I’m not quite sure where to start, so I’ll just start.
Life has been tough this past year. I cared for my mum and then she died. Just three weeks later my 34-year-old niece died, too.
In the throws of unimaginable grief, my dad went into hospital and thus followed months of caring for him. I can’t even begin to express the stress of trying to walk through six months, grieving for two people I was close to, who I spoke to on the phone every few days, whilst making endless phonecalls, writing numerous emails, chugging up and down the motorway to give 24hr care, and fighting to get my dad what he needed.
To add to that there was the sorting and packing up of the family home for sale, whilst simultaneously moving myself and my own family from the Highlands of Scotland (where we were previously cosy in our yurt), back to the South of England and onto a narrowboat that was riddled with teething problems—no running water, no electricity, cooking by head torch, you get the idea—so that we could be closer to the support network our daughter (our sweet daughter, who is always bubbly and happy but who, despite outward appearances, has felt these tragic losses very, very keenly) so needed.
And all of us, frankly.
In the middle of all this I got sick. Really sick. For a month.
I can’t quantify the emotional heartache, the physical toll, so I won’t try. But needless to say, since I crashed at the end of December as my dad finally settled into his new flat and recovered, most of my hair has fallen out, I suffer with what feels like physical pain, and some days I struggle to find joy.
Other days I do discover it, of course, by focusing on the small things.
My days look like this:
I don’t put any more pressure on myself, and seeing other people? I just can’t right now. It’s not because I don’t love friends, or that people haven’t been sweet souls, it’s just I don’t have the energy for conversation. And here’s the thing: people offer so much when you first face the death of loved ones but within a few months I feel my own unsaid rule descend, that I shouldn't be still whining on about how low I'm feeling.
Yet grief—real grief—for me, has come six months after the losses. This could be partly because I didn’t have a choice but to plough on for my dad, my daughter… But it could also be that we can’t process—don’t want to process—loss, until much later. That’s when, one day, six months on, you wake up in the night with grief tearing at your insides and you don’t know how to stop it from dragging you down. And yes, I know people die every day, and people contend with unbelievable traumas in every.single.moment, and I’m lucky to be here! But when something is clawing at you, you can’t always fend it off no matter that insight. Right now I also think things are compounded with the loss I feel for the life we once had. Our life of freedom, of travelling Europe in a van pre-Brexit and pre-Covid. As well as processing the absolute stress I put my body through last year. Ooof, life heh!
But the one thing (aside from work, walks, family time) that helps, is writing. And not Instagram posts, I’ve found. But real, intentional, heartfelt writing. The kind of writing that might belong on a blog. Which people take the time to visit only when they truly want to read your words. So I’ve decided to pour my thoughts into blog posts, and my time into working on short stories, poetry, articles, as well as working through the first draft of an old (unpublished) book with a red pen.
An acquaintance demonstrated pretty much how I feel about social media right now after they “liked” an image of my niece. A few days later in a message exchange, they said, “Oh, I didn’t realise she died, I just liked the picture.”
What have we become?
I’m done—for a while anyway—with scrolling, swiping, liking. I need something more nourishing. I’m longing for the more heartfelt connections of the blogging world that once was. Is it still out here? On my first foray back into some blogs I once enjoyed, it seems there is a similar feeling floating around, which excites me because I need to be nourished by words. And, right now, I need this space. A place to hold my messy, grammatically incorrect but RAW thoughts. A place that might not always be pretty, but is my place to say what I like.
Even writing this now. Hammering at the keys. Letting it all pour out. Goodness, I had forgotten how freeing and therapeutic blogging was! Back in the days when we didn’t care if editors were loitering. And no, I’m not saying we can’t make meaningful and wonderful connections on social media—of course we can! It’s just that scrolling to get to the essence is tiring. And I’m tired already.
Maybe some of you are out there still. Maybe not. But I’ll be here, and on my newsletter, sharing snippets of life.
I’m pretty certain future posts won’t be as rambling as this one, but when it’s been a while and you know you have to say something but you’re not entirely sure how to say it, bashing it out feels good.
So thank you to anyone who has read this far, for allowing me the space to empty my mind.
I think I’ve just fallen back in love with blogging.
In winter 2020 we returned from Portugal and found ourselves living with friends in the Scottish Highlands. They said, stay! We said, yes! And so we set about having a yurt built and creating a space to site it on our friend's property.
It was a magical time and I want to mark it with these photos because I never really got around to writing too much about the experience, given how 2021 panned out. And I'm sad, because I miss the peace of this place. I miss the silence. I miss my cosy circular home. So somehow this gallery is just to mark this thing we did as a family. This amazing and important time in our life that filled us with joy.
I sit on a stone from a long time past, hands cold as my fingers dance up and down the recorder. Dried gorse rages the fire into life and our friends walk from across the way, smiling through the dark to Highland Mary.
The moon glows in her halo of gold—of cold—and looks down knowingly. The pitch black sky stretches out across the glen; wide and open, long, and filled with possibility. But we… we sit in the warm embrace of this circle of trees, this circle of stones; a circle that has called us home.
Juliette de Bairacli Levy (a herbalist and wanderer I greatly admire) once said that wherever she travelled there was always a little corner of land, or a simple home, available to her. Well it seems our joyful (yet unexpected) return to this croft in the Highlands of Scotland, has brought us to a corner where we can now rest our own weary feet a while.
As Juliette also said:
“Every land has its own special rhythm, and unless the traveler takes the time to learn the rhythm, he or she will remain an outsider there always.”
It has been a while since we have felt the pull to root down, but now the feeling is so strong that as I write this my heart feels light and fluttery, yet my feet—grounded. This land is special and I am awed every day as we walk through winter in her embrace. Trees call to me, earth grasps me, and the sky envelopes me. We are still travellers, but here we are, ready to throw down anchor long enough that we may know and learn the rhythms of this Highland space.
We have come to rest a while; the land says so.
And so that means a dwelling, one fit for these nomadic hearts that so long to stay connected with the earth. One befitting this circle of ancient stone and tree, where robins dwell and hearts swell; where all feels drawn from each corner of our life, towards this central point. So we asked,
“But what shall we live in dear circle?”
And she replied, “Why, a house of sticks of course!”
Driving into the Cairngorms on a day of snow and spectacular skies, we visited a man about a yurt and now the course of our life has taken shape and we have never been more glad, more excited, more in tune.
As poems flow this Burns night
As music dances in our circle
We know we have come to rest
Amongst this land and people.
There is a deeper whisper
There is a hidden call,
And if you listen carefully
It says, “Here you are home.”
And so this Highland Glen
And so this Northern sky
Upon and beneath
We will rest a while.
The other day an interview I took part in twelve years ago was brought to my attention. I ended it by saying,
“I don’t fear change; I embrace it. Whatever happens it will always lead to something else and I never want to live my life wondering what would have happened ‘if’ … the day I don’t follow that if, is the day I will feel that I’m not really living.”
Wise words from my younger self, and so we are embracing this unexpected change and throwing ourselves wholeheartedly into log cabin extensions (facilities) and a yurt base, ready for the arrival of our new home in the spring.
My daughter has now turned 13 and I can hardly quite believe it. There are days when I long for my little baby, yet I remind myself that I have enjoyed every moment as much as possible. But still, time passes and I can't help but want to slow it down a bit.
Noting down some feelings about this stage—this stage of home-educating a teenager—I decided to send them to Ross Mountney. I've enjoyed sharing our home-educating journey on her blog over the years and you can read my latest post here:
Reflections on the Early Years
Ross's writings on home-educating are an inspiration and comfort to many and I always recommend her books to those dipping their toe in!
Along with my daughter, we have been selling our individual writing projects to raise money for animal sanctuaries.
It's been a great learning experience, particularly for my daughter and so far we have raised more than £100! This has been split into two donations to Hillside Animal Sanctuary and Dean Farm Trust.
You can still support us right here:
Poems for Animals
Click to Purchase
My poems have been featured on the Viva! podcast and also in Vegan Life Magazine and ponder some of the questions and thoughts I have had myself during my 12 year journey from meat eater to vegetarian, and finally vegan. Here are some reviews:
"Wow! Your poems are so powerful, deeply touching and moving and hearing them on audio takes them to another level. If I wasn't vegan already, I would certainly be thinking long and hard about eating the flesh of animals after hearing your words." ~ Jules, @thehippieboat
“I am glad to be able to offer a little support to a good cause while also getting to enjoy some inspired and thoughtful poetry. I loved meeting the adorable duck community in Monsieur Robert and It Started With An Art reminded me strongly of an event in my own childhood. Griffin's work has a strong message encouraging readers to think about their attitudes to all animals. She doesn't hector, however, but uses her poems to present familiar scenarios that resonated with me, twisting the viewpoint to elicit an emotional response and then to illustrate the more humane resolution. If I weren't already vegan, I would certainly have been giving a lot of thought to becoming so as a result of this work.” Stephanie Jane, litflits.blogspot.com
"Those poems. So so powerful. Amazing. Eye opening. I wish everyone would see the truth." ~ Eva
“These poems emanate passion, reality and rawness. The words are brilliantly set out for all to read and digest with references that many turn a blind eye to. The talented way in which the words are put across to the reader are poignant and definitely leave you thinking. Alice is the voice, and has the words that need to be remembered.” Debbie
“Beautiful powerful words by a woman passionate about animal welfare.” Lee-Anne
Fictional Wolf Newspaper (Issue One)
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Isabella (my daughter) & Milly are 13-year-old friends who created AWOOOO News because they are mad about wolves and thought it would be fun to create lots of stories and 'Wolf Reporters'. This 13-Page Easter Issue is full of stories, interviews, puzzles and fun and is a downloadable PDF Copy.
"Especially at this virus time, animal sanctuaries need help because their open days have been cancelled and these days raise lots of donations. We thought it would be fun to make our newspaper available to other children as well as raise money to help!"
It’s 7am in the morning; dark skies and mizzly rain were not what we were hoping for. My husband, Scott, is rushing around in the stables with a headtorch on fishing out his toolboxes, our packed up awning, a chest of draws from my childhood and a table made by his Grandad, so they can be stored in our caravan that we leave here on this Buckinghamshire farm whenever we go away wandering.
Ideally the furniture would be in storage, but we can’t afford a storage unit big enough because already we’re taking money out of savings to pay for the small space we do have for our keepsakes. As tensions build and I get cross at Scott because he’s telling me to tip the sofa cushions up so he can pass things in - as if I’m not doing anything at all to help - I feel overwhelmed with our life and not for the first time, I imagine the simplicity of a 9-5 with a house and running hot water.
Our daughter, Isabella, is already nestled in our loaded car with the two dogs. At almost 13 and having spent her whole life packing up and un-packing to accommodate our travelling lifestyle, she knows now that the best thing to do in these moments is sit it out in the car. I trail back and forth, in and out, with last-minute bits, ‘I can’t fit this bag in the car’ I shout to Scott whilst simultaneously trying to slam shut the boot in frustration. I can almost look down on myself and see my eyes rolling, can feel the agitation that I’m directing towards him for no other reason than I’m tired and overwhelmed with the fact that despite supposedly being good at living with little, we still seem to have too much stuff. I want to stop myself, to slap myself and tell myself to stop being a petulant child trying to shove the blame, but there is nobody else to direct this frustration at. Our family and friends have no sympathy; this is the life we choose and rightly so, but when I think of all the delightful #vanlife and #simpleliving posts on Instagram, this scene is not what immediately springs to mind.
It’s hard being a travelling family, never quite staying put long enough for roots to take hold, never knowing where you might be from one month to the next, never knowing where your next pay cheque is coming from. The packing up and packing down is endlessly exhausting and at times I’m so angry at myself: angry for not being able to just get on, for the fact that I bore easily and never quite feel like I’m living if I’m not pushing myself to do something on the edge. As we finally close the boot and lock up the caravan door I know I should feel ecstatic relief, but instead I feel longing as we drive by the big houses in the village with warm welcoming lights on as people eat their healthy breakfasts before hopping in the car with their nice hair-dos and fancy clothes and going off to work. I want to feel release, but I don’t. Instead I immediately start outwardly panicking to Scott, reeling off the monthly outgoings we’re having to pay for, the storage, caravan, blah blah blah and knowing that my meager current earnings as a writer will only just cover this. ‘How will we pay for food? How are we going to live?’ I bemoan pitifully.
Scott stops me straight, he’s always good at that. I’m a blatherer, a day-dreamer, I get myself in an anxious tizz quite easily when it comes to mundane everyday stuff and he’s my leveler. ‘Look’ he says in a calm but firm voice, ‘we’ve made the decision to do this. We’ve made the decision not to get jobs and buy a house, not to get another boat. We’ve made the decision to keep going with this life and to go on this adventure, so let’s try and enjoy it, not talk ourselves out of it before it’s even begun’. I feel reprimanded, but know that he’s right. We had sat together and said we’d rather take money out of our savings pot to do something that feels right - right now - than take the safe option and try and do something a bit more settled.
Walking 994 miles to Portugal was a mad idea that I had back in December ‘why don’t we just walk back?’ I said flippantly as we talked about perhaps returning to a little village where we had recently spent a month in our camper, ‘we’ll walk back and rent a place and see what happens’. It all seemed so easy then, to just say it and then suddenly the dream takes shape and all the reasons why we want to do this snowball like; we might not have another perfect time like this again. Our older dog might not even want to be pushed in a buggy in another year, Isabella may want to stay put to study for something and and and… so we said sod it, we’ll spend the money and we’ll have an adventure! But right now, right here in this car, I’m thinking of how the hell we’re going to do it. It all feels too big, too scary, too unknown and whilst I’m trying to believe and listen only to Scott’s voice, my inner voice is panicking and I know outwardly I look frantic.
Then out of the piles of dog blankets and bags and food in the back of the car, pipes up Isabella in a funny long drawn-out voice, ‘all we need is each other’ and I see the white star glint on her teeth as if she’s in an American advertising campaign. We all laugh hysterically and it’s enough… It’s enough to remind me that life is short, that we are going on an adventure, that no – it’s not perfect and that yes, it would be nice to have a bit more money or less crap to store, but we’re doing it. We’re going on a walking adventure and we’re all together and we love each other and that after 12 years of wandering as a family in campers, caravans, narrowboats, volunteering and working and learning and growing, we’re taking it to the next level. We’re challenging ourselves even more and we’re going to find out how nice or horrible people are and we’re going to get to know ourselves even better and we’re going to delve deep, we’re going to connect and it’s true, we only need each other.
994 miles doesn’t seem like that far, when you break it down…
As a writer/researcher for a travel guide – way back when – I walked everywhere and would plan for around 1 mile every 15 mins. So, by that reckoning (and maybe my maths is bad)…
994 miles divided by 4 (4mph) = 248 hours.
Divide that by 6 (average hours walked per day) = 41 days.
But given the fact I’m now in my mid-40s, certainly less fit and therefore probably can’t keep the pace of a mile every 15 minutes (and my husband falls into that category too), plus the fact that our 12-year-old daughter won’t want to keep that pace… and then add to that our two dogs – one of whom is nearly 14 (and when not walking will be pushed in an adapted mountain buggy) and the fact that we’re not planning to walk continuously every day, my thinking when I woke up in the early hours back in December consumed with the idea of WALKING… was that we could probably walk the 994 miles between Vimoutiers (the town in Normandy, France where we will leave from) and Penela, (a little town in Portugal that we’ll be aiming for) in around two to three months.
One foot in front of the other… slowly… how hard can it be?
I have dreamt of doing something like this for so long I can’t even remember… since I first read about Laurie Lee, who one sunny day in 1935 left his Cotswold village to walk to Spain, or Patrick Leigh Fermor who walked from Rotterdam to Constantinople in 1933, or Robyn Davidson who walked across Australia in 1977.
The list goes on.
For me there is something so freeing about just walking. It’s time for the mind to uncoil, the body to unwind and feel connected: to landscape; to those we walk with.
It’s liberating to have nothing but a tent to sleep in, a small fire to cook on and a stream to wash in… but alas, I act as if I know about this day after day, night after night, when I don’t – and that’s the problem. I don’t want to not know anymore… I want to understand what it feels like to walk across a whole country, I want to soar with the eagles in the Pyrenees instead of just driving through the cuttings made by humans and I want to push myself through difficulties and feel real achievement.
I want to truly live in this present moment.
There is never a right time, I’ve come to realise. There is always something that isn’t quite right… but I just can’t wait another year. My husband is up for it, my daughter – on the verge of being a teenager – is eager to go on an adventure and considering that back in October I found myself crying because she was growing too fast and too far; it seems like a gift to spend this time together, doing something utterly life-changing.
So, that’s it. I’ve said it out loud. To myself, to my family, to YOU and that means it’s a dream set in motion, that I can’t now not go through with it and so I’m thinking of that number ~ 994 ~ and wondering what might happen in there - in those miles underfoot - and I’m excited and terrified and inspired and sick with fear.
But I’m going to do it, because life is so damn short and I can’t stand the thought of not trying, of not having a go.
I’m going to (attempt to) walk 994 miles to Portugal.
A decade gone, a new one to begin and somehow it feels far more momentous than I had even really given thought to… to look back over ten years and think ‘what has it all been about; what will it all be about’ is quite something and it feels important to note down where I went, what I felt.
I remember back to the start of 2010 when, after returning from travels we sought to find a new way of living in the UK. We bought our first boat, renovated it and lived on the fringes glowing in the happiness that was discovering a world within a world. It was the year I first explored my local home-ed community, taking my then three-year-old daughter to a meet up where teenagers and toddlers played together, sloshing around in a muddy pond, talking with passion and liveliness and I thought, ‘we could do this’. We travelled to Norway to stay in a remote cabin with a four hour round walk to the shop, we camped our way through Germany, Belgium and The Netherlands. We spent sunny afternoons lounging on the towpath and the coldest winter I can remember, frozen in from November to January with no water and just the sound of ice cracking around our beds.
2011 was the year that felt tightened, where we bought a camper for trips around England to temper my flighty spirit. I tried hard to stay put and for a while it was important and necessary, to care for my best friend, but once she was better the familiar flutterings couldn’t be tamed and by the beginning of 2012 I was driving to Italy with my daughter to volunteer on a farm in the Appenine Mountains. It was here that I first began to explore my journey from vegetarian to vegan as I saw things up close and personal. It was here that I knew I simply couldn’t settle for just one kind of life.
In 2013, with a need to get away, to switch off, to inspire myself, I turned to my husband and said ‘I want to ask my Dad to go on a trip with me’ and he replied, ‘then do it, you might not get another opportunity’ and when I now look at my aging parents, I understand the preciousness of that experience. Me, my six-year-old daughter and my 74-year-old Dad, a plane to the bottom of Spain and a journey across and up by train and bus into Portugal… Notebooks filled with scribbles about life and loss and love and all that good stuff that is the fabric of a person that if we don’t write it down now, will unravel and be lost forever.
That trip led to the taking off once again of a family in a van… we travelled the UK, we travelled south: to beaches and forests, mountains and olive groves. We lived in a cabin near Carcassonne until we realised that for our daughter, it wasn’t enough and so 2014 became a tale of two halves… of trying to balance a life between another boat in the UK to suit her needs and the open road to suit all of us. It was driving north to south and back again, it was sleeping in our car in the Pyrenees, it was travelling by boat from Milton Keynes to Wales and back again, it was dusty tracks and watery roads, it was the nurturing of friendships and the blossoming of hearts.
By 2015 we had found a place to rest in Portugal - our quiet quinta - and so we continued the back and forth never knowing quite where we belonged or if we even needed to. It was chestnuts and horseriding, wild Welsh beaches and cityscapes, cooking on fires, here there and everywhere and then it was the longing for water again and by 2016 we were travelling from North to South on a narrowboat that had once been a floating hotel, to re-connect with our own country, our own people. Ourselves.
2017 saw more camper travels but hiccups and drama meant tiredness and apathy for our wandering life – it seemed the road was against us at every turn and the exhaustion pulled us down. We sold our dream in Portugal, breathed deeply in Andalusia at a place that is so special to us it’s hard to put into words and than in 2018 we ran back to lick our wounds in the UK close to those who needed us; and whom we felt we needed. The North York Moors became my blank page, where I could walk barefoot and write out endless sentences in my head without a soul to cloud those words. Where I could explore the meaning of family, the meaning of rootedness, the meaning of home.
2019… well, that’s just been about the journey within. It’s been – without my even realising it – the launch pad to a new decade. It’s the year I focused on yoga and healing whilst friend-hopping around Spain and Portugal with my daughter. The year I finally lived in the Scottish Highlands and it's the year we took a few months out in (another!) motorhome to recover from personal summer struggles and health issues, seeking out old friends and sharing many healing meals around many tables. It's the year we stumbled upon an amazing community in Portugal, a place we see ourselves going back to, but overall, 2019 has been the year that I made bigger decisions about my life, about who . I . really . am.
Sometimes you have to go to places you don’t want to, uncover truths that are painful, to make decisions about what you really need and so I’ve let people gently fall away from me this year and I’ve sought out those who I know nourish me, reaching out for their love, support and encouragement. I’ve realised that blood is not always thicker and that that’s OK.
I’ve realised that I am OK.
So a decade… what does it mean? I’ve lived in France, Wales, England, Portugal, Scotland, Spain; in boats, caravans, campervans, cabins, cottages, tents and houses. I’ve taken myself away to be quiet, to reconnect. I’ve been in the thick of it, laughing around tables, sharing food and conversation. I’ve watched the most bouncy, fun-loving happy little girl evolve into an-almost-teenager who has an untameable spirit and an unstoppable passion that I know I helped ignite and I’ve never felt more proud of anything in my life. The dog that turned four in 2010 is now almost 14 and that makes me sad, but also incredibly lucky and of course, I’ve become Mum to another little pooch, sent to shake things up a bit I reckon. I’ve realised that I can commit, to a man I have loved for 16 years and that; THAT is home.
I’ve laughed, I’ve cried, I’ve screamed, I’ve fallen down, I’ve got back up again and I’ve FELT the beating heart of life all around me.
Some might say I’m scatty, unable to stick at anything, lost or just plain confused. I say I’m living. I’m just trying to find my way and when I sit here now; writing, reflecting, I think – how could it ever be any other way? There is a world out there. There are people just waiting to be met, experiences to be lived. How can I not have a hunger for it?
And so, 2020 is about clear vision. It’s about more adventures and whilst I can see what I’m aiming for with clear intentions, I’m not naïve enough to think I won’t be pulled off track along the way. And that’s OK… it’s all OK… because if I can reach 2030 with as much to look back on, as many smiles to re-live, as many great people to call my friends and with a continued openness to new ideas and willingness to work on myself, then I’ll take it.
Wishing anyone reading this a wonderful 2020 filled with amazing adventures and healing energies. May you have the strength to take leaps of faith, to try things and not worry about if they don't work out, because they ALWAYS work out as they should in the end. And may you believe in yourself, know that you are amazing and good enough for whatever it is you want to be or do.
May 2020 be the year we all strive for that which is important to us, without fear of anything at all.
We look up to see the morning mist settled atop the valley as steep-sided pine, eucalyptus and oak-covered hills draw us downwards ~ we feel cocooned, underneath the world ~ we pass the shepherd and his goats, his dog Karillio gambols around with our two ~ we laugh and exchange pleasantries ~ turning a corner in the track, down and down we go until all we can hear is the rushing river ~ the ground is damp, the smell green ~ in the distance we begin to hear children laughing outside the white house with a turquoise-painted balcony ~ our daughter waves goodbye, joining the group for a day of learning together and as we make our way back upwards the sun begins to poke through and the sleepy morning valley opens up to blue skies and endless possibilities.
I am sleeping (or not) in my car, which is parked up in France overlooking the Atlantic. Everything I need for three months is in the car with me and the feeling of freedom this thought brings elates me from deep within.
The waves are crashing in the background; that and the sound of my family breathing are all I am aware of. I can’t sleep, I’m thinking of a friend who is very poorly… there is nothing like possible death to quiet the mind, make you truly consider what really matters in these moments that we are blessed with breath; with the opportunity to be who we want to be, to do whatever it is we dream of.
In this moment I realise it is what I am: a wanderer, gypsy, traveller, nomad… a seeker of life, a keeper of all things important, but important things that I can collect as I move, things that only take up space in my heart. When you live a nomadic life the only roots you have are those friends and family who mean the world to you… but always you are rooted only through holding their hands. We are flailing on the wind, tethered to our hosts and we thank them for always letting us run free whilst keeping a thread of our bodies pinned to wherever they are on the earth.
Our travels across France tethered us to friends, made as a result of our wayfaring lifestyle. We chatted and let the chickens out, we ran around the 3 acres of garden, we walked to the river and all sat on a beautiful bridge draped in autumn leaves, listening to the rushing water and contemplating life. My daughter chatted non-stop to fellow travellers from Quebec and Argentina… others just passing through. We, all together, threw her a Halloween party with recycled get-up, sparklers and a bonfire. As she wandered through the darkened gardens lit only by the most incredible starlight seeking out hidden pumpkins to crack the Halloween code, her laughter rang out and I felt overwhelmed with joy for the life we live.
Our friends packed us off in the early morning with fresh kale and herbs from their gardens and before we settled down to slumber this evening in the shadow of the Pyrenees, we ate raw kale salad on paper plates rustled together in a car-park. This made me smile and I thought how our friends would smile too at our creativity.
And so now we are on our way to Spain. To dryer lands, bluer skies, olive trees, emptiness and space to breathe… as peaceful as my watery life is, everyday stuff can still take over and become exhausting and always the desire to drive away, to stop the ride, to re-connect, calls. A desire to chase the light perhaps? Or simply the desire for more space than narrow water brings: to expand, shrink, grow… be both loud and silent. Or perhaps it is simply the desire to wear my sandals again.
I am not sure, but I do know that whenever I am called to the road, to a new place, to a new adventure, it is a calling from deep within my heart and I have found that the heart is the scariest thing to listen to and yet, it is the most exhilarating and powerful way to live.
There I go again, thinking of that friend… thinking of life.
How do we want to LIVE? is perhaps a good question to all ask ourselves from time-to-time. Today I want to live like this, tomorrow may play a different tune but whatever, I will be sure to listen with a keen ear and an open heart.
In February 2022 I moved my blog to Substack. There you will find weekly writings (with audio option also), plus you can sign up to have them delivered direct to your inbox.
I hope you will join me there!
Blogs I Enjoy
Our Life Handmade
Raised on Earth
Taking a Kinder Path
Wing and Lens
Carol Anne Strange
I.A.S. Natural Horse Training