When there are no words...

A late newsletter of love.

Photo by George Pagan III on Unsplash

I don’t know where to begin. And when I don’t know where to begin I just… begin. Truthfully, I had apologised for this newsletter before I had even begun to write it, before I had even decided what I was going to say.

Why? Primarily, as you’ll already know, I write about grief, tearing my own past open to expose and examine the hidden, inner layers. It’s often from a distance, I rarely have the answers but the time, the years, I’ve spent twisting these thoughts over and over in my head, on the page, tends to bring me some form of clarity.

This week, I feel wiped clean. Actually, no, that’s the wrong analogy I feel like a white board with ineligible scribbles all over it, words all jumbled together, the curl of an S, all tangled up with the loop of a Y. That’s what I want to apologise for, for not being able to pull something out of that mess, iron it out and present it back to you. A dose of… something… in your inbox this week.

The internet, I believe, brings so much good in the world. It’s connected me, to you. But it also (and this is getting more frequent these days) terrifies me. I just worry that this constant churn, this constant pressure to say something, at all times, without giving time to process, to look back is leading to damage. Often unintentional damage, but damage all the same. When we rush to say, or comment, we can hurt people. We can get things wrong (although, saying that, I do think it’s OK to get things wrong… and we must forgive for that.) But, at the same time, I am also aware that silence, for some, can seem like ignorance. Like the quiet person doesn’t care.

I write about grief. And the world is grieving. We’re watching a war play out, from the ground, from our phone screens. I know that so many people are in a deep, dark pain. If you’re one of those people, please don’t read this short newsletter as uncaring. I just know how, when everything feels raw, and intense, and the suffering is suffocating you, words can be a balm. They can offer hope. But they can also sting.

I don’t want my words ever to sting.

The one thing I try to do, whenever I feel hopeless, is try to find something, out of the internet, out of the screen, out of all the noise, to help. Whether that’s volunteering my time, donating money or just reading and listening to the people directly impacted. Please know I’m doing that.

 I’m also sending so much love to everyone.

I’m so grateful for the small group of you that read what I have to say each week.

Lots of love.