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“when by now and tree by leaf
She laughed his joy she cried his grief” ~ E. E. Cummings

Some years ago, I saw Field of Dreams, a film about a farmer who was repeatedly urged, by an unseen voice, to build a baseball pitch beside his farmhouse, even though he had no idea why he should build it, who would play on the pitch and who, if any, would come to watch.

Like the young farmer, I have been repeatedly urged by unseen voices to “write”. During the months after my mother died, mediums and clairvoyants, none of whom had met me before, all repeated the same instruction - ‘write’.

But write about what? The pain I felt at losing my mother? Christina had been my soulmate and my best friend and the thought that the strength, love and tenacity that had been ‘her’ had simply disappeared never to return, was almost too much to bear.

But the instruction became more frequent and more insistent – so I started to write. The process was more painful than I expected.

Writing became a daily habit and I guess that in the back of my mind, I hoped it might turn out to be a book. A year later however, I realised that much of what I had written, although essential to my own recovery, was too personal and self-indulgent, to be of interest to anyone else but me..

There were some grains of truth that I felt could be shared and the writing made things grow. I am more aware of the beauty that is around me. It's like seeing the world in colour for the first time, after a lifetime of monochrome.

Laughter is the music of Heaven ~

 

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