Getting back to writing...

when the world is loud...

To routine in the solace of early mornings….

turning on fairy lights which light up family photos of those no longer here.

…while the rest of the house sleeps.

Alone.

To sit close to in company with my morning coffee.

Hopefully for more than a minute or two, maybe even longer.

…waiting for the morning sun to split the epic skies and my heart.

Wide open.

In silence. In solace. In prayer.

Bird song and no other sounds sings just for me…

A deep breath from upstairs somewhere…

Asking why I was called here in the very first instance, to my laptop, to Substack, to you…

To writing, to dissolving the ego that bursts from my chest with pride.

In knowing I built something out of the ashes when the world around me crumbled and took nearly everything I knew of as home, of sanctuary, of love.

…hearing what flows and deepening the connection at creative source.

Of understanding it was important but never sure quite why. Until now.

Out of head into hands, through all seven energy centres to this….a space, a new space, a familiar space, a space where I’m still free.

Noticing the thought that someone, something might take it away…shuddering softly and hoping not this time, not again. Circling back to trust, to surrender, to love.

To what I know and what I don’t. To naivety and hope.

Gently stroking my imaginary teacher hat like an enthusiastic yet obedient Labrador puppy wide eyed and so keen to please, to feel love, to feel belonging…

… circles and circles and laying down a while, it’s time to rest…the work is done.

Gently next to me as rest and sleep come, I hear the voice it wants to take up instead of this one and the space it wants to write in and claim.

Whispering not now, not yet…all is well.

Grateful for it all and still slightly shocked at how easy it is to separate my ego from my soul whispers… actually.

To seeing and setting and sticking to (!) boundaries away from conversation and statistics and showing up for times set in stone and being pulled this way and that.

To knowing what he would say (if he were still here) reading my words, telling me it was good, I was doing wonderful work.

Knowing that we can change it all anytime we like.

That it’s more than enough. That life is short and precious.

That we have time, so much time.

To the simplicity of writing from my heart.

And being slow enough to hear the beat.

To write.

To words.

To you.