The passing of another year recently came amongst overwhelming (well may be not, since I’m still breathing) circumstances – illness, work-stress of epic proportions (which probably accelerated the illness – go figure) and a general malaise: big dark clouds of anxiety and exhaustion. My healing – a conscious effort to batten down the hatches and protect the source – in other dramatic words – me.
I literally went to ground (awfully reminiscent of my favourite Mole – “The Mole was bewitched, entranced, fascinated. By the side of the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a man who holds one spell-bound by exciting stories; and when tired at last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea.” Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows)
– I went to work (no other rotten choice), I came home and I did just enough to function. I took the time to be kind to myself, to occasionally put myself first and remember just why I’m happy with being me. The sum total of the process (liberally sprinkled with a few curious glances from my other half and the odd “are you ok darling”) is that the phoenix has arisen – well perhaps more appropriately the ash has been shaken off and I’m beginning to preen, liberally.
Oh yes, the big news is I have a secret – being 43 is outrageously fabulous.