Stomping out the fear

My husband, too ill to move, signals for a kiss from his bed.

Our daughter races ahead of me and wins the prize.

Losing never felt so good.


Another small stones month. I'll write one whenever I'm here, but that won't be much. Thomas is leaking energy daily, and with it strength and colour. Pickle is volcanic with energy - many walks a day, ever increasing, and phenomenal rages when thwarted. She feels our fear too, and wisely takes our feet, hers and mine, to stomp it across fields, leave it in little piles under trees, scatter it on the fierce winds which whip round us every night or into the newly thunderous streams. Sometimes she just stops and roars. So do I. Sometimes she just stops and cries. So do I. Sometimes she just wants her mum to carry her. So do I. But I am the mum. That's feeling heavy right now; heavy with responsibility and with privilege and black hole-heavy with love.

Our future is unknown; could hold anything, just like yours. 2012, the Age of Kali Ma, Mayan prophecies, squabbling consultants wielding power they cannot hold, the greatest heart I know struggling to tick-boom like it needs to... whatever. It's cold and wet and windy and muddy and dark outside and we've got some stomping to do.