I was caught by this thought on Pinterest today.


And it got me thinking about this world, and how easy it is to connect with someone. Through Facebook, through email, through other social media.

And yet there is a perception that actual conversations (face to face, as it were) are seen to be difficult and best to be avoided. You only have to travel on public transport to see this truth in this.

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I was having a chat with Mr yesterday about a blog I read. For the month of October this blog has been focussing on how to create a sacred morning ritual. I have seen these posts come in, and each day I have thought, “that’s great, I need to sit down and read that, and then I need to plan for that, and then I need to do that”.

And each day another post came in, and suddenly there were 17 posts there for me to read and work through, and I was starting to feel overwhelmed.

And the reality is my morning ritual is more like this:

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We have hit the middle of the week, and that means time for wordplay.

I somehow missed last week, the problem with holidays is you are never sure what day it is!

Anyway I have recently acquired a pen pal, and I love nothing more than the thrill of going to mailbox, seeing there is a letter for me, and saving it for a quiet time when I can read it in peace. I feel quite Austenesque (if that is a word!).


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On rugs and the voice in my head

photo 1I spent all of yesterday at a Rag-Rugging workshop.

Let’s put this in context.

I am not a sewer, I am not a knitter, anything to do with fabrics scares me, I can barely sew buttons back on my shirts, and I definitely do not do hems, ever!

In my mind my sister was the sewer, she was the fabric person, she was the crafty one, the creative one. I would literally find myself in a room full of people doing crafty stuff and shut down.

One of my very good friends asked us to make little T-Shirts for her baby shower. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t cut out a pattern and iron it on with whatever that stuff is. I refused because I didn’t believe I was creative (sorry K).

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in the midst

Have you ever been in the midst? In the midst of struggle, in the midst of heartache, in the midst of grief? Did you feel like in the midst was all there was and there was no foreseeable end?

When I was in the midst of my grief and pain of infertility and miscarriage. I wrote. And those writings became poems, and those poems became a book, and that book I self-published, and then it took on a life of its own.

I recently received an email from someone I have never met, who read my poems. She wrote about how  “it felt comforting to know that I wasn’t the only one dealing with such a prolonged deep sadness”.

All I could think when I read those words was “my story matters”.

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