Elizabeth believes the written word is a powerful medium. Having worked most of her life in the visual arts she is excited now to be exploring this new territory.
I could ask myself why write a journal at all — to risk discovery, or find myself burning it one day.
Unceremoniously. But then there is a flicker like a gentle flash on the inward eye, drowned out by the pressing needs of the day, that speaks of an internal journey, of things calling to be explored, things to unpack and investigate.
These days the world feels like such a different place. There is something I need to know but I am not quite sure what it is. I am trying to learn to accept 'what life brings ' but I don’t like how it feels sometimes, as though the whole world has taken on a tonal change. It’s not how I wanted it to be, it’s not predictable, it’s a precarious and uncomfortable place. I wonder is this how “it” is now, what I thought mattered so intensely in the past, no longer matters.
Yesterday I held my baby grandson and felt his body softening and moulding into mine, getting heavier. I could feel sleep descending even though I could not see his face and I put my cheek next to his as he let go and I felt his spirit melt into mine, as one.
What pleasure. Does it get any better than this? How fortunate am I. Is this “it” then— no narrative needed?
I woke early this morning to write and from the upstairs bedroom saw the morning light emerging over the hills while deliciously enjoying an uninterrupted moment with teapot and tray. Strong exciting pinks softened to lighter salmons and to the wintery grey of another day, all before I reached the end of the page.
As my eyes scan over my words I realise the shifts and changes in the life I write about are like this light outside the window, a constantly changing picture. In writing I find the space to see what is really happening.
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