You can use my fone

For me our garden is the centre of our home. We are lucky and live rurally in the shadow of two mountains who were once lovers. Both are volcanoes, Tarawera in the distance has a river that's said to be made of her tears over losing not just her husband Pūtauaki, but her son Whatiura - who followed his father Pūtauaki who had fallen in love with the fiery volcanic island Whakaari. They moved across the land at night while Tarawera slept. When she realised she erupted and flooded the track Pūtauaki had left in his betrayal with her crisp tears.

I've only lived on what we call my whenua as a baby. Whenua means both placenta and soil in Te reo Māori. This is my daughter’s whenua through my partner. I'm trying patiently to teach her how to care for our plants but she gets over excited naming their colours in te reo, because it is her whenua I can't be upset. it's beautiful to watch her confidence in her ancestral language grow.

She is so inquisitive and everything is explored through instinct and chance. She's decisive and serious about painting and drawing, but also the elaborate games she works out. I am usually gardening or writing but I miss her being strapped to my back while weaving or sewing. Instead I try to nourish the world she inhabits and think about all the ways in which creativity can always inhabit both her world, but also mine.

When I read about and saw photos of Sol and Jemi’s work it's hard to ascertain how they feel or smell or even the scale, but I see a vibrancy of colour, experimentation, and just following your gut to see what the work will reveal. It has that playful energy you see in children that sometimes feels lost to the responsibilities and ‘seriousness’ of adulthood. Instead it offers a way of thinking about how to come together and share ideas, dreams, food, and games all while running after people with fast little legs. We often forget about the importance of having fun.

It reminds me of the importance of my own relationships. My friendships with many artists have shifted since I had Miriama Jean, but my friend Taarn and I have only gotten closer. We have been making art together before I had her, while she grew inside of me and made me sick and then afterwards when I felt so alien to myself. Making art together helped me. I never saw myself having a baby for all the reasons and I thought my body was broken. She's a kind of light in my life and the world that reminds me not to worry about my anxieties and to ignore the frenzied competition towards an unknowable goal within this weird art vortex. None of it is as important as sharing, learning, eating, cooking and making together with people you love.