I am about midway between two big “Yes” days, and it feels delicious.

The first Yes day, formally known as the Jour du Oui, was last week – 11th June – the day, six years ago, in 2019, when Medjool proclaimed, “Je te choisis.” I choose you.

It was raining heavily. We’d just been to see a film, and though Medjool invited me in for a tisane, I knew it was best to get on home. I wasn’t avoiding him – I ached to stay – but my presence felt too prickly to others who were around. So we walked to where I’d parked nearby, and as we said our goodbyes, he blurted out those incredible words:

“Je te choisis.”
I choose you.

I collapsed – or buckled – into his arms. My legs literally gave way.
I wasn’t expecting his choice so soon. I’d given him three to six months to decide, and we were only six weeks in. Medjool had been doing what I call ‘proper dating’ – meeting different women – while I was on five websites and had just one date: Medjool. But one was enough.
I knew very quickly that he was right for me. It took him six weeks to land in the same knowing. But he got there eventually.

The collapsing, the buckling, came because it was the first piece of good news I’d had in what felt like forever. Days, weeks, months, and years of continuous stress at that stage. Holding so much grief. And it only got worse.

Barely two weeks later, on 30th June, my youngest child, Julia, took her life. I’ll never know if those two momentous events – the “oui” and the death – were in any way connected – even tangentially.

I’ll never know, and I don’t want to know.
I can’t know.

Six years on, Julia is still dead. Her death day creeps up on me through the whole of June.

This year, if all goes to plan, I’ll be in the north of Spain on her death day. I have a special massage booked for the afternoon – the first day of a writing retreat I’ll be participating in and partially co-supporting. I’ll have plenty of time during the week to hang out with Julia as I continue to edit my book. I’ll walk in the nearby forests. Eat delicious Spanish food. Maybe even have a nap in the daytime.

I will make it a special day.
I wonder if it will be easier than in previous years.
For the first time since she died, her birthday this year was noticeably lighter.

Big breath.
I’ve lived and loved through hard days before. It might be easier. It might not be. But I know I’ll find my way through.

The second “Yes day” is just around the corner – 21st June – the Summer Solstice here. I love these long, light, luscious days. They are so enlivening.

Medjool and I have invited a precious group of friends and family for a weekend celebration. We’re calling it a Commitment Ceremony – a concept entirely made up by us, whose purpose is to say “Yes” to love, life, grief and death – the whole caboodle of being alive. And even though we know what this ceremony is about, it’s easier to describe what it’s not:

It’s not marriage.
It’s not a civil partnership.
It doesn’t mean we’re about to move in together.

What it does mean will unfold in front of some of our favourite people – both local and far-flung. For every person who is coming, there are myriad others I’d love to have beside us, but it makes sense to keep it small and intimate.

So I feel bookended by Yeses. Supported and held by the fierce constancy of life and love, forever flowing.

A couple of months ago, I wrote about feeling absurdly good – especially weird given the state of the world. (Polyglow in the Polycrisis). There’s so much horror and hardship unfolding, it almost feels… inappropriate? audacious?… to say that I feel good. Really good.

And yet I do. I still do. I feel happy. Joyous.
I’ve started singing and whistling again as I wander around the house and garden.
My very elderly dog, Black, wakes me between 4 and 5 a.m. every morning, and though I never go back to sleep, I don’t mind.
I adore him. I never get cross at him.
I know I won’t have him for much longer.

I’m grateful to be in this exquisitely blessed space of being well loved, healthy, supported, enveloped.

So yes – things are good. Really good.
I know how quickly things can change.
So for now, I will relish my ongoing polyglow.

Permission to glow.

Main image by Austin Schmid on Unsplash. 
Other images by Canva.