It’s been a long week. Painting lifts me out of myself, is a balm to the distress. The storms in my mind ease. There’s been so much sadness lately, and such hard work.

I went and cried in my GP’s office earlier and she was impressive. She gave a hug, diagnosed me with exhaustion, and got me a cup of tea and a biscuit while I recovered in the waiting room. That’s how you do it.

Quality of care like that is rare and precious. So simple and yet underlying the simple act of kindness is a whole philosophy of equality and value, and a host of complex personal skills that are difficult to teach in the way we traditionally teach people, and frequently undervalued. 

Tonight Rose walked Poppy to sleep in the pram and we both painted. Radiohead playing in the background, a little wildness in the corner of a very domestic life, a stolen hour outside of our roles. Skin hungry we reach across to touch. My soul cries out for nourishment and my heart for rest and safety. We both breathe in the night and the paint on our hands. A friend drops by with birthday treats for Rose. There’s so much beauty here, so much love. We’ll be okay. 

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