how could I not?

And when I wake in these mountains, when the first warm rays of sun are  yet to stream to the valley bottom. When the world is still quiet and sleepy and the odour of morning mist and autumn leaves hangs in the air. When the only sound is the call of a kestrel, the chiming of the church bells.

How could I not? How could I not, this life, my life, not love? With it's ups and it's downs. With it's stumbles and falls. With it's getting up again. With the rain and the sunshine. With the fatigue, yes. Oh that fatigue.

But also with all the small moments. With the people on my side. With the breath. With the heartbeat. My heartbeat. His heartbeat. How could I not be in love with it? It is not perfect. But I am living, breathing, creating. How could I not? Because it is imperfect. Sometimes tangled. Lumpy and bumpy. But it is mine.

"Be in love with your life. Every minute of it." (Jack Kerouac)

How could I not?

(Inspired by the lovely Faye...)

going slowly

I took the better part of a month away from the blog since the start of the Autumn. I needed to find some perspective, because at first I was convinced it was something that I no longer wanted to continue. Early September I was literally washed out from my month of thermal treatment and I was convinced it was best to give it all up, to write a final farewell and bid you all good luck. 

But six weeks in, I realise now my doubts were short lived and so I set about planning a new name, a fresh design and a second beginning. 

A few weeks ago, I realised that I wanted to change the name of the blog. Blue moon had never really resonated with me, it was just something I plucked from the air back in May when I first discovered a heap of other bloggers and felt compelled to join in the conversation. 

It was fine at the time, but I've never really felt as though it represented my feelings or my intention. I don't want my blog to be for only sharing notable milestones or tales of sleepless nights. Instead I want to use it as a means of exploring ideas of wellness and seeking inspiration. I want it also to be about my experience of gently crafting a slow and deliberate life, one which is fulfilling personally and not only sustainable for me health wise. 

Since this realisation, I've been trying to come up with a new name...to no avail. Then over the weekend, I realised the perfect name had been staring me in the face the entire time. 

Going slowly is a series I created over on my craft blog, that has been documenting the ups and downs of my life with M.E. since I started it up in 2013. I've always found it to be a very positive way of understanding what at times can be a very limiting aspect of my life. And more importantly, it really is becoming my personal philosophy as I learn to face the reality of this illness for the rest of my life. Going slowly is what I am learning to practise, but not what I have perfected. Which I think is very apt,  considering this blog is an ever-changing, always evolving story.

starfish

There are times when it can feel as if the rough and tumble of this chronic life has left us washed up on the rocks. Forgotten in the sand by the retreating tide. Just like this little starfish I found on the foreshore last weekend. 

But just as on the foreshore the tide will always turn, so too in life things will inevitably change. It can be hard to stay calm whilst we're waiting. Sometimes it's easy to loose perspective and get swept away by such feelings, to feel as if we'll be marooned forever. 

It's at times like these we have to hold on tight to all the good things we have. To remember that we are not alone. And to acknowledge that all things must pass. Even the really hard stuff. 

And sometimes when all that is to hard, we have to surrender and let those wonderful people who are there by our sides look out for us. Let them pluck us from the sand and safely put us back in the sea, as it were. Because we are all holding each others lives. And together we can get through the strongest of tempests.

All things will pass. Just as everything will be ok. Because he is by my side. As he has been for the past five years.  

in equal measure

 

Day and night in equal measure. Enough rest, not too many worries. 

From it's daily rising to it's setting, the sun doesn't hurry across the sky. She takes her time, going at her own rhythm. No need to rush, her daily path is already drawn. 

As we gently slide into autumn, it's the moment to take heart from the sun, to slow down and put balance at the centre once again.

Location: Messanges beach, at sunset. (Les Landes)

on ups and downs

Living with a chronic illness means there are good days and bad days, mountain days and fire-side days.

There are days where I feel on top of the world, when I literally am on top of the world. And there are days when just getting out of bed seems like an expedition.

I'm slowly starting to accept that I shouldn't be ashamed of these secret days. I shouldn't try to hide them away. I don't need to talk about them all the time. But they are nothing to be ashamed of either.

Because this is the pattern of my days in these green mountains. These highs and lows are what make the landscape so very interesting.

And in my daily life, it is these secret, quiet days that make the others so very, very special.

standing still

We went to Lourdes and had a picnic by the lake. 

A kingfisher darted back and forth, nothing more than a flash of russet and turquoise skimming across the limpid waters. 

But not everything in nature rushed around. A heron stood for over an hour, poised and concentrated, waiting patiently for the right moment. 

Sometimes it can feel as though life is grinding to a halt. As I watch friends and family dashing all around me - getting married, buying houses, making babies, embarking on new careers, or simply sustaining "proper" jobs.


Questions without answers are on the tip of my tongue, the edge of my heart:

When will I...?
Will I ever...? 

It's hard to not let my mind drag me off into a never ending spiral of useless questioning...

But I was somehow comforted by the sight of that heron, somehow so elegant and graceful in it's mindful poise, patiently waiting just for the right time.

Not everything in nature rushes around, but it is still moving forward. Why then should I? 

golden days

Late summer days spent with his parents, then mine. Golden, sun drenched days wrapped up in a total disregard for time, where the big event of the day is going for a picnic, and the only decision to be taken is which mountain meadow to visit next.

I adored their two week holiday out here with us, so quickly settling back into the familiarity of their company. It felt good to have them in our valley, tucked up in their cosy little gîte on the other side of the stream. To be able to just pop round for a cup of tea in their garden each day on my way home from school.

We walked slowly along familiar paths, learnt tai-chi in the open air, gorged ourselves on the last of the bilberries and swam in icy mountain lakes. We made dinner for one another, caught up on news, knitted in the garden and drank coffee in nearly every café in the village. 

I soaked up every ray of late summer sun, every drop of family time. Like last year, precious memories to hold on to when Autumn eventually falls into our laps.