Last night spring awakened and it was beautiful, truly beautiful. But I also couldn't help but think of you sitting there - with no green leaves, just thirstier and thirstier (as you so beautifully wrote here) for the water that's needed for spring to really bloom. Thank you always for your words and the window to your grief and soul.
Thank you for reading Jessica and for your support.
I found the concert joyful but also it unravelled something in me.
One thing I’m learning about grief is that it leaves you only with nostalgia. And Sunday was full of that feeling. A feeling that, as we all know, is always bitter-sweet.
Your words make me think of trees, about which, I should say, I know nothing.
I once aspired to be a great oak.
Then I realised the survival benefits of trees that bend in the wind.
Now I think I might need to be more like a cactus.
I only just read this George (red wine made me re-read some of your earlier posts) and I don't think I ever saw your reply to mine. Beautiful words as always, and what I think is that it's potentially possible to be an oak and a cactus, as well as a field of corn that blows in the wind. It's what I'm aspiring for anyway - a life filled with all of the plants and the trees. I hope that for you too xxx
Beautiful. Poignant. Heartbreaking. Thinking of you and your crew, George. Sending ❤️.
And grateful for the partitions from this well of enduring love, despite the desert surrounds, that you share with us each week.
It is a well, you're right. Writing draws from it. Being read replenishes. So thank you.
Last night spring awakened and it was beautiful, truly beautiful. But I also couldn't help but think of you sitting there - with no green leaves, just thirstier and thirstier (as you so beautifully wrote here) for the water that's needed for spring to really bloom. Thank you always for your words and the window to your grief and soul.
Thank you for reading Jessica and for your support.
I found the concert joyful but also it unravelled something in me.
One thing I’m learning about grief is that it leaves you only with nostalgia. And Sunday was full of that feeling. A feeling that, as we all know, is always bitter-sweet.
Your words make me think of trees, about which, I should say, I know nothing.
I once aspired to be a great oak.
Then I realised the survival benefits of trees that bend in the wind.
Now I think I might need to be more like a cactus.
I only just read this George (red wine made me re-read some of your earlier posts) and I don't think I ever saw your reply to mine. Beautiful words as always, and what I think is that it's potentially possible to be an oak and a cactus, as well as a field of corn that blows in the wind. It's what I'm aspiring for anyway - a life filled with all of the plants and the trees. I hope that for you too xxx
Yes. A massive hole in so many aspects and layers of your life.
Witnessing from afar.
Thank you Sarah. It’s an incredible facet of human beings that one person can be so many different things to another person.