This is a reading of ‘The Long Flight Home’, my contribution to Chicken Soup for the Soul’s latest book, ‘Kindness Matters‘ (page 81) Several years ago, on the plane home from Madeira to Bristol, a wordless couple almost made me cry. Their simple gesture made what would have
I softly beating rain,beating music,beating hearton that ordinary October day – sitting with my son, knitting mittensfor the unseen hands.
I don’t want to go there—to the dark. I’ve crossed a threshold—remember the whole-body woosh of energy as it left. But I know it. Notebooks full of rushed wild writing. Words I couldn’t say to anyone because, mostly, they weren’t my stories to tell. I remember the dead,
I started a fire in my dreams last night. It was only small. A few bits of twigs and kindling. Portable. Somehow, I held it in my hands. Carried it with me. Inside and out. I thought it had gone out, but there was still a trail of
the secret is to the secret is to draw yourself a steaming hot bath,so hot it prickles your skin. Add in the Epsom salts and the pink Himalayan.Swirl in some frankincense oil.Light the tea lights and open the skylight a crack.Then shut your eyes and let the hot
I don’t want to build things back the same. It feels as if what we had has been razed to the ground, ripe and ready for rebirth. I’m taking a break from moving as this body wants to move. Listening on loop to the delightful Old Dirty Brasstards’
My problem is the leaf-stripped, dark brown bent bay branches are still stacked up against the old grey stone wall, waiting for their raised beds to be made. My problem is the gale gusts of storm Eunice are rattling the plastic windows in the shed. Rattling, then breaking
Fifty is fast approaching and today marks 72 days away from being officially postmenopausal. Unless, of course, I bleed between now and June. If I do, the countdown starts all over. I don’t want that. I’m done cocooning and dissolving—I’m restless and ready to emerge. Ready to see