Another year gone by- In my end is my beginning

Welcome to Willow Blooms #001- Making a commitment

A little late perhaps, slowly waking up from a deep sleep amongst the fog of my mind, recently I took up

Beth Kempton

’s invitation to review my year in her Winter Writing Sanctuary. This is the third of Beth’s writing sanctuaries that I have started, and this one has been taken at a slower pace.

Before reflecting on my review, let me step back for a moment and say hello! This is my first Substack essay, and I’m learning as I go. It’s probably best if I ease myself in gently. I’m here because one of Beth’s sanctuary ‘lessons’ invited me to make a commitment to my writing, and mine was to share my words on Substack. The phrase, ‘Start as you mean to go on,’ came to me this morning, and curious what this might be trying to tell me, I looked it up. The original quotation, most often credited to Charles H. Sturgeon, a Baptist preacher born almost 200 years ago, is slightly different.

“Begin as you mean to go on, and go on as you began, and let the Lord be all in all to you.” (Charles H. Spurgeon, All of Grace) 

That seems like a tall order, and I’m not sure I can buy into the Lord bit. I’m fairly certain my concept of God and spirituality differ to Sturgeon’s, but I’ll put that aside for now and return to my question of what meaning the saying that came up, might have for me.

I feel how powerful these kinds of statements are. The underlying assumption that inconstancy is a failure, or demonstrates a lack of character. I do not ascribe to this. However I mean to start, it often doesn’t go on that way, evolving in response to what I come across along the way. Indeed, I do not want to end this year the same as I am beginning it. I hope to grow, to be changed by experiences and people, many of these I do not yet know that I will encounter. Is not all this the wonder of life?

There is something to be said about commitment though. I can have a tendency to collect hobbies like others might coats, falling in love with a new one each year. Like a magpie distracted by the next shiny object, flitting from legal dopamine hit to dopamine hit, sometimes dropping a hobby when it gets heavy, where the effort to learn exceeds the easy fix of pleasure. I am mindful that committing to one creative pursuit does not always go well. Is this just me?

So, perhaps I need to take Spurgeon’s advice a bit deeper. To trust the consistent parts of myself are woven into my being. Some of the threads that bind me together are in my bio; nature, creativity, stories, wonder, supporting well-being, and deep authentic community. One thing I see missing from that list is insatiable curiosity, and in particular, the search for meaning in this wild and precious life. So what would it mean to keep showing up here?

Is this a place to meet others on similar quests? Where my words might resonate and light a spark of recognition? Or when they do not, where we can wave kindly at each other from our different paths, and wonder at the different trails available to us in life? I’d like that.

I did not include service to others in my bio, and perhaps I should. Most of my adulthood has been committed to working in the national health service, supporting people with their emotional and psychological well-being. I am deeply grateful for these years; the people and the experiences I have had, but for reasons I may go into another time, it is not currently a place in which I can thrive. Stepping away, perhaps for now, perhaps longer, this period between the new year of the Gregorian calendar and Imbolc, halfway between winter solstice and spring equinox, has been a time of rest. A time when the seeds of spring are said to be starting to stir in the earth. A time of significant endings and beginnings. Whilst I am not leaving my profession, I will soon say goodbye to a time in my life in which I have offered service in a particular way, and say hello to a new one.

It’s a bit scary setting out on my own path, so perhaps no coincidence that I’m choosing this time to take up the suggestion to join a community of writers. Writing has always been a friend to me. One that helps me to slow down and appreciate the beauty in the world, without shying away from what is dark and difficult. Sitting beside me and holding my hand so that I feel less afraid. Maybe it does the same for you.

As Mary Oliver said;

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

There is much in the world that is dark and difficult, and it can be easy to fall into its grip.  There is also much in the world that is beautiful, and makes us fight to stay living and to bask in its light.

So, potential friends, as well as despair;

Tell me about love, yours, and I will tell you mine.

For the last few years writing has often been an anchor, repeatedly bringing me back to myself. A magnifying glass and a telescope; at times showing the wild strength and intricate beauty of the world, and other times the wisdom blazing through my words like sunlight caught in the lens. I do not know from where these words come, but I enjoy playing with them, and seeing what they reveal. Mostly this has been in solitude, fiercely protective of the raw edges and perceived imperfections. But I step out now into this liminal space, to bring my words into the light. Hoping that others might see something of themselves in these offerings and join in conversation. I’m hoping to find kindred spirits.

The long hello being said, I’ll return to the exercise in Beth’s Winter Writing Sanctuary. It is painful to look back to difficulties as you enter the new year with its hopefulness. But as

Kerri ní Dochartaigh

said, either in Cacophony of Bone, or her Emergence Magazine podcast (available to read here- When You Could Hear the Trees – Kerri ní Dochartaigh (emergencemagazine.org)), both of which I have been listening to this month, we do not always feel the things at the time that the cycles of nature suggest that we are supposed to. This year, I think for many others as well as me, has shadows that cast across the threshold.

Beth’s suggestion of reviewing 2023 was not the first I did. That happened in the final hours of 31st of December, with the help of a sheet of flip chart paper, lit by the glow of the wood fire. I’d copied an image from the previous New Year’s Eve, of a snake coiling out from the centre of the page, the months marked sequentially, from head to tail. The idea came from the brilliant podcast of

Dr Rosie Gilderthorp

and I found it unexpectedly difficult, pulling events from memory like tins from the back of the cupboard. But my memory is currently a rather unreliable narrator, and I wondered if the questions I asked were the wrong ones. I reflected on Beth’s prompt, ‘How do you measure a life?’, and aside from measurable goals, and markers, what about the living of my year? So much had been happening beneath the surface, being dormant in my wintering, and composting rather than busy doing. What if I started choosing my own questions?

What of the elusive, the beauty, the ephemeral, fleeting moments I have experienced? The things that make life tingle through my skin. What of the soil, the water, and the roots that had sustained me? What were the things that made growing worthwhile? And this most powerful question, which came to me from the mouths of two wise women, and struck my heart- ‘For what would you bleed?’

For what indeed.

When I looked again at 2023 with my own kind eyes, I saw the strength, the growth, and an awakening, albeit imperfect. I remembered that when looking for inspiration for this, my first essay, my eyes had been caught by a photo taken at my allotment at the start of 2023. ‘Let’s grow,’ I had written on the slate board in chalk, and hung on a post. It was as certain to be washed away by the rain as it was to come true. The uncertainty was in the details; when, where, what and how?! I have always wanted to know the next step, to have a sense of control. But more wisdom has come my way over the new year period, in

Alice Vincent

’s ‘Why Women Grow’. I was awed by the tenacity and tenderness many of the women showed in their care of plants. One woman nurtured seedlings on the balcony of a London tower block, knowing she would have moved out before they bloomed or fruited.

Without expectations, accepting the uncertainty. Is this commitment a definition of committed love?

I put aside the calendar review and put pen to paper again, finding wisdom in the form of a poem. I often don’t know what will emerge when I write, but the act of writing often takes me to the heart of me. Even when it feels heavy, the reward is worth the effort. I become more fully myself.

As the Northern Hemisphere tips towards the lightening months of the year, I look at the pink and blue night sky. I have bled for things that I care deeply about. I have learned that when they cannot love, or nurture me in return, it is time to let them go. What if this year is a time for different questions?

What, this coming year, is worthy of our blood? Which seeds, without guarantees, will we choose to nurture? What will we commit to?

Welcome, to Willow Blooms!