Mumma Irene

A love story.

When Jarrod was a baby, he lived in Papua New Guinea, and had a nanny by the name of Irene. (Officially she was their cleaner, but a woman like Irene doesn’t let a job description get in the way of her purest essence.)
She was a walking cuddle.
A local.
A rich expression of the most potent goodness.

Jarrod tells such beautiful stories about her.
This woman of overflowing love and devotion.
She was a second Mum to him.
When he laughed, she laughed.
When he cried, she cried.
He adored her. And she him.

When we were dating many years ago, Irene came to visit Australia. One night, we were all gathering at Jarrod’s family home to have dinner with her. I had never met or spoken with her before.

We arrived early and were waiting in the lounge room.
I remember feeling like I didn’t really belong in this special reunion, so I hovered towards the back. When Irene arrived, I watched her waddle down the long hallway with her arms outstretched and the most radiant smile on her face, as tears adorned her cheeks. “My daughter! My daughter!” she cried joyfully. Then she wrapped her arms around me and kissed my face.

Me?!? I thought, puzzled. For a moment I thought she had mistaken me for Jarrod’s sister. Which could maybe make sense if she wasn’t part Indian and I wasn’t the colour of bi-carb soda. It’s a moment I will never forget. Being so loved before I was even known.

She visited again after Halo was born, and then again when Lumi arrived. She marvelled at their faces and let tears of joy and immense adoration stream down her own face often. “My babies!” she would cry, before turning to Jarrod and taking hold of his hands, “My boy! My boy! Mi lukim yu! (I see you.)”

This woman of such unfiltered presence.
Of such unrestrained emotion.
She was everything we’re all so afraid of being.
Her heart isn’t on her sleeve. It’s alive in the energy afire in the space between you.

The warmth.
The hugs.
The tears that say, “You are so valuable to me.”
The stories.
The glowing.
The co-woundedness.
The lost magic of physical touch between adoring humans.

It’s everything I want to be in this world.

Some people want to go back and relive their twenties. To be younger again.
I would very much rather not.
I long to be an elder, I think.

I want to be like Moana’s Gramma Tala.
I want to embody all the potency of a gutsy, vivacious, maternal Island woman.
I want to be like Irene.

With a heart that floods a room before even entering it.
With unrestrained love that forms a bond before even meeting.
Inclusive and effervescent.

Not long after Irene visited and met Lumi, we received the heartbreaking news that she had passed away in her home back in Papua New Guinea.
We were all so so sad.

I think if you know Jarrod though…his gentle heart, his softness, his patience, his sensitivity, his depth…you also know a part of Irene.

He’s an artwork of all the most beautiful moments they shared in their time together.

We love her and hold her close as we navigate the world. As we attempt to shed the unnecessary layers of a culture so afraid of the fullness of the human experience.
Of the human heart.
Of touch.
Of wild and raw relationships.
Of intuitive connection.
Of instinctual being.

Rest in love, Mumma Irene.
x
Lysette