Something shifts and things begin to grow again.  I planted three plants by this little fence,  two died over summer.  This little chap was accidentally harshly pruned during a yard clean up,  but has regenerated and finally grown large enough to put out a tendril and twine around the fence.  I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding.  Most of my plants died over summer,  but the mint survived,  so I’ve struck it and planted 4 more.  I’ve spent my life trying to learn this lesson – to mourn what dies and focus on what grows.  

On December 31 I trod on a branch in my garden.  A massive thorn broke through my shoe and lodged deep into my foot.  I couldn’t remove it and had to see a doctor for extraction.  It’s never quite healed.  I recently had a ultrasound that found broken fragments buried deep in my foot.  A surgeon has said it’s too risky to remove,  I’ll have to wait until my body can break it down.  Metaphors abound. I can still walk, but in the evenings I limp a little as the foot swells and hurts.  There’s nothing to do with the pain but be patient.  In the meantime,  a friend has bright me a thornless lemon tree to replace my thorny menace. Sometime I’ll get around to finding it a new home and planting it. 

For my birthday this year I started another community art mural.  Little Bear loves sea creatures,  especially whales,  so it’s an Orca in a wild ocean.  Today I stole some time to paint a little more.  It’s so peaceful.  I miss my studio but not having one or having one does very little to my actual arts practice.  It’s never been the barrier. 

My book has been calling to me.  So much death lately makes you think about legacy and hope.  Nightingale keeps bringing it up,  gently,  persistently, as one of biggest impacts we could have on the most people out there looking for hope.  So today I opened up a box of books about multiplicity and DID and plurality and gleefully restocked my book shelf.  I’ve gone back over my old structure notes,  my old Multiplicity Project plans,  thought about interviews and poems and diversity. 

Then I lit two black candles and took a bath and let it all percolate and swirl around the back of my brain.  So much change lately.  So much grief,  so much pain and fear in the disability sector here with the massive changes proposed to the ndis, the fuel crisis,  the cost of living crisis.  Much of my attention is rightfully on my business and the wellbeing of my clients and staff.  But also this morning I put my phone out of reach and spent 3 hours playing with my youngest two children and it was sweetness.  I watched the night fall as I painted into shadows and I could feel my soul settle lightly in my ribs like a vast,  ephemeral,  tattered bird.  Like the forgotten beasts of Eld. Like the heartbeat of the child who died inside of me and who I carry always. 

I curled in the dark on the bath and the wilds unfurled outside my windrow.  The places beyond the maps where so many people are struggling,  hoping, and struggling with stories of brokenness that net and bind them. The book begins to breathe again.  I begin to breathe again.