The drought has broken

I wake late, lingering nightmares peppering my thoughts. The recurring fear of no reception, fingers that can’t dial the number when it is so desperately needed, bystanders who refuse to help.

The sun is already high, and it casts bright light and deep shadows in my newly created garden. She is standing there, 21, her head turned to the warmth and the promise of a new day. She is one of many pieces sold by my friend the sculptor, the artist, and has already made her debut on Instagram. She will watch out for me, and I will watch over her.

It has been a challenging week, an emotional roller-coaster, with fear and excitement sitting alongside sadness and joy. Income has been sparse but my contribution has been significant, and I wonder if this is an emerging trend. And yet - and yet - this week I applied for a job, something permanent, full-time, veering away from the portfolio career I have nurtured so carefully.

I wonder if I am qualified, but my friend assures me I am a good cultural fit. I must wait to see if they want me, my skills, my values. If they ask what I am reading, I will reply Wendt (The Best of); Niki Harré’s “Psychology for a Better World”; and something by Matt Haig. He has lived experience of mental health issues, and is a prolific writer - it suits that I am a voracious reader. I notice a softening in my heart, in my attitudes, and wonder if age has finally made me wise. All around me, I see people in need, and I offer what I can. I am still selfish, but there is a gentle opening.

I walk on the beach, a real life emergency unfolding on the stony shore ahead of me. I turn back, not wanting to invade the person's privacy, leaving the professionals to do their thing. Further along, the ubiquitous daisies are reproducing, wispy seed heads glittering in the sun. The breeze lifts and carries them, dancing on the currents.

Beauty, grief, despair, hope - at last, I am writing again. The drought has broken.

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