into the innocent, loving, adoring, happy, angelic face of Rexy in the minutes before he left us for good. I couldn’t let him see me cry, or see me sad. He should see me happy, smiling, adoring him as much as he adored each of us. He should see the expression I always had when I looked at him – one of absolute joy.

I always loved to lie down next to Rexy and just stare into his eyes and stroke his neck, no matter how old I got. But Rexy was a funny, funny boy and would get ‘awkward’ if you stared or cuddled him for too long. Mum and I would laugh about it. He LOVED to be cuddled and kissed and fussed over, but for some reason, he would end the ‘love session’ at a certain point as if to say “ok, I love you, but I’d like a little space now.” So as time went on, when I’d lay next to him, so as to avoid him standing up and moving away, I would close my eyes as I stroked the lush fur on the back of his neck. It was a happy medium so he didn’t feel awkward, and I loved opening my eyes to see him staring at me instead.

In his final moments, I was blessed to be able to lie down in front of his face, trying to make space for the family so they too could stroke his fur, love him, adore him. He seemed to be staring into my eyes deeply, as if transferring his love directly into my soul until just seconds before he passed. Or maybe he knew what was happening and was searching for comfort and reassurance? I don’t know… I smiled, bigger and bigger as time to his final departure from our family drew near. I kept reassuring “I love you! Sweet boy! It’s ok, baby! Sweet angel! I love you so much, my baby!” Huge smile. My heart was beating faster and faster, feeling heavier and heavier the moment drew closer. He was smiling, panting, staring. I was smiling, reassuring, staring, and boring my love into his soul as much as I could. We all were.

When his eyes closed, as if in a sudden deep sleep, I felt a huge weight lift. I’m still not sure if it was the dread and anxiety I’d bottled up for years in the lead-up to his death, knowing that one day I’d lose the angel friend I loved so much, or if it was the relief for Rexy – knowing that he would no longer feel physical pain, and would gain back his strength and independence in his next life - or in heaven where I’m sure he once frolicked before he was sent to us.

Feeling his thick, lush, golden and jet black fur was strange after he passed. All the tension and pain had left his body, and he was completely limp. He’d been in great discomfort for so long, unable to maneuver his legs and body as freely as before, and now as his soul was at peace, his body was finally at rest. When I watched him fall asleep, it felt as though a light went out in the world, and it was strange to interpret his death differently to those I’d previously experienced.

When he passed on, though his beautiful, perfect body lay in front of me, accepting cuddles and kisses one last time, I didn’t feel his spirit was present anymore. I imagined he was reunited with his biological mother and telling her all about us, and she was relieved. I imagined he was running and sprinting in a much younger body, with his tongue hanging out as he did. I imagined his soul leaving his body and potentially into mine, if there were a baby in my belly that had only recently implanted. I of course hoped that in a few weeks time, I’d discover I was pregnant, and look forward to meeting my angel child with Rex’s sweet demeanour. Ridiculous? I don’t care. It’s what I thought and what I felt, and it hurt like goddamn hell when weeks later, I’d discover I wasn’t.

I also imagined Rex’s soul entering a new fetus – pet, human or otherwise, and from the bottom of my heart, wished him a happy, happy, loving new life wherever he may be. And that thought alone made me so grateful to Rex that he had, in his fifteen years on earth, showed me how to be genuinely noble and unselfish despite my own emotional pain.

Before the caring vet and his considerate assistant carried Rex away, we all stood, looking down to him with honour. The vet talked about how remarkable it was that Rex was able to outlast many dogs of his kind, more than doubling their age. Though grief-stricken, we all spoke favourably of our sweet boy – our sweet angel. And when I looked down to him again, I thought with all my heart and soul, “He is a god. He is a miracle.”

In my opinion and in my heart, Rexy was the Supreme Being noted in the dictionary – full of Life, Truth, Mind, Soul, Spirit, Principle, and Love. We were so lucky to have him for fifteen years – our baby, our angel, our teacher, our friend.

Belinda Harding 

28/12/17

Life Is A Labyrinth

The Abolition of Apprehension

Sunday November 29^th. The train was pulling in to Sydney’s International Terminal as the ethereal electric guitar of Angus and Julia Stone's 'Big Jet Plane' began playing through my headphones. The air-conditioning in the carriage was unrelenting and seemingly set to ‘icy’, with only intermittent breaths of warmth seeping through the top level of the carriage at each stop.

England is cold at Christmas. It’s time I got used to this. With twenty-seven days to go until I was set to migrate to a country I knew very little about, the anxiety was fast setting in.

My chest tightened, a wave of sadness overcame my very being and a shortness of breath ensued. My eyes became unfocused; all that was tangibly ahead appeared to be a blur, my vision only welcoming the uncertain depths of what my mind chose to project: a vignette perspective of my immediate future - the possibilities of ‘what could be’ in the UK in the coming months.

I thought of all I was leaving behind: my beloved family, my closest friends (some of whom I’d know for decades). I thought of my beautiful German Shepherd and the cataracts in his left eye. I felt like whimpering, crying to myself as I rocked gently with the sway of the moving carriage as it pulled into Domestic Terminal. I considered the reality that I may not be there to see him go, and felt guilty - even selfish for leaving him behind, with no way of communicating to him from the other side of the world just how much I loved him.

I thought about the wonderful students I'd developed a strong and supportive bond with, and considered how far they'd come in such a short period of time; their improved behaviour and newly found sense of confidence in the classroom formed the foundation of my memories at the school. In that moment of introspection, I felt so proud to have played a part in honing their sense of self, but also disappointed and again, guilty that I would not be there to see them graduate. I felt as though I were letting them down.

As the train departed Mascot’s platform, the dark tunnel the carriage had now entered had begun to resemble the amalgamation of conflicting thoughts and feelings I'd had over the last few months leading to my impending migration.

I saw more commuters enter the carriage at Green Hills Station - the majority carrying or dragging suitcases with them in excess. I fantasied about their stories, particularly the families with small children in tow. Are they tourists here in Sydney? Are they new migrants to our sunburnt land? Are they travelling for work, like me? Is my homeland more prosperous than theirs? Am I arrogant to complain about how ‘bored’ I am in Sydney when its beauty and conveniences are always at the tip of my fingers?

As the train climbed the slow decent of the underground tunnel out into the open air, the exposure of the convoluted railway lines reminded passengers bound for Central Station that they were due to alight. The morning sun was strangely reassuring as it shone throughout the carriage, enveloping me in a comforting wave of warmth. An immediate sense of reassurance that everything would be ok dawned upon me as the sunlight soaked my summer-tanned skin and the railway tracks untangled into singular lines, directing decisive routes for the drivers.

I disembarked the carriage with a sea of tourists and chic locals who were undoubtedly headed for the nearest coffee cart before their morning stroll to work. Upon swiping my trusty Opal card at the barrier, I blended amongst the mixed crowd walking towards the Eddy Street exit before noticing my mother and sister standing at the station's exit. With smiles on their faces, they waved eagerly before turning to each other with a look of pleasant anticipation, then headed my way. We had planned for a ‘Girls’ Day Out’ months ago but our busy schedules had prevented such a time until now.

As we moved toward each other, I foresaw the feeling of elation we’d experience when we were once again reunited upon my return from the U.K. The overwhelming excitement would undoubtedly lead to a steep low the next day as I readjusted back to life in Australia. I would certainly long for the company of my new friends in England, the cooler weather, and the English comforts I’d become accustomed to over time; however, I would feel at ease because my family would be within arms reach once again.

The loving presence of my mother and sister at Sydney’s Central Station that morning was a reminder that I’d always have the strong support of my family and closest friends to form the resilience of my foundation. Regardless of where I travelled to, with whom or for how long, I would never truly be alone. In that moment of realisation under the sunny archway at Central Station, I knew this for certain.

That morning journey on the Airport Line stabilised the anxious thoughts preluding my imminent international departure. The emergence from the underground tunnel reminded me that life is not meant to be lived in the dark – in fear of the unknown or spent in waiting. Life is to be embraced and every opportunity for adventure grasped tightly with both hands. Life is a labyrinth and it is how we navigate it that determines our destination and our success.

Sunday 29^th November marked a new day - a new way of thinking and a new chapter in my life, just as December 27^th would mark the beginning of a promising and exciting new life for me.

By Belinda Pearce

29^th November 2015.

Dear Albertine...

A Letter To My Future Child

In August 2015, I had an intense and vivid dream. It wasn’t the type of dream you’d brush off as random or obscure in its sensibility, nor was it flippant in its content. Rather, it was the evocative kind that welcomed emotions unhindered by social constructs. It was thought provoking. It was a dream where everything and everyone was real, and I was part of something amazing; this dream depicted a convincing reality.

**

I’m holding a baby – a girl to be precise. She is beautiful. Her skin is smooth, flawless. Her cheeks are plump; the healthy hue reminiscent of a fresh peach. Her eyes are a sharp blue, and her hair golden. I’m holding this baby girl in my arms, wrapped cosily in an eggshell-white cotton blanket with pale blue and yellow stripes. As if the vision before me were a video tape stuck between fast-forward and rewind, the child flickers between two ages: the newborn sleepily cradled in my arms, and that of a toddler, her telling hair now flowing in gentle uncut locks that bounce just past her ear lobes as she waddles by, arms outstretched.

My family sit around me in awe, comforting and peaceful smiles on their faces. My smile, however, is beaming. As if under a spell, I continue to look lovingly into my daughter’s eyes, unable to look away as she lay contentedly in my arms. Everything around her is blurred now, making her the salient figure of my life from here on. I hold her closer, my nose nearly touching hers as I say with full conviction “You’ll be such an intelligent woman!” I am proud of my girl beyond belief – it’s as if her eyes hold the answers to the universe, like tiny crystal balls revealing her future…

**

Upon waking, I felt strangely conflicted. Initially I was elated to have so vividly interacted with my first-born years before her conception. However, another part of me felt frustrated, distanced and deeply, deeply sad. I’d been unfairly separated from my sweet baby girl; the girl I’d held only for moments once upon a dream, yet now shared an unfathomable maternal bond with.

In the weeks to follow, I continued to think about my dream. Many nights I’d fall asleep praying to God that I’d dream of her again. I missed her terribly, and during stolen introspective moments in chaotic work environments, I wished so strongly to be reunited with her. It was then that I understood every working-mother’s dilemma come the end of their maternity leave. I finally understood the love a mother feels for her child, and as if a veil had been lifted from my eyes, realised my own mother’s unconditional and selfless love for me.

I continued to think of my golden-haired girl, and sub-consciously, I began making decisions based on how they would impact her. The choices ranged from life-changing (e.g. international migration, career stability) to personal (who I associated with, how I behaved in social situations). My life motto ‘honest and imperfect’ prompted me to think about which stories of experience I would share with my daughter, which would remain private, and how I would assist her to make sound decisions without sounding ‘too preachy’. I contemplated how I would enable her to become the person she aspired to be. I also wondered how she would perceive me as I neared my forties or fifties, and she grew to be a teenager with her own opinions. I wondered if she would question my reasoning or ever doubt my decisions. I knew she would respect me, but I wanted to consider if there was any reason she would not.

It was in considering how I would provide my child with a hopeful future, and how I would preserve our mother-daughter relationship that inspired me to write this piece. The following is an open letter to my dear (future) daughter, Albertine.

~

Dear Albertine,

Do you know why I named you as such? When I was twenty-eight (well before you were born), I had a dream. I dreamt I was holding you in my arms and although you were no more than a few weeks old, I wholeheartedly believed you would grow up to be an incredibly smart, confident and well-respected young woman. I had full conviction.

Connoting royalty, nobility and intelligence, your name’s origin can be linked to a number of European countries: Spain, France and Germany included. While Albertine was different – ‘old-timey’ and beautiful - I also considered naming you for the vibrant golden hair you possessed in my dream. However, ‘gold’ in Spanish translates to ‘Oro’, and the three letters / two syllables just weren’t expressive enough for my little girl.

Before you were conceived, before you were even a psychological conception, I made a promise to you. I promised never to do anything to shame or disappoint you. As I write this in my late twenties, I can assure you I have never been so drunk that I’ve failed to recollect the events of the night before, I’ve had no one-night stands, and I’ve avoided illicit drugs though they were always available to me. I would be so ashamed if ever you discovered something sordid from my past that I’d thought was lost and buried. Luckily, there are no such secrets that exist, nor any I would keep from you. I promise to always act as a role model to you in every possible way - you have my word.

I’ll always be honest with you, even if it means telling you about my failed relationships and how I learnt from them. I’ll overcome past hurts and promise never to hold grudges against the people who did me wrong; however, for your benefit I will never let myself forget what rejection, disappointment or heartbreak feels like. So that you grow to be a well-rounded adult, building your capacity to empathise is very important to me. I’ll be empathetic with you, always.

I’ll share with you my experiences, endeavoring to leave few stones unturned. I hope you can learn from my mistakes. I really do… but I know it is essential you learn from your own.

When you tell me about your latest boyfriend or crush and seek my advice, I may not always tell you what you want to hear. Rather, I will share with you my honest opinion; however, I promise to tread carefully when I believe your heart is at risk of being broken.

I want you to know that it is not ok to be ignored, or to be treated as second best. It’s not ok for people to make you feel like you are any less than the beautiful, intelligent, caring, loving and wholesome girl you are. I know the feeling of dismissal all too well, and at twenty-eight, I continue to be surprised by the presence of utter dejection in my own personal life, whether it be because a worthy man of interest has, without warning or explanation, decided to cut all contact, or a close friend has gone AWOL for weeks on end, forgetting important milestones in my life. When this happens to you (and unfortunately it will), keep in mind that their behaviour is their prerogative and this is their issue to contend with. Over the years, I’ve come to accept that the universe has a way of indicating whether someone should be in our lives or not, and a sudden despondence on their part is often its uncomfortable warning. Such people will make you question your self-worth, Albertine, but listen to me when I say it is their loss. Remember this, I implore you.

I want you to know that ‘you are the company you keep’, and as such, I will never allow people into my life that may be of detriment to you - that would suggest a lack of dignity, and as you know sweetie, your mother is a very honorable person. I will never give you any reason to call me a hypocrite when I tell you I don’t like that friend of yours who treats you poorly, or that boy who is giving you the run around. Over time you will come to learn that my actions and feelings towards people are always justified, so if I don’t accept second best, neither should you.

You know that I am writing this letter well before your birth, so I have not yet met your father; or maybe I have, and I just don’t know it. But let me tell you this: your father is a good man. He loves you with all his heart. You are his world, even more so than me – and that is perfectly ok. He is kind and empathetic; he loves to listen to your stories and make his little girl feel special. Like me, he teaches you the ways of the world – whether it be of a social, political, cultural or historical nature, you name it, he’s discussed it with you at some point. He doesn’t lecture or dismiss your interesting yet underdeveloped ideas when you feel brave enough to share them with him. He is proud of you to no end, as am I.

I want you to be inquisitive and develop your own way of thinking. As parents, it is our responsibility to feed your desire to question, learn and discover the world around you. I will remind you daily of how smart you are, noting the many little things you say or do that lead me to believe you are an old soul. I will instill in you a sense of confidence that you can be anything you want to be; accomplish anything you desire to achieve. I have full faith in you, Albertine, like your grandparents continue to have in me.

You’ll learn from me that independence is everything, but not everyone practises it. You will exude this quality in everything you do and every decision you make. You will be at peace with yourself and never rely upon the company of others to maintain a sense of happiness. Your heart will remain guarded, hopefully having listened to my stories and learned from my mistakes. That said, you’ll follow your instinct and allow the right people into your heart, and when you do, you will love them with every fibre of your being. Hopefully you will never fall victim to society’s unruly expectations or a man’s manipulation, both of which are designed to destroy purity and sound self-perception. You’re too wise for that.

At times, you may feel pressured to follow society’s rigid path: find a man, marry, invest in the property market, have children and live happily ever after; this is an ideal that stands to erase the fact that life is non-linear. If you are single like I’ve been for most of my twenties, people may ask you “why are you still single? Aren’t you lonely?” Ignorant questions like this are more telling of their personality than of yours.

There’s a difference between loneliness and being alone. You may prefer at times to be alone – this is common and healthy. I choose this option more often than not. To be lonely, however, is entirely different. To be alone is a choice: quiet introspection is essential to your wellbeing - remember that. To be lonely is to rely upon the company of others because you are unsatisfied with your own; this is a dangerous emotion and one I hope you never succumb to. I want to give you every chance to achieve success in your life so that you never feel disappointed within yourself, and depend upon others as your main source of happiness. If you are at peace with who you are, loneliness has little chance at destroying your wonderful, charismatic demeanour.

Albertine, there is so much more I could tell you; so much more you need to know. I could write a novel to guide you through your adolescent years and tumultuous twenties, providing you with emotional support and useful tips– but unfortunately, you will have to experience the highs and lows for yourself. If in fact you do read this letter one day, you will likely tell me my efforts were unnecessary, because I’ve proven my integrity to you every day since the moment you were born.

I want this letter to remind you of your worth not only to me, but also to the world around you. You are important, Albertine: I know this to be true. You are a supernova of sorts who will do great things for many people. Selfishly, I hope my role as mother has played some part in your ability to do so.

While I may have written this letter to you years before your birth, I want you to know that the sentiments will remain true long after I am gone.

Estoy orgullosa de ti, mi niña inteligente.

Love, Mamá.

By Belinda Pearce

6/11/15