What about me?

It is not often I feel sorry for myself and what I am about to share, although might read like I could be doing just that, (certainly the title eludes to such maudlin). But I hope that from sharing these sentiments, you will read that they stem from a far deeper place and in writing them to the surface, I hope they might be transformed into a place of peace. 

I lost a close friend recently. His death was unexpected and as he had been living on his own, his body wasn't found until after the alarm was raised on the 3rd day of him not turning up for his work. I don't know what makes me more sad, the fact that he is dead, or that his death remained undiscovered for a few days. 

But Tim lived his life with minimal fuss. I believe he died the way he existed. Quietly and never making a scene. He was found lying on his bed and I can only hope for his ending to be peaceful and painless. I had spoken to him only a few days prior to his passing. I was compelled to call him, the feeling came as an urgency that I must speak with him. We had a good conversation, but during that time, I had feeling that our souls were saying goodbye. As we were chatting, I kept seeing my 2 Springer Spaniels in my minds eye. Their presence was so visceral, that I found myself communicating with them, asking what they were doing here. It all made sense after I learnt of Tim's death. They were there to help guide him home. Tim adored my 2 dogs and they in turn adored him. He was their favourite Uncle. 

Tim was dependable and was always popping in to see them after work. He even had a dogs bed permanently by his log burner so that they would feel at home whenever they went to stay if ever I were away. But it wasn't just the dogs he looked after. 

I met Tim when I was in my late 20's. He was volunteering for the Watercress line, painting the old stations and I used to see him in the village pub afterwards. It wasn't long before I joined the crew and from there on in, Tim became a close friend. I introduced him to my friends and family and before long, he would come along to family holidays, family events as well as joining in with all our Christmas gatherings. Tim saw me through relationship breakup's, he would help pick up the pieces during all my tumultuous periods of life without judgement. He cared deeply and I know that there would have been a time he would have gladly stepped into my boyfriends shoes. I am ashamed to admit it, but at the time, I didn't handle his feelings well, young and immature that I was back then. Fortunately for me, he forgave my carelessness, we somehow muddled through and an even deeper unspoken bond formed. But it is surprising how in death, you realise how little you know of someone, even a twenty year friendship, there are secrets and untold truths. Perhaps it was the nature of his work that kept him so private. There was so much he couldn't share with me or indeed anyone and in more recent years as his work evolved, the void of the unsaid became wider and the chasm of our friendship grew. Nonetheless, in all connections, there exists a far deeper form of interaction and we don't have to be near one another to know how the other is feeling. And even now, although Tim no longer resides on earth in the physical, I can sense him from afar. But it doesn't stop me missing him. 

Tim hasn't been the only friend to die this year though, and I have found myself wondering who will I have left to reminisce of the old days over a cuppa. Who will be here to remember me when I die and speak of the life that I lived and the achievements I made?

What is making things even harder for the emotions of grief to be possessed, is that there has been no funeral for Tim. Not even a memorial or celebration of his life. It was his wish. However for those left behind, I am not sure how conducive it is, to not have the opportunity to share ones grief within a community of people who knew him. Did he think his friendships were so inconsequential that he didn't think it mattered? Or did he feel that he was unworthy of anyone caring enough to take the time to remember the life that he once lived?

As a consequence. the weight lays heavy on my shoulders right now, to continue sharing our memories we shared together for the fear of his life being forgotten.

Perhaps this is the way of all things. Our legacies won't be left in the stuff we leave behind, or the thoughts or things we believe are ours to own, but rather marks we leave in peoples hearts. 

Our memories of the souls gone before us, will be told through the art of storytelling and stories will become entwined with the lives of the people that are telling them. Tales of tenacity, courage and bravery, humbleness, and quiet determination, will be shared across the land. Maybe it is not important to remember the names of who they began with, or even where they will end, as long as they help inspire, encourage and offer comfort. Perhaps part of living is learning the art of letting go. We are here for just a moment in time. We cannot take anything with us when we die, so when we really think about it, how strange it is that we are so obsessed with the need to define ourselves through identity and possessions. I know that how I will remember Tim will probably be very different to how someone else who knew him. What a rich tapestry of experiences our stories contain. All that remains will be nothing but love.

Dying Matters.

A set of illustrated cards I made based on the connation's of died

 A villager died last week. It matters not the details, after all, there are family, friends and neighbours grieving including myself and it would be disrespectful to share details in such personal matters

However, their death has  raised my curiosity and it reminds me to keep talking about dying matters however challenging or difficult the topic might be, especially if it raises some really important and perhaps potentially problematic issues. But I am the sort of person who likes to find solutions rather than bury my head in the sand and pretend death will never catch up with us all, and so the more I can learn about the potential scenarios, pitfalls and hazards of dying, the better equipped I can be to help support people and their loved ones  through to the very end.

For example. Why does it take 3 emergency response vehicles to arrive at a dying persons residence? 
There will of course be some very rational reasons for such course of action.
One of the biggest ones perhaps, was that no one knew they were dying. But given that they had been challenged with life-limiting health for very a long time, in a great deal of pain and discomfort that had  been getting worse in very recent years and months, could not leave their home other than for long stay visits at the hospital, suggests that there wasn't a lot of quality to life towards the end.
However, quality is subjective and we must be very careful to not make judgements on what brings quality into somebody else's life.
So how do we know then when someone is dying?
If they haven't been given a life expectancy timeline by someone in the medical field due to disease or illness, but that person has lived a life and has arrived at a point in life where no medical intervention will improve ones vitality. How can we help prepare them and ourselves for the eventual inevitable?
Dying may take years. But from the day we are born, we are already on the trajectory to death. It is a given that non of us will get out alive. So why is it that we have such a hard time talking about it? 
I believe we are giving ourselves a huge disservice by not sharing our thoughts and fears about our demise.
I wish I could have talked freely to my neighbour about their own thoughts, but to even broach the subject might have come across as not believing in their strength and tenacity to keep on living despite their pain, would they have thought I was giving up on them? 
The irony of all of this though, is that maybe they did want to talk? - Or maybe they didn't. But by simply lacking the courage on either side to even begin a conversation, one will never know now.
And by not talking about how we want our ending to look, we can rarely help each other out to allow that to take place. So instead, our ending might look like a roomful of paramedics and strangers, preventing the ones we really care about from entering the scene because dying can be deemed as ugly and traumatic for the untrained layman.
I do not deny that dying in some if not many circumstances can be ugly and messy.
I was fortunate to be with my Gran when she died. Her death was in an A&E department. They gave us the courtesy to close the curtains off for a bit of privacy, but it doesn't shut off the noise and bustle of others patients getting revived and carted off to wherever they needed to be. We were surrounded by messiness and trauma, but in those hours, all that mattered was holding the space to allow my gran to die. They took me aside to explain what was happening, but I already knew. They asked if I wanted her revived. I told them no, but of course, this was not my decision to make, so I called my mother but again I already knew the answer, and so eventually after some hours, I cannot recall, my Gran left this world as I held her hand and stroked her hair letting her know it was going to be ok. A short while afterwards, my parents arrived.
My grans death was the first one I had experienced. Since then, it has been my pets and a friends mother, but with every death, there is a sacredness to the process leading up to it and even afterwards.
It is a time for deep connection. Time stands still and if one can remain present, there is an energy to it that in itself is more than life itself.
If only we could all find the courage to know that our time is limited and to start talking about how and more importantly where we want to spend our last years, months, weeks, days and hours, maybe we can all give ourselves the sacred dying experience we all deserve.
I will be 48 years old this year. I hope that I have many years left in me, but nothing is a given, I have had to say goodbye to friends even younger than me already this year.
I may be unlucky to be struck down by a bus or a disease. But I have shared my thoughts and fears with my husband. I have written out a death plan which hope will at least give some indication on how I wish to live out my remaining time. I wish also to fill out a RESPECT form which can be filled out with your GP or health provider.
And while we are at it, it is really important to think about applying for your power of attorney, if you haven't already, both for financial and health & wellbeing. Tomorrow may never come for some of us. Lets help empower our loved ones to do the right thing by us. We deserve it and so do they.
For anyone curious to know more, I found this campaign  useful for lots of information.

Creating space.

Last week, I performed my last duty with my dementia gentleman for he has now been placed into his new care home.
My last day with him went like any other Monday I spend with him. There were no grand gestures, no speeches, no farewells. He wouldn't have understood anyway. I made sure I kept the few tears that unexpectedly escaped from my eyes discreet. Due to the degree of his condition, he had no sense of the big changes he had ahead of him. The last two years in my role as one of his carers have been enriching and fulfilling ones. The bond we formed was based on mutual respect and our communication was certainly imaginative due to the usual conventional way of interacting was often a challenge, and so gestures and facial expressions often took over where words couldn't.

Whilst the impending changes were being organised, I had initially been in haste to accept new offers of work, anxious to compensate for the loss of income. But it soon came apparent that I am not ready yet for extra responsibilities. I hadn't appreciated the emotional impact caring for someone has on ones heart and even though I treat my roles in care work professionally, to work so closely with such characters as my gentleman really affects matters of the heart and even more so when family members are also involved and one can't help but grow attached.
I am reminded of a verse in the Bible. 'A time to weep, and a time to laugh. A time to mourn and a time to dance'.
And so with these words in mind, rather than chase after the next project, I have been giving myself permission to not only create space by holding back on new job opportunities, but also accepting the consequences of allowing the space in time. And what I am finding, is that sadness once again touches my soul. If I hadn't paused to take stock on the last two years, I believe I probably would have carried on with business. Many of us in the Western world seem to have developed a habit of filling every minute and every second of our time with 'stuff'. So often we forget to live in the present, too busy fretting about the future and we don't allow ourselves time to decompress or process our emotions so they get hidden away deep in our vaults, only for them to appear usually unannounced and out of the blue when we least expect it. 
So here I am, acknowledging the grief, accepting it for what it is, not comparing, not disallowing or ridiculing or belittling it, knowing that this too will pass.
I am in a fortunate position where I do not have to panic about where my next wage packet is coming from. My gardening job, not only provides a regular source of income, but it also brings me the therapeutic attributes of being outside. I will of course need to supplement my income at some point, but for now, I can kick off my boots and breathe deeply into the space I have in front of me and despite feeling sad I have also been able to get into my new studio and create art. What a joy this brings!
I have plenty of ideas, but for now, I won't put pressure on myself. Art for me is a way of processing change and the world around me. 
Speaking of change, a lot has happened since my last post. I have officially moved home and my old one has its interior completely demolished. I thought I would find it hard to see it gone, but standing inside as I occasionally do to follow its process, all I see is an empty building. What it used to contain, have morphed into memories that are embedded in my heart. 
I love my new home, this has become my safe and peaceful sanctuary. It is also much warmer to boot! 
And should I forget my own advice, I have a reminder written on my wall in the studio. - 
'Everyday I expand my awareness and trust in the joy of life unfolding'. 

Ripping the plaster off

The View from our new home

Up until now, I had been taking the damage limitation road to moving out. Taking the plaster off real slow has been the course of action, so anyone observing would be forgiven to believe that progress has not been made. The truth of it though, is that all my cupboards are now bare, bar the essentials to live.
Trips to charity shops, and recycling centre have been actively pursued and my new home across the river is starting to feel more and more like home, especially since my books have taken residence on the lovingly made shelves my husband created.
The reason for taking our time had been mainly for the cats. God forbid we disturbed their cosy little set up! But as explained in my last post, one of them was old and blind, to move everything at once would have been too upsetting for him and I did not want his remaining days to be distressing. At least this is what I had told myself, but as time went on, I was forced to accept that this move has been more painful than I would have initially admitted and my cats had made a convenient excuse for taking my time.
Don't get my wrong, I have been excited for new beginnings and I acknowledge my fortunate position to have a new home to go to, but as time passed, so too did my grief for what has been. It passed through in waves and as we reached crunch point of no return I was having to take stock on how to move forward without becoming a moody ungrateful emotional wreck, until one night last week after a full on meltdown, came my epiphany.

The solution was found in my Rituals; We go about life automatically, from one task to the other without giving anything much though other than to get the job done. I could have taken the decision to move everything in one go. The cats gave me a reason not to do this. But the truth of the matter was that I had not been ready for people however helpful and well-meaning, to move my possessions.
It was not as I first thought, about dismantling my home of 20 years, though of course this also felt sad to me. But it was more about the taking away of belongings by friends and family who may not have appreciated the ritualistic element to my process of clearing out my home that I had adopted since the day I began my transition across. 
So far, with every phase of my move, I had taken time alone to methodically clear out each cupboard and shelf space being mindful of what I kept and what I do not. Items that are staying with me I took time to wash, clean and dust before getting packed away. This all may read as rather anal, even obsessive behaviour, but it is much more than that.
As I sorted through things, memories of each item came to mind and as I cleaned, I gave thanks for the times spent here and after each area was cleared, I then cleansed and blessed the space left behind. It helped me to release and let go, knowing that everything that I take with me will also be given a fresh lease of life.
Now that all of the small stuff is done, I will be needing help with the bigger items. My husband is strong but I am not, so it makes sense to enlist help from friends. The other night while we were discussing the next steps, rather than explaining what was important to me, I snapped. To be fair, I don't think at that stage I even understood myself why I felt things had come to a head, for everything that I had been doing was on such a subconscious intuitive level, it hadn't even occurred to me to figure out in words what I was doing and why. So when I was knocked off centre by my husband interjecting with offers of help, it was only then, that I came to realise what it meant to me to maintain my rituals. Even in house clearance there can be sacredness, at least for me anyway and so initially I resisted the offer of  burly men to enter my home full steam ahead and load the van with my furniture. But on reflection and after some heart-based conversations with my husband, we eventually agreed on a plan of action that would honour my needs and at the same time, get the practicalities done at the same time.
So finally, we have reached the crucible of change where there can be no looking back. Yesterday we had my beloved handsome 18yr old cat put to sleep. He died peacefully at home on my lap as the tears rolled down my face. I cried for the rest of the afternoon, not only for my cat but for my home I will be imminently leaving, but then afterwards, a sense of calm came over me. 'All will be well'.

They say, as one door closes, another shall open and I believe it to be accurate. Already, offers of new work opportunities have arisen and though I am not quite in the place in both mind and in time to accept, the offers are there. I just need to focus on one day at a time.
And by the way, is there anything a bit of white vinegar and a few drops of essential oil cannot clean?!

Transitioning

24th June 2023

As I vacuumed up the last?! of the wedding confetti this week, (No one tells you that confetti, much like Christmas tree pine needles, gets everywhere and one will be discovering bits of the stuff in nooks and crannies for the next 6 months)  I find myself reminiscing on years gone by.

Now that I am married, life continues to flow just as it always had done before I became a wife. Does it feel any different people are asking me? Yes and no. In many ways my life remains unchanged. However, I am about to arrive at a crucible of change, where although from the outside everything looks the same, I feel myself at the cusp of big transitions and it feels far from the same, knowing that life will soon be looking very different.
In just a few weeks I will be disembarking from my old and familiar way of life. The one that kept me housed and safe, and the one that contained my identity for 20 years, and I shall soon be taking my first steps as  Mrs Wall in a new home. From the outside looking in, its not a big deal. After all, I'm hardly moving to Timbuktu, when all I am doing is moving from one side of the village to the other.
But when factoring all the other things in my life that are shifting and slipping away, I feel at times completely discombobulated. I keep reminding myself to release and let go, but it is hard and sometimes painful.
I look at my old cat pleading with him to let go too. A recent trip to the vets confirmed my feelings that he will not be fit enough to make the move. I am loathed to make the decision for him, especially as at this present time, he is finding simple pleasures by sleeping in the sun during the day, and then on my pillow at night. He might be blind and infirm, but he is not quite knocking at deaths door just yet. I remember when he first walked into my life over 13 years ago just a scrap of a thing. He strolled through my flat and promptly made himself at home above my cupboards for the next few months, until one day he felt safe enough to walk on the floor. He never left and became a good companion for my other stray cat I had at the time. He then became a guide for my blind Spaniel and now he has reached the ripe old age of 18+. Time flies.

In other areas of my life, it is looking very likely that my dementia gentleman I have been looking after for nearly 2 years, will be moving into a brand new Care home around the same time as I move. It is of course, a move not taken lightly by his family and has been an extremely hard decision for all concerned. This will mean another farewell to add to the mix. And I know I wont be the only carer who will miss his company when he goes. Love comes in all forms.

I have also witnessed how so many people hold onto belongings and I have seen first hand how difficult it is once they depart, for those left behind to clear their home of decades worth of stuff. It makes me more conscious than ever, that holding onto material things serves only to weigh us down. So as I prepare to make my own move, I have been clearing and sorting through years of my own possessions. In doing this process, I have decided to leave my Spaniels, Donut and Summers ashes buried in the garden. For the past two years they have sat on my shelf and I had always believed that they would go to the grave with me. But that's the thing about making a conscious decision on letting go. One arrives at a place where choices are made that weren't available before, perhaps because of either emotional or physical blockages. Or maybe the two go hand in hand. Once the emotional obstacles are cleared the physical path becomes clear too and vice versa.

And finally, to add a cherry on top of this merry mixture of letting go's I am entering the phase of a woman's life where hormones can potentially reek havoc. Perimenopause has been making the headlines a bit more these days thanks to personalities such as Davina McCall. Thankfully I have been getting successful support from Homeopathy and a healthy lifestyle. But it can still take me by surprise from time to time, as with all aspects of health, it is a constant work in progress. For me, this can mean emotions can take over, sometimes irrational and unexplainable. Night sweats as well as other strange irregular bodily functions can  take place. It is not all bad and I manage them. But it is yet another change on top of all the others.
When I arrived on the farm at the tender age of 26, in Archetypal representations, I was still a Maiden. During the 20 year period, I then became a Mother to my animals and I gave birth to my artistic side as I continued to nurture my creativity. And now, as I approach my Crone years. I see myself on the threshold of something even bigger. As I stand at the doorway from the old into the new, I wonder how the next chapter in life will unfold. I count my blessings everyday, knowing too well, that nothing in life is guaranteed, as I witness good friends of mine living and dying with terminal illnesses. Too young to die - and yet here we are. Life can be cruel.

The date of my wedding day was no accident. I announced to my Fiancé at Christmas time that we should be married in 6 months, I told him that I wanted the people I care about still alive to witness our marriage. It was also no coincidence that it was held on a most auspicious date, not only because it was my 47th birthday but it being Midsummers day. I have always considered it to be a magical and mystical time of year. What better time then, to set ourselves off on a brand new adventure surrounded by love and joyful celebrations shared by not only our friends and family, but with the whole village too. 
So as I begin to unfurl my wings, with my heart wide open, I am learning to reach an acceptance that everything must and will change. Goodbyes are inevitable.
One-day if fate allows, I will become that 'Crone', channelling her wisdom and inner knowing. And I shall wear my crown unabashedly, transforming the world in my wake.
In other words, my life's mission will be as it was always intended, 'Creative Community Collaborator'.
And Quirky Cow Creations will live on, just at a different address.
Meanwhile, it is ok to be both sad and excited. As I am recently finding out, these feelings do not have to be mutually exclusive to one another. 

  

It's only a ring!

“It’s only a ring”, I kept saying to my fiancé as we were discussing the budget for our wedding rings. As far as we were concerned, the much-needed renovation to our future home prioritized over some potentially expensive items of significance, when copper pipe would do just the job we joked.

As human beings, we put so much meaning into things. From possessions to thoughts, to even the way other people respond to us, when really, these ideas are formed from our own perspectives, belief systems and past experiences. We are conditioned from the very moment we are born. So why should it matter so much?
And this was the very question I asked myself as we walked away from a particular jeweller's shop in town last weekend.
Earlier that week, we had agreed to go shopping for our rings. Having already decided that we would eventually put money aside and commission a friend to make them as an anniversary gift to each other, in the meantime, we would look for something within our current budget for our wedding ceremony.
After passing two very high-end looking jewellers and then one very tacky, we finally settled on a shop with an assistant who welcomed us in with a warm smile.
She very quickly sized us up and laid out a selection of rings to choose from.
Steve chose his ring straight away. The ring I really liked was out of our price range, so we went away to have a discussion.
By my own omission. I hadn’t appreciated how much emotional charge I had for the very act in wearing a wedding ring and it was only in the middle of the high street that I was enlightened by this fact and chose that very moment to unintentionally burst into tears.
I have never been one to cry easily. (Admittedly Peri-menopausal hormones seem to have put pay to that and more recently, the tears seem to flow more readily and at times, rather unnervingly quite out of the blue) But nonetheless, in that moment tears welled up to the point where Steve who was on a mission to find somewhere to eat, was stopped in his tracks quite perplexed by my emotional outburst and being delayed in his mission to fill his belly.
And so there it was, a heartfelt conversation ensued in the middle of the high street on what it meant to me to wear such a symbolic piece of jewellery that was to be presented to me by my husband, whilst at the same time, acknowledging that it is only a ritual and the main act being the exchanging of rings was a symbolism of our love and commitment to one another and it shouldn’t matter what price tag it comes with. So with all this in mind, I had to admit to both myself and to Steve, that actually some things in my view, were worth more value when I felt a price tag to match was attached.
Of course, it is all relative and what value I put on something may be completely different to somebody else’s. In my world, money would be obsolete. I would bring back bartering, live more frugally and appreciate the simple things in life. So, I realize that I have completely contradicted myself by expressing the desire for a more expensive ring when as we agreed earlier, a piece of copper pipe would suffice.
So given all the complex feelings I had around said ring, my already overwhelmed mind, then went on to procrastinate on the ethical sourcing of metals. Sensing a full-on meltdown was imminent, we decided to return to the jewellers and agree on my first (and pricier) option of ring.
In fairness though, the particular ring I liked, felt nicer to hold, it exuded sturdiness whilst at the same time, dainty to look at. The next options down felt flimsy. A marriage should not be flimsy let alone a ring.
On returning to the shop, and as if the universe was overhearing our honest and open discussion earlier and I’d like to think, appreciating the authenticity and awareness of what it is to be human with all its complexities and idiocies, it acted through the lovely assistant by giving us a discount which as it happened came to our initial budget.
What is the lesson for this experience I wonder? Maybe it's just accepting that none of us can be perfect despite how hard we try. That is not to say we shouldn’t stop trying, but maybe it is ok to allow ourselves to enjoy the more frivolous side of life. Maybe it is just me. I shouldn’t keep giving myself a hard time. Existing in this world is hard enough at times without the constant berating of oneself. We can but do our best, knowing that occasionally even our best isn’t always good enough and that is ok.
And if one is religiously inclined, quite frankly, it will be our God that sits at the judgement table when it is our time to die and nobody else's.

In the meantime, I love and accept myself anyway…

Moving on...

 

Everybody likes a good story, right?

Imagine if you will, the most beautiful, exquisitely tactile storybook cover you have ever come across. Run your hands along the front and you will feel the threaded beads and sequins that have been lovingly added to over the years. They glitter and sparkle as the light hits upon the front, ricocheting rainbows beams far and wide. You can’t help but hold it tightly and lovingly to your heart.

This particular book cover contains pages upon pages of words and they dance upon the paper like spells, conjuring up magic and mystery for all who step into the tales of the Quirky Cow.

The storyline has its main character and like all good books, it has a beginning, a middle and at some point, as the law of life dictates, an end.

The general plot has its tragedies, adversities, and its triumphs. And there are stories within stories woven together with love and gratitude.

This book is a biography, and for the purpose of this particular chapter, the readers are not required to know about the contents of said book. That can be saved for another day.

What is most pressing for the writer to convey in this moment, is the special and unique way the pages have been held together with careful stitching and meticulous gluing over the years. Some pages are torn and stained, but they only add to the charm. The book cover is well thumbed, acting as a comforter during challenging times. It contains all the knowledge and the wisdom the author has learnt over the years and has become as familiar as a faithful old friend.  Breathing in the smell as I thumb through the pages reminds me of how far I have come and how far I have evolved.

But as with all things in life, and just like a good book, they must come to an end and as difficult as it may be. One must let go.

As the author, I need to express that this ending was unexpected, and I was unprepared. Somehow, in my naivety, the story was to continue in the manner and style I have always been accustomed to, and I did not feel ready to end in the way it has happened. Marriage and weddings and home sharing were never jotted down in my most recent draft. Striving out alone, living unorthodoxly, tenaciously creating magic single-handedly, proving to the world that anything is possible, however, was.

I never imagined that finding true love would change the course of time. Indeed, writing a romantic novel certainly was the furthest from my mind.

So now, despite my resistance, a thread has been broken and it is only now that it dawns on me, it was because of my resistance, that the carefully sewn stitches finally snap and starts to unravel my precious book. All the painstakingly pieced together pages fall apart.

Initially, I grappled about desperately holding on to my precious manuscript for dear life. I thought I could see the life that I knew ebbing rapidly away. But as I breathe deeply, I allow myself to let go in peace and relinquish the false belief that I have things in my control, in each breath, I discover that all may not be lost. Pages have not flown away lost forever in the ether, but rather they are retained cozily within their colourfully stitched indexes.

My well-worn book cover has loosened its binding enough to make room for new pages. I shall miss the familiarity and the comfort of my old book cover. I came to identify myself with it. Who am I without it?

But as I sit with the pain of letting go, I slowly become aware that the essence of who I am is within the pages and not their bounded cover. I discover, some of its vibrant colour have bled through some pages. Forever immortalized by transmuting energy from which it was created, into the new.

There will still be times when I weep and feel bereft for what once was. But I shall remember the old times and as with any good author, I will continue to write and weave my magic. This time, not as a solo dreamer, but inspired and motivated by my muse, my future husband, and so from our dreams together, a new volume will arise, updated and fresh.

The stories will rewrite themselves, filled with even more love and gratitude. Together we will collaborate and create a brand-new cover that will lovingly cradle our dreams and our visions, we will be invincible, and our book will be indestructible.

My book cover does not define my identity. The contents inside are what matters.

March 2023