With our hands in the earth
Last week marked one year since Emma's cancer diagnosis. It feel both like a lifetime and no time at all. I've wanted to mark this milestone somehow but also to draw a line between all that has happened and what is yet to come.
For the past few weeks I've been dabbling in erasure poetry; transforming pages from paperbacks books into something new. It felt nice to be doing something deliberate and tactile.
I've never written a poem before but, in the spirit, of new beginnings I thought I'd chance my arm. Is it any good? Probably not, but I think just trying something new can only be good for the soul.
With our hands in the earth
We have lived through an unimaginable year. Hand in hand, through illness, surgery, and survival. We held our world together, while life threatened to pull it apart. Now, we return—not to our old lives, but to a clearing. To a vantage point, looking out over what is yet to come.
I no longer want just a job. I want work with heart. Work that heals, connects, uplifts. Work rooted in care, creativity, community, and consciousness.
I will no longer contort myself to fit systems that shrink me. I will build something new. Something rooted in presence, not pressure. Something that nurtures growth and honours tenderness. Something shaped by the steady ground of equanimity, Where people are free to feel, to heal, and to be. Where stillness can become the fuel for change.
I will choose quiet so I can hear what truly matters. I will step back from the scroll. I will leave room for silence. I will choose connection over noise. I will favour slow attention over instant reaction.
I will focus on… Slowness as resistance. Compassion as strength. Ritual as medicine. Community as sacred. Authenticity as a quiet rebellion.
I will create. Not for clicks or career ladders, but to remind people they matter. That I matter. That we matter. I will honour both past and present. And move gently, deliberately, into what comes next.
I am no longer a blank slate. I am a carer who has held space for grief, for endurance. I am an artist who can translate pain into meaning. I am a listener who has learned to amplify suffering, not silence it. I am a seeker searching for sanctuary in silence, soil, and story.
Our next chapter begins here with our hands in the earth and a quiet voice saying, “Let’s live.”