Looking back, my last post seems elegiac. Unintentionally so, at the time, but there is an air of weary melancholy about it all the same, a sense of mourning and loss.
I didn't know - then - that I would be absent for so long. Or that when I returned, life would have changed so much.
I've composed this post repeatedly in my head. I didn't know how to write it, and still don't. So I'll try and keep it simple and brief.
Simon and I are in the process of separating. I'm moving out, the kids will live between both homes, and we'll do our very best to share their care and upbringing in a loving and decent fashion. (They seem to be doing OK, so far.)
On holiday in Crete in May
I confess to feeling daunted.
I'm starting again, alone, from scratch, at 52.
On my birthday in June.
The To Do list runs over several pages and keeps getting longer.
The logistics of managing the schedules and possessions of three kids across two households will be a challenge.
My impending poverty is alarming. Church mice will be offering to buy my drinks.
It's a little overwhelming.
Love - that elusive joker - seems a world away.
I guess it comes down to believing.
Believing in the support of good friends, and the fact that I know that money doesn't buy what is truly worth having.
Believing in resilience, resourcefulness, and the possibility of new beginnings.
In my own judgement of my worth, and trusting the truth in my misshapen heart, scratches, scars and all.
So I guess it comes down to believing, and whether we do or we don't.
And I think, I hope, that I do.