Out of this World, and into another... update due to error: 125'000 words not 45!

Three rejections (so far) for This Boy, a memoir... and James is looking after the Sweetpeas at Greenside Cottage...

I took this photo the other day in Abbey Garden, no edits, no filters, pic doesn’t do justice to that dark emerald in the centre: Gazania splendens, Daisy family, perennial commonly known as the Treasure Flower or African Daisy, native to South Africa. Loves coastal areas, and to spill over walls and pathways in warmth and sun

I write to you, after three months of scribbling, from the middle - the middle of my bed, the middle of my story, mid-week, mid-life - the middle of everything, wondering where will I end up? What will become of me? Three years ago when I lost my only child I might have thought that where I am now was the end - gardening on a sub-tropical island - the perfect conclusion. But no, I still feel very much in the middle. Aren’t we always in the middle? More on that later.

Flowering Aeoniums and Lampranthus, the stars in the walls, petals like velvet shining in the sun. They love the heat of the stone and hang by a thread of a small root nestled in cracks in the wall.

14th June -A few days ago I received another rejection for my book, This Boy, a memoir. That’s three now. A sinking heavy heart is to be brushed off and picked up once more. Two literary agents and one publisher. They all say roughly the same thing: that they were deeply moved, that they enjoyed reading it, that the writing is poignant, beautiful, the story is moving etc. But that they can’t sell memoir that isn’t written by a celebrity. FFS. I find myself asking, What, ON THIS EARTH, could be more important than a book about how parents found ways to ease their child’s suffering and how through pure love, creativity and medicinal cannabis they made four years of hell look like four years of heaven? But what do I know? Other comments included that it’s too disjointed, too long and repetitive. (Interesting, because that’s just like grief isn’t it? Long and repetitive.) Agents are also put off by the risk of re-traumatising the author, going over events again and again. The kind and brilliant Richard Francis, my tutor from Bath Spa continues to help me to find an agent. He taught me in 2006 when I did my Masters in Creative Writing. He feels that the point of the book is that the narrative is broken and it’s meant to be that way because there is no resolution. I have promised him another revision in September. Another lap of processing. It can only be good. No pain, no gain.

I adore this photograph - Toes to Tail, James with my hat on. A blissful nap in the garden. Ernie long before his muzzle turned white. What I love is how heavy they both seem. Anchored to the ground. Both little but so solid in slumber.

I did not plot a narrative. The manuscript is evidence of survival, the processes of recovery. It is disjointed, reflective of the traumatised mind. I tried to write down simply what happened, in a chronological order. But the present moment got in the way. And how could I concentrate? The book is the result of madness and agony, writing to find air, so as not to drown. Having someone like Richard championing my book is just so brilliant that I have probably relaxed too much. After writing alone for so long, suddenly having someone like Richard say ‘it’s a wonderful book,’ (how I cried) it’s almost a full stop. Job done, ‘my tutor approves!’ I need to pursue publication. Also, the process of writing it is the point here; it was about processing. It was therapy. The most important thing is that I wrote it. The story of James exists in hard copy. (I am having crazy thoughts about just leaving a hard copy of the manuscript somewhere, accidentally on purpose - anywhere, the pub, the library, even the side of the road… letting the story of James go, allowing it to take flight, on its own journey, Go on, leave me, 125’000 words, go on, GO NOW, leave me in peace… It would be a lesson in patience, relinquishing control, letting life happen.) Incidentally an extract from the first chapter is going to be published this summer in a pilot of a new Cornish literary magazine called Aspier. Will post link.)

I receive lots of wonderful messages. And some asking where my next blog is, have they missed it? No, they have not. I decided to give into the block and accept a time of distance, because assuming an audience all the time can do strange things to your head; assuming all thoughts are worthy of recording is dangerous. But now, editing these old notes on 19th August, the block has gone on too long and I feel like I’ve lost my connection and with it - goes your confidence. Sometimes you have to force yourself. Life is about knowing when to give in and when not to.

(Apologies to paying subscribers. I will make up the word count to you.) These three months without being able to publish a post have filled me with a silent agony, a fierce resistance; a battle between a bullying mind and a tired body. Moving has affected me so much more than I imagined. I have had to return to the bilateral tapping learned in trauma therapy. This soothing technique is incredibly simply. It’s basically holding yourself and noticing where you are, and saying, it’s okay, I am here now, with my body.

On the 15th January 2022 I published my first Substack. Being plummeted into the strange world of loss and trauma is lonely. You have been taken from everything you know and understand. Alienation. With a nervous system deeply scarred you begin to wander slowly around the new planet you now inhabit. Substack has helped me enormously, given me goals, eased isolation, connected me to the world, reminding me we are the same inside, all human beings just wanting to belong.

I’m struggling to adjust to the noise of working in a large department. People everywhere, the chatter, the tractor engine, the leaf blowers, strimmers, mowers, dozens of cleaners, bikes flash past me, electric transit vans creep up on me, supervisors, maintenance men, window cleaners, we are all to create perfection - out of this world… I forget to breathe, to notice the trees, sky, sea, give space to the noise. I’m often feeling very negative, focusing on what I don’t like and I’m surprised by my attitude. Also aware Simon is finding my moaning tiring. I’d forgotten the chaos of being part of a business - the organising, the politics, the discontent of staff, the constant communication, the urgency of everything. This commercial quick-fix gardening is a world away from the quiet solo gardening I’m used to. Before I was focused on the health of plants. Nurturing was my only interest. I am having a stern word with myself, reminding myself of the initial perception upon arrival, focusing on job satisfaction. Whatever I do - do the best job I can. As I write looking out, the sun is rising, the chatter of birds the only sound. BE POSITIVE. And the season will soon be over and the winter will return the peace and bring time for more considered practices. In the meantime I’m adjusting. It’s taking all of me and I’ve nothing left. I struggle to pick up the phone and speak to a friend or relative. It’s as though I’ve had to shut everything out in order to settle. I really can’t believe this is my fourth summer without James. But he is the reason I am here. This is the journey he has given me.

So I’m overwhelmed by love and hate for this small island. Sometimes, and I know this is silly, it feels like I’ve been sent away because I no longer fitted in, forced to leave all that I loved, allowing the community to move on. WHY IS IT SO HARD TO LEAN ON PEOPLE???? I hate the thought of upsetting people and felt so relieved to leave but will I make myself lonely? What will become of me? (I’m welling up in my eyes and throat; this is how therapeutic writing works, it finds the knots, presses buttons, brings back the flow…) I am here, in the middle, amongst rocks and seals in the tides, because James died. So there are days when I resent this place, days when the water surrounding me feels like a prison. But other days it’s holding me up, keeping me safe. I feel Mother Nature’s healing powers, the far reaching light, the lapping, the swallows swooping and diving in my path, begging me to follow them. Jessica, enjoy the experience, nothing is forever. James brought you here, let life happen…

My words feel clunky. Nothing is fluid. Everything is strange. I am surrounded by jaw dropping beauty (yet I wake with jaw clenched, James was there in my dreams but gone again… )There is no traffic. NO sirens or motorbikes. There is less choice and there is freedom in that. But I have never lived in a village so the closeness of people is strange to me. So much - stop and chat, lingering hello’s. This might be something I grow to love. There are projects involving the school, with wild flowers, planting for bees, but to really look at a child and connect, I just don’t know if I can???? The little boys on scooters and balance bikes are killing me. Right now it feels so intense because I put my mask on and smile a lot. I’m new here and it’s natural to want to be liked. I snatch quiet moments at six am, walking the dog I see no one. Time to be curious, process, feel my feet on the ground. I am standing back, watching myself, watching how I change, how I adjust. (Be the observer not the leading role.) Can I join in, and feel apart of this community? Or will I stand on the margins? We have not been to any of the local events - the summer fete, the cricket, the karaoke in the community hall, no interest in gig racing. Desperate to avoid crowds. We’re just not ready. And those things are all about families. Simon is so much more chatty than me. It’s second nature - he grew up on a campsite that his parents managed. He is doing so much better. I am proud of him, he’s come from not wanting to live, to being ten minutes early for work everyday. I do worry how much he tires himself out, consumed by people pleasing. But, it’s a way through.

It’s common for people to suggest that not wanting to enjoy yourself is to do with guilt. For me it’s definitely not guilt. I just have no desire. And I think it’s fear. Last time I allowed myself to feel happy, it was all taken away. I can feel my body guarding itself. Yoga is vital for tension relief.

I have a block in my head. Meditation is helping to simply notice what this is, what does it feel like inside my head. Full up. I can’t absorb. I can’t look at messages. Can’t return calls. The thought of speaking to someone on the phone panics me. I keep it on silent and try not to look at it. I have fleeting moments of homesickness and I want this chilly northerly wind to piss off. It’s relentless and feels like April. Not June at all. But thanks to a new friend the air around me is filled with the delicious sweet perfume of sweet peas, enormous bunches grown by Emma the propagator at the Abbey Garden. I love our chats. She is my tribe. We both tire easily, are sensitive and dependent on nature to make sense of the world. Her allotment brought tears to my eyes. Three Sweetpea wigwams. Borage with its floating blue gems. Nasturtiums glowing. Iridescent. Rows of sapphire cornflowers, golden courgettes flowering, Cosmos rising. A huge comfort to see these familiar plants.

But why am I focusing on the past and the English cottage plants that I adore? I must shift my focus, be curious; what are these plants here that flower and thrive in salty cold winds and sandy soil? Plants from far flung regions. Warmer climes. Gazanias, Echiums, Agapanthus, Argyranthemum’s. There is so much colour and things grow out of cracks in walls defying all the elements. Prolific flowering can be a sign of stress. Living beings produce their best selves when threatened; flowering to reproduce. The plants have a goal, to be fertlised, to produce a seed. I wonder if this constant stress of little or no nutrients, and the intense exposure, shortens the life of perennials? I must be patient. I will learn all this. I am frustrated that I am so busy I have little time to stop and wonder, take notes, look up plants. I feel like my learning journey has stopped. The winter will be good; I miss studying. Apparently I can go to the garden in the winter for plant idents with the students. Time for curiosity will return.

Instead I am learning a different side to gardening. The commercial side. How the guests see, what they notice. I sit at patio dining tables and lie on the sun loungers and look around and that’s when I get it; I notice a hedge blocking the sea view, a bush overgrown, a branch out of proportion, a scruffy edge. I am told the guests like neatly clipped hedges, perfect lines in the grass, clean sun loungers. None of this interests me but for now I tell myself - this is an experience like no other. And this is my job. I must shift my gaze away from neglected plants, beds losing their form and structure. Quieter months will be the time for this. I notice brambles sprawling over hydrangeas. Young shrubs hidden beneath enormous Rock Roses and Pelargoniums. I snatch moments to rescue and nurture and the boys get frustrated because we have a tight schedule. ‘She’s making a mess again,’ they say. It’s funny. They are trying to maintain total order and cleanliness, and I am pulling out whole beds and leaving them looking worse. They were very short-staffed before we arrived - everything is leggy. It’s hard, but I am learning to walk away.

I went to Ivy Cottage the other day and the guests were sitting at the table. They’d arrived early and the cleaners were not finished. I told them I’d come to strim. But they said they liked the daisies and please could I not do it. ‘I’d rather look at them than a boring lawn,’ he said. Strimming daisies is my least favourite job - I was delighted. ‘And what about these few weeds,’ I asked. ‘We don’t mind them,’ he said. They are not the only guests who feel like this. Jilly, the beekeeper here on Tresco is hopeful about changing minds. There are now many areas of the island left to grow wild and she is working closely with the farmer. The churchyard has been left and looks wonderful, full of swaying grass and an abundance of umbellifers, attracting so many insects. It’s a space for the deceased, but it is full of the buzz and hum of life.

One of my favourite umbellifers, Daucus carota (carrot family) One of the best for biodiversity, attracting huge range of pollinators and the birds love the seeds.

Last Sunday, I woke at 5 am. The birds had so much to say, the chatter urgent, right outside the window. I really felt them talking to me, saying, Come on, get up, get out. I told myself I must rest or the day would be hard work. But thoughts would not leave me alone and I longed for the day to get going. I thought of yesterday’s plant delivery and how it had sat on concrete baking in a sun trap. Had I watered before I left? There were hundreds of pounds worth of plants. Three large olive trees. Apricot roses, scarlet salvias, purple verbena. Lilac geraniums. All I had chosen for the Spa courtyard. The duvet felt like a prison. My mind bullied my tired body out of bed, dressing in the dark as quietly as I could, I slipped out, now 5.45, onto my bike and what relief it was to cycle away from the thoughts on my pillow. I stopped at the brow of the hill to talk to the cows. They pulled me in, the lushness of their long lashes, their quiet munching, hot breath, their slow movements, their heaviness, their eyes fixed on me, a steady gaze. I leaned against the gate, and let them look at me. My eyes were drinking in the rich caramel of their scruffy coats. I could feel the sun rising - a horizontal light that makes everything gold, catching the gentle ripples of the silent sea. I wanted to stay with the cows in that timeless moment, but onward. The thirsty plants were calling. Two minutes, full speed down the hill to the harbour, round the corner to the depot, I was so relieved to get there, filling the can, over and over, pouring, pouring… I pressed my face into the apricot roses and the salvias perfume filled my head, my mind could rest. Back on my bike, back to bed with a cup of tea. Simon and Ernie had no idea I’d been out.

How I adore these cows. The island would feel empty without them. You never see them moving but as if by magic every other day they are in a different field.

My garden, a few scraps, a good start! A tomato and a cucumber plant I found on my doorstep. A sage I dug up from an abandoned herb garden. Four Sweetpea plants left over from the Abbey.

James, very pleased with himself! Look at me in the coffee shop with Mummy!

21st June, in bed fully dressed. 11 ish. day off. Long dog walk. Longest day. Alexa says it will rain at two pm. My phone died a week ago. Life without a phone is very interesting. When it died I felt instant relief and fascination. What will life be like? I can really disappear now. Without a phone you can’t chop and change your day. Our phones fool us into believing we are in control. I am noticing how I quietly go from one thing to the next. Like a feather, leaving no trace, drifting down the road, a tumble, a side-step, taking flight… untangling ivy and brambles from a Hydrangea, only the hello of a passing guest, the phoneless world allows for pure focus. Nothing can interrupt and nothing can be added to my brain. NO OVERLOAD. No invitations. no information. Just pure existence. NO emergency that I can run to. If someone comes my way - I’ve been found - here I am, you found me. It’s nice for a moment; a chat with a colleague and then they’re gone again, silence and concentration returns. Here is the song thrush. There is a sparrow. The high tide is lapping - rush, shush, rush, shush - rolling from my ears to my heart. I can hear the farmer in the distance, cutting hedges. The caramel herd are close by, just in this field, I can see their slow chewing. Immersed, here in the day, under the sky. I wander into the churchyard to use the tap, I feel at home here, amongst memories of past lives, yet never go inside. I like meandering mown paths around tall headstones, slanting slate and stone, reading 19th Century dates and names, old souls all around, I feel my spiritual self lift up and everything softens. My mind lives in the living world. My heart in the spirit world.

Phoneless, you get completely lost in what you’re doing. Calm concentration. Can’t check weather app so I am looking at the sky instead, going with my instincts; my skin is reading the temperature, the humidity, the chance of rain is just a feeling and if it does rain, it rains, if it’s boiling hot and sunny then it just is. It’s not an event I’ve anticipated. I have no watch so I have had to guess when it’s break time or just stopped for a cup of tea when I feel like one. Yesterday on my afternoon tea break I was so hot from pruning in a back garden, no breeze, I knew I’d had enough of the heat because I started to feel heady. I walked around the front, stepped over the bracken and the dunes and onto the beach. I’d taken my swimming things with me to work. The tide was in. Soft white powder under foot. The sea was sparkly and all the colours crisp. One other swimmer further out. The fullness of a high tide comforts me. It’s icy, always. A deep breath, it’s ok to be cold, the clean turquoise, in, in, to another world, I go, wide steps, not thinking about the cold but imagining I am watching someone from the shore, Look - she’s just going right in with ease. Into my body, feeling my tired hands in the water, long exhale, breast stroke arms point, then out wide, lifted, my feet are off the sand, and then, I am in the blue. How does this feel - to be in this water, to be floating in the piercing blue, the total transparency. At first, sharp in-takes of breath, then - STOP - I hold my breath briefly to slow it right down; everything pauses. It’s never enough to just look at it. I always want to be in it.

Abbey Garden - Chinese Pheasant, pausing for me to admire it!

28th June. On route to my dad’s in Truro. I am typing on the train on my lap top. The Scillonion was so loud. That boat is a beast. A sea-crunching, gut-rocking creature. It was as though I was sitting above the engine. The pulsating vibration was in my ears, and my spine. I brought my pillow and cried into it, feeling so tired I couldn’t relax and stupidly packed my laptop, book, notebook and reading glasses in my suitcases. I have not had a phone for two weeks now. Bliss. (I’m sorry that this is disjointed and no doubt hard to read. I am all over the place.)

On not settling - outside the commercial machine of the cottage department, Tresco appears like the most peaceful place on earth. The silence is strange. I need to reconnect with that feeling, those first impressions upon arrival. I have lost the tranquility. Work has taken over. Arriving in Penzance, 4 pm, away for three nights, the manic movement, the noise and the people, the fun fair on the harbour, the engines of everything, it’s all hit me. Perhaps this brief departure will help my perspective; help me to appreciate Tresco once more like I did in those first weeks.

I’m also wondering, now on the train, the sun to my right, that perhaps my struggle to settle might be to do with that on Old Grimsby where we live, we are facing East. Could that be it? At home, for twelve years, we always looked South West. Evening sun poured into our old home. Now we are opposite. My body feels something is up. My world has turned. Why can’t I read? Why can’t I get rid of this feeling of total overwhelm? Before I moved here, every night in bed I’d read. But two months on and I can’t pick up a book still. I don’t want to go home. So where do I belong now?

We still have not watched a sun set, nor sat beneath the unpolluted night sky. I did once, sleepless, peak out at 3 am, a few weeks ago, and it was a far busier sky, peppered with infinite galaxies. Looking out of this world, into another, always wondering, James, where are you? Or what are you? We spend our allotted time trapped in our body trying to be one thing. Once outside of it, we know the truth - that we are not one thing but many many things. I tell myself his spirit asks the birds to follow me, protect me, sing for me.

My fellow islanders are searching too, it seems, mostly young ambitious world-roaming types. Looking outward helps. I get out of my head and ask my colleagues questions. Fascinating stories are all around me. I want to write about them all… who, why, where from, and where next? Like John from Belgium, 48, training to teach English, three Tresco seasons, winter's away, he ran from a care home aged 15 and has been alone, ever since. Simon and I have more in common with these nomads and twenty-somethings, the lost and found, than the permanent staff with children.

Camel Trail Picnics, stony cove

In ten minutes I will walk out of Truro train station. Roads, traffic, buses, sirens. I am totally worn out. I want to cry. I want to be tucked into bed and brought soup. Early nights are not helping. My voice is weak. When I speak to people at first they do not hear me and I have to repeat myself. Conversation is noise. When people talk I feel my brain malfunctioning, refusing to listen. Full time work takes you from yourself. Is this how everyone feels? They’re so used to it they think it’s normal. My head is squashed. I know Simon is finding my moodiness tiring. Lack of space is shrinking me. My shoulders have got stuck around my neck. I’m no fun and I don’t have time to write. I want to walk into Dads and go straight to bed but that won’t happen. Welcome to the real world. New habits are born quick. Will four days at my dad’s help? Probably not. His Parkinson’s is undeniably sad. I want to help my step-mother. He mostly hides it well, from himself more than anyone, he’s happy pottering, in the familiar. He’s content to drift from hour to hour. Being at work is now easier than days off. At work the absence of choice takes you through the day on a breathless race. This was how Dad spent his life, the thrill of a long hard day, job satisfaction, teamwork to live for, denying real rest. Retiring was never going to be easy as his whole identity was the bakery. Heartbreaking to watch Parkinson’s evolve… We watched a lot of football, sipped Jameson’s and I gave him lots of foot and head rubs. The boat back was hell. I was sick for an hour. I cried and a stranger held my hand. She was so lovely. In my new (reluctantly bought) phone she is saved as, Anne on the Ferry. She wants to read my blog having lost her husband many years ago in his forties. She handed me sick bags and I apologised for how tight I was gripping her hand. Never again will I step foot on that boat.)

10th August. Simon and Ernie and have gone home to the mainland for four days. This is the first time in years I have been without husband, dog and child, apart from when I was away on grief retreats or visiting friends in London. It is so strange. I didn’t realise how much of my head space was taken up with thinking about them… meals, walks, pints. My dog looks at me an awful lot, trying to work out what I am going to do next. If only I knew, I’d tell him, I’d reassure him. He is struggling with the small space. He doesn’t like the clanking of dishes, not used to being so close to the kitchen. he stands by the door, keen to disappear down rabbit holes.

My first alone meal is of course what I love to eat but rarely do - BROTH. I love to eat bowls of chicken stock with rice or noodles and any old veg. Pure comfort. Lots of fresh ginger, soy sauce. But after slurping it back - there is all this space - and I am not enough to fill it. The build up of denied tears soon surfaces and I unravel. Nothing to distract me. A good clear out. Afterwards my skin looks ten years younger and the next morning a colleague tells me I look radiant! I watched The Secret Life of Books on iplayer about Lorrie Lee’s Cider with Rosie. One of the few books I’ve unpacked. I bought it a decade ago and never read it. I have bought about 30/40 books with me, still boxed, all mostly unread. I long to be lost inside pages but can rarely concentrate. I’ve got to let go of who I am not. It doesn’t matter if they never get read. I’m a terrible reader. So what. Sometimes just holding them is enough. I have started Cider with Rosie again. It’s sublime. So rich, one paragraph and I am full up.

At Geenside Cottage there are two bamboo wigwams we put in at the last minute, very late for Sweetpeas. Six weeks later, guests have been enjoying cutting them. A man, very tall, kind eyes, 70’s, came up to me in the lane where I was working today and said, ‘Are you the new gardener? I’ve heard about you,’ he said. I told him I was. ‘I’m looking after the Sweetpeas,’ he said, ‘cutting them everyday, dead-heading.’

‘I am so pleased,’ I said. We chatted some more. He’s a retired high court judge, been coming forty years, umpteen grandchildren etc. ‘What brings you here?’ he wanted to know. He had all the time, and wanted to listen. I told him about my boy. That moment - that moment - when James becomes known - it’s like no other. I feel gristly knots disperse, my heart smiles and my stomach unclenches. He put out his hand and placed it on mine. ‘I am so sorry,’ he said. ‘That is truly terrible.’ After a few more words I said I must get to work. As he wandered back towards Greenside, I said, ‘What is your name?’ He turned,

‘James,’ he replied.

‘That’s my son’s name,’ I said. And then, at the same time, we said - ‘There you go.’

28th August. Lying in bed, A Sick Day. A day to ask, WHAT DO I NEED? Mass exodus of guests imminent! TFFT. September in our sights. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve embraced the guests, loved talking to them and they love talking to us. It’s all about the guests. They are so happy to be here. But August! What is it with this month? An awful unsettled racing collection of uncertain days.

I just asked Alexa why do some people have such delayed reactions to events:

‘The Nature of a Delayed Emotional Response and Delayed-Onset of PTSD:

A delayed emotional response is part of the “freeze” response of the nervous system. A full-on “freeze” response is when you go numb and play dead until the danger has passed. It is an extreme form of dissociation that is biologically hardwired in your system for the sake of survival.’

Being highly sensitive, in the moment, I am taking things in, poker faced, numb, stunned. Then there’s the processing that goes on while I sleep. Finally months, even years later, there’s the reaction. Please tell me I am not alone? I’d love to receive messages from other people who have delayed reactions. It’s hard to feel mentally well when you’re suddenly in pieces over something that’s long gone. It’s like your feelings are not valid, like you’ve missed your moment, ‘So shut up now, love, we’ve moved on.’ You end up isolated, feeling like a nutter because those days when it feels all new again fuck with you to breaking point. Nothing makes sense. The isolation makes you resentful so you run away to live on an island. So here I am. On Tresco. (Jessica, stop moaning, you are living for James.)

Sick days are hard to give ourselves. It takes enormous courage and self-love to say, ‘I’m sorry but I just cannot do it today!’ Giving into exhaustion is a day to be with James, to feel my love for him, to not distract myself. I cannot move a muscle. I feel the guilt on my shoulders for taking the day off. Now lying here in bed I know, remembering yesterday at mid morning, when I had to hide in a shed and sit on a sack of lawn seed and cry, resting my head against the wall, eyes closed. Maybe 15/20 minutes later I got up, cycled to a cottage on the other side of the island, and did four hours weeding and pruning. At five pm my eyes were sore from forced opening. My hands ached. But I’d got through the day. Sometimes all it takes is a quiet moment to declutter. Days are easier in small pieces. Snip by snip, bramble by bramble, I will tire myself, collapse and rest knowing that because of me, a living growing thing has more space to shine, to look its best, because I weeded around it and cut off the dead wood holding it back. I gave something a will to live, a chance to thrive.

I’m going now, it’s late and the dog is whimpering to go out. As I said, always in the middle, something to do next, trying to get somewhere, in the midst, on the brink, looking forward and always thinking, this moment is pivotal; always asking, Am I on the right track? Will the decision I make today lead me to the perfect ending? Trying to make sense of it all, I ask, when was the beginning? When I gave birth? Conceived? Of course these are markers that we use to create narratives in our heads. Living in anticipation, what are we missing before our eyes? Perhaps because we grow up on stories, with bedtime tales filling our heads as we drift into dreams, and as our days feed us with melodrama, films and fantasies, we live believing that life is a neat shape, a line - a beginning, a middle, an end. Anxiety and despair move in when things fall out of line. What happened, we ask, life was not supposed to be like this????

So what now? I will try to try less, try to know less, to let go of the idea that life is a story; stop wanting to know the end, stop asking, What is the story of ME? We don’t need to know the story. We just have to live it with good intentions and make space for our instincts to speak. As always I look to my dog: no list of goals, no desperation to achieve. The sun rises and moves above him, across the sky, and then it gets dark again. It’s all he knows; he simply listens and smells his way through the day. Pure existence.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for getting to this point in a ridiculously long newsletter. Life is a journey that we cannot make alone.

Me in my flower shed making bunches for arrivals after an hour of foraging for reeds, Eucalyptus and Hydrangea.

Thank you for reading, sharing, and remembering James with me. It means more than you’ll ever know.