When I first read this prompt on Wednesday, I felt completely flummoxed. Usually I have an inkling as to what I want to talk about — even if it’s just a generic category, or rough idea, it’s something to go with. But this week, this week there was nothing — just a complete, confused blank. Followed by something of a complete internal panic as to how to make a blog post out of this… So, instead, I got myself a cup of tea (or several, over several days) and let the prompt simmer away on my mental backburner for a couple of days.

Today, I have an answer — one that requires complete honesty and trust in being vulnerable. I wish people know that, deep inside, I’m actually terrified. Despite the confident exterior, and the easy-going smile and concern for others — all of which is genuine, I must add — deep inside, there’s a part of me that’s scared. And I don’t know what that fear is, or what it’s for — but it’s there. And it’s deep and real and present — so much so that when I open up to you, I am placing my hopes and fears and loves and wishes in the palm of your hand, and trusting you will be gentle with them. Every conversation, every moment, every time we meet, every time I say “I’m fine”, I’m scared. That’s what I wish people knew.

As I wish for myself, so I also wish for you…

Last year, in the midst of all my grief and dark night of the soul, I came across the very talented Ruthie Foster, who has turned the poem into a very, very smooth jazz number:

All the way through the year, no matter how bad things got, I turned to this video (and, later, the album) again and again to find some connection, some semblance of “all will be well”. It helped me trust that all would come out right, that I was strong and would get through this. It helped me remember that I am a goddess, and I am a piece of the Divine. Thank you to Maya, and to Ruthie, for this gift.

So, for every phenomenal woman in the house: You are a goddess.

How interesting that this question should appear after last week’s ruminations about my recent bout with pneumonia! I could continue on that thread — that of body awareness, and listening, but instead I am drawn to think about the need for self-care.

In all honesty, I am not the most healthy of people. For many years I have lived with chronic fatigue syndrome and fibromyalgia — note I say “lived with” and not “suffered from” or “battled”. These are chronic illness conditions which require you to learn to live alongside them. In a nutshell, they mean that I get tired easily, can get confused, am sensitive to certain foods, atmospheres and the like, and have constant, widespread pain. All of this can turn on a dime — one moment I’m fine, the next I’m in bed for three days straight. But, over the years, I’ve come to terms with both conditions and I’m constantly working on a “toolbox” of coping strategies to help me live as normal a life as possible. For the most part, it works.

That’s where this week’s Wishcasting comes in — what I most wish for, in terms of my health and wellness, is not a cure or a miracle drug to make everything better. Rather, it’s a wish that I start to recognise more often when I need to take more time for self-care. Instead of pushing myself further onward, exhausting myself and/or twitching that pain level slightly higher because I didn’t go to bed/get a bath/take time out when I should have, I wish that I am able to be more aware of my body’s needs for self-care. So yes, in a lot of ways this does tie in with last week’s Wishcasting after all.

So what does self-care look like? For everyone it’s different — for me, it’s taking a good bath, or getting a few hours’ sleep in an afternoon if I need it. A decent cup of tea and five minutes’ time out from the hectic nature of the day. Walking barefoot in the grass. Knitting. A duvet day. Sitting with the ocean. Playing my harp. Having a gentle massage. Lying in the sun. Cuddling my kitties, my husband. A good cheeseboard, not necessarily with wine. Devotional work at an altar. There’s lots of things that count as self-care for me, and doing things that make me feel good, and give my body/mind/heart/soul time to catch a breath, is essential to my health. When I don’t take time to be gentle with myself, allow myself some self-care, things go rapidly downhill — I’m snappy, moody, and my symptoms increase.

Recognising this is half the battle, though. The other half is giving yourself permission to take that time for yourself and not feel guilty about it. Oddly enough, I’m getting better at the latter but the former is more difficult. Hence my wish for this week.

As I wish for myself, so I also wish for you…

Me, at the Chalice Well, Glastonbury — June 2011

Finding peace isn’t easy: that is one of the many lessons I learned last year. Take the above photograph. I’m sitting, meditating, at the Chalice Well in Glastonbury. It’s a World Peace Garden, all quiet and serene and with many hidden areas for one to sit quietly and connect, or contemplate, as is their desire. My husband and I had gone to Glastonbury to recharge our batteries again, as we often do, and I ended up at the Well Head itself, needing some quiet time.

You probably can’t guess from that photograph, but inside I’m struggling not to drown in grief and sorrow.

A few weeks earlier, I’d officiated at the burial of one of my closest friends — an event which, now I look back, was filled with many opportunities for both joy and grief. And my dear friend would be the first to tell me not to participate in the latter, but to embrace the former — with sparkles no less! But oh, it’s hard. Even now, it’s hard. And back then, seated in the Chalice Well gardens, it was hard. Nigh-on unbearable, in a lot of ways.

I went there seeking peace, seeking solace, seeking something. I needed some inkling that my grief wasn’t going unnoticed. That, I thought, may bring me some modicum of peace. But no. My sorrow and grief was the same there was it had been everywhere else. I was still exhausted by it, still heartbroken by it. I struggled against it, yearning for peace — hoping that, on the other side of the anguish, there would be something akin to tranquility.

I didn’t realise then, but there’s no struggling against grief. There’s no way around it, or over it, or beneath it. There’s only through it. Surrender, release, let go. Give all of yourself to it, and somewhere in the middle, it transforms — both itself, and yourself. Ah, but here’s the rub: one pass through isn’t enough. Grief isn’t linear. Like much else in life, it circles and spirals. You come back to it again and again, and each time is altogether different, yet the same, than the last. Transformative. Real. Hard. Needed.

Peace doesn’t come easy. But one day, it’ll come.

Good Goddess — what a question. When I listen, I hear all sorts of things — but this isn’t a question about listening with the ears. It’s about listening with the heart, with the soul. And that’s sometimes the hardest way to listen of all. Oh, it can be easy at times — like when you’re heart-connected with someone, and listening for what is spoken between words, in breaths and silence both. But listening within… That requires a certain sense of openness with your Self, an honesty and a responsibilty. A kind of respect — to hold the space for yourself to move into, and let your breaths and silence speak.

I am not a patient person — least of all with myself. I am slowly learning the virtue of patience — but even so, when I still at will, and hold the space to listen for my wish today, I feel a rankle of irritation that the answer does not come quickly enough, that I will have to spend more than a just a few moments doing this.

And as quickly as that rankle of irritation occurs, it’s gone — soothed, released. I have dropped beyond it, deeper into my wombspace, my centre, and I feel the silence of that time and space expand from within to permeate my muscles and bones, tissues and organs. My body feels lighter. I feel calmer. Patient. At ease. More settled. Connected. I breathe, deep and even and real. I contemplate my breath.

There — in the spaces inbetween: that pause after an exhale, then again after an inhale. Comfortable pauses, knowing that the next part of breathing will happen regardless, and there’s no fear. In those spaces, I hear an echo — a rattle, a gasp, a memory. Myself, scant months earlier, wracked with pneumonia. Not quite knowing if I would need assistance to breathe that day or the next; not quite knowing if I would heal; not quite knowing what would happen if I didn’t. And, alongside that echo came comfort. Now that was unexpected. I was okay with the pneumonia, with the process my body was going through as it moved throughout my system. I don’t remember behind that comfortable or calm at the time of the pneumonia, mind, but I was experiencing that memory today. A cell-memory, soul-memory. Not conscious, but rather something felt rather than known. Something instinctive, raw, deep.

I let myself experience this for a time: the memory, the feelings. I experienced them, then let them go. And in doing so, came close enough to hear my wish at this time. I wish to trust. To have that complete comfort and trust in, and awareness of, my body as it experiences things that consciously, I do not register — so absorbed am I in my mundane comings and goings. I hear that wish, and I hold it gently, all too suddenly acutely aware of its power and poignancy. I feel tears prick at my eyes. The energy of this causes another rankle of irritation somewhere within me — how dare I feel upset? How dare I potentially ruin such a peaceful, heart-deep moment?

And again, as quickly as it’s there — it’s gone. Released. Soothed. My breath and my bones have wrapped around that irritation, and held it, eased it away. My body knows. It always knows. I just need to listen. I just need to trust.

As I wish for myself, so I also wish for you…