I wanted to drop in a piece of my “writing-in-progress” as I near the end of the first draft of my book. Still much to do before it is completely and imperfectly out in the world, of course, but time to take a breath as I engage with this new threshold. 

Another threshold. The kind of ending that holds within it the seeds of something not-yet-known. A breath before whatever comes next.

It feels right to linger longer here, and honour this — this life I am living now.

This life. With all of its love. All of its grief. All of its breath. With all of the opportunities I have had and still have.

This is not the life I wanted or imagined. And yet — it is of such precious beauty.

It’s been nearly a year since I wrote the opening lines of this book. I wasn’t sure, then, if the words could hold. But I still feel them now, just as strongly:

Right here, right now, in this moment, life is good.
Exquisite.
I am lucky.
Truly.

Even in a world that is both exploding and imploding — in a world of polycrisis and extinction and deep unravelling — I feel blessed. These are disturbing times to be alive. And these are galvanising times to be alive. Another Both-And. And so I keep living what is mine to live — as fully, as intentionally, with as much presence as I can muster.

Earlier this week, I spent the night alone beneath some Alder trees — camping in ancient woodland (*), held by the Earth. The same Earth that has cradled so much grief. And so much love. The same Earth that, over millennia, has had one aspiration: live and thrive.

I feel a kindred spirit with Alders, for how they live and what they might teach us. In Celtic lore, the alder is a tree of both fire and water. It bleeds red when cut. It thrives in flood. It enriches the soil for others. It’s a pioneer species, one of the first to reinhabit disturbed land, preparing the ground for the return of life. It doesn’t resist disruption — it partners with it. It meets challenge not with rigidity, but resilience. What’s more is that I was born during the Alder period, and so I like to feel that this tree is part of my seasonal lineage. The Alder reminds me that it’s possible to meet grief with grace. It’s possible to regenerate. That strength can be tender, and rootedness can coexist with flow.

May I be more Alder.

Medjool and I are getting ready for our Commitment Ceremony. There will be no erasing what has been. Instead there will be a full honouring of what has been, what is, and what might be. A number of invited guests were also present at Mike’s and my wedding, back in the last millennium. Such a privilege to have these dear friends witness these two great loves of mine, and my capacity, my commitment, to carry on living and loving.

This life is not what I asked for. But it is mine for now, and I love it. Deeply.

For this is my definition of true — as in real — love.
Love without illusion or fantasy.
Love that understands and integrates grief.
Love that includes the dead.
Love that isn’t threatened by the truth of what came before, nor by the inevitability of what will come in time.

This love, this life — it doesn’t need to be big or brilliant. It just needs to be real. And it is.

Here is what I wrote to myself, closing out the forest retreat. A whisper from my soul to my heart, should I ever forget:

Live love
Live life
Love life
Love love
Be you
Bring the fullest you
Create and contribute
Breathe
Flow
Grow
Sow
Glow
And in time,
Let it all go.

I am so grateful to live this one precious life, with all of its love, with all of its grief.

(*) Special thanks and deep gratitude to Giles Hutchins and our merry band of temporary forest dwellers. And thank you Springwood farm for your deeply nurturing embrace.