This is not a poem, but I hope it finds you

The Christmas Tree is up and waiting patiently for its decorations and strings of twinkly lights. I spent the morning baking and this sultana and walnut loaf is waiting for afternoon tea. There is a lovely, soft rain falling and I might have a nap. I am gently wrestling with fear—does that make sense? It will soon be Christmas and again, someone I love is preparing to fight a battle with cancer. Again, I am on the other side of an ocean, so much water between us. I will carve honesty all over my words—for me, and for you. I will look for its presence in the moss velveting the woodlands where I walk. I will stand in front of the smooth blackness of the dog-pelt lichen and I will be silent with wonder. I will come and tell of it, so that you too, can close your eyes for a few seconds and drink it in. Everywhere I look there are soft bodies trying to pretend that everything is ok. For many it isn’t and it is what it is. Sometimes we are given more than our fair share—still we get to plant something in the deepest crevices of our grief and in the season it will bloom. In all her bitter ways death leads to life. I didn’t always know this. It found me after my father died, but first there was a desert and a life of very little moisture and life, when it is full, always breathes in the wet—the morning dew, the streams, and the oceans, still, there are deserts on every treasure map and even there we will find something to hold in our hands, something to care for. This is not a poem, but I hope it finds you wherever you are, climbs softly onto your lap and leaves some beauty at your feet.