Isn’t it funny, that if I had made a different decision I wouldn’t be here now? If I had put a different answer on that sheet, my fate would’ve been written in different ink. Because if I was sat here in a different universe, without you by my side, I would have never become complete.
I never experienced grief this bad before. It all started when I lost my mother, my world and my hero. It sneaked up on me quietly and took me under its arms in an instant. Every memory played like a song in my head, repeating itself for what seemed like forever. I was lost mostly because I had lost a big part of me. I couldn't get that part back and I wanted it so bad as my life depended on it but it was all gone, vanished in thin air. I can't say it got better but it did get easier. At first, I thought grief was something bad that takes you ten feet under but soon I learned that it was just the price we had to pay for loving someone.
As a writer I spend so much time alone, me and the ideas in our creative bubble. Yet there are days I need other people around, even if it is simply in a cafe. To me, ideas are the same, they need other ideas around so that they can weave and evolve into the new and wonderful. So I take my ideas and I sow them as far and wide as possible as soon as they emerge. Each of them needs to fly, to enter the productive chaos of the creative ether and be reborn in the thoughts of others... be part of the ever expanding frontier of creativity.
Light shone through the wintry branches, shadowy arms stretching across the ancient ruins. What was left stood in spite of itself, defying gravity in its precarious way. Yet, this place, kept secret by the trees, was safe. It had avoided modern man's destructive touch and so had become a sanctuary for the animals.
Once I’d reached the edge of the forest I stood in front of the tightly knit trees and stared deep into the darkness ahead as if begging permission to enter. Then I respectfully stepped into the massive realm of woodland, and from the first footfall the whole atmosphere changed. The ground was spongy, like walking on foam, and as I put my full weight down the earth seemed to hug my boots and gently release them with each step. Scent from the foliage, mixed with the dampness and decay, danced through the air and tickled my nostrils, and sprinkles of dew that were lying in wait leapt from their hosts to anoint me with weepy atoms, and cooled my face with their misty kisses.
The waves are an ever changing mosaic of the blue made so glorious by their watery-crown splashes. Their movement is in so many directions, yet to my soul I feel the entire scene as if it were some soothing movie. I could watch the rain in the sea all day, stand here with the water on my skin. It is so sweet sometimes to let the calmness within feel so secure as the wind blusters of its own accord all around, tousling my hair in its dancing ways.
Hold every bad memory in your left hand; every good memory in your right. Now hold every one of them in your brain at the same time, an awareness without words. Then realise how much we invent at the interface between the world of dreams and memory, how great we are at creating our own fictions to enable us to handle our emotions and navigate our world. In each hand the memories have been transformed into a fine and fertile earth, it rains to your feet, the richness from which all your future grows. You are your own best healer my love, it is right there in your brain, the power to transform yourself.
The negative memories come with a cost, as addictive as they feel, once lessons are learnt there is nothing in them of value. The positive memories come as a friend with a picnic basket, they are good and nourishing, supportive and kind. And so I choose to build myself this way, letting the bad ones wander off on their own and encouraging the good ones to blossom and grow. This way I become confident, well balanced and in control of me, able to appreciate each moment as a gift and to see a positive future.
This time on the mountain, moving over this brilliant canvass of nature, is when I become as the moving tip of an artists brush, skipping over the soft waves of white. Skiing amid the evergreens is my time, the space allowing my soul to repair and grow.