I sit on a stone and scrape gravel with a small shovel. Buckets fill up quickly, and they are heavy. The frequent drizzle adds to the burden. The men carry them, groaning. They give us smaller containers—time and space shift. I feel as if I am in another place, wordless, deep in thought, full of questions. It is fascinating to look at time – the ages that appear in the soil layer by layer. Something crumbles, something glimmers, and something smells different, harsh, and cold.

The last years with my mother, when I consciously allowed her into my life and allowed myself to feel like a daughter, our relationship changed. It became one of mutual respect; we were equals. Two grown women, and both of us were mothers. She had time, because she could no longer hurry anywhere or go off to do her own things—she was bedridden. It was just her and me. Mother and daughter. She spoke and I listened. I asked and she shared.

Connection is a need. It is one of three dimensions how our brains make sense of and feel safe in this world