Letter to Twelfth Night

Xmas 12

Dearest Day

Time turns and the date clicks to Six. The 6th of January, Twelfth Night…

The end of a season, the start of my surrender. My surrender to what is to be – a new year, a new start, the slate of the last 12 months now washed away – to reveal a whole, clean year of tomorrows waiting for me…

So tonight I’ll take down the Christmas tree, I’ll tidy away the decorations and the cards, for when it comes to these things I’m a truly traditional girl. Christmas is a time for garnered traditions, of created rituals; and the ancient pagan part of my DNA guides these cyclical actions, whilst my Christian cultural roots of more recent millennia, polish this time with the shine of even more layers of meaning and doing.

It is the end of Christmas, I have feasted and I am rested and am in a contented and contemplative state. I have experienced New Year too and am now turning over in my soul what the next 52 weeks of my life will bring; and why it is so important to take advantage of this Twelfth Night time to make a difference to this – to both direct it and be ready for it, as well as, oddly, surrendering to what will be…

I feel the New Year righteousness of good intentions, of wanting to exercise and eat healthy food; of this year, being IT – the clincher, the changer – the catalyst. I plan to soar, to beat my wings, create an uplift and fly easily to my future. I am full of energy and optimism and I don’t want this all to fade when I inevitably return to the cold, hard reality of living through each day, of paying the bills, of breathing, of crying, of failure and of every day generalised fear.

To demarcate my success and happiness I have started a new journal. It is one of my best learned habits; it is the one tool I will recommend to all of my coaching clients. I chose a journal that is gorgeous to look at and to hold, to quietly inspire me, to invite me in to fill its’ pages. This journal is all about the future… Some of the past I will allow in and this will be about contemplation and lessons learnt to form me forward. It is not about ranting or bleeding my souls’ sorrows onto a crisp white page.

It is instead about celebrating and giving gratitude – I will praise the last 24 hours of my life, in lines of writing. Turning over what has worked and gone well, and marking my thanks for another day lived and learnt. It was a struggle when I started, this practice of thanking… and now it flows gorgeously, wantonly, spilling through my mind and pouring into my heart. I like to write at night, so all this goodness seeps into my soul and percolates through my dreams… Others I know love to start the day this way – there is no wrong in this, only do what is right for you.

Who / what do I thank? It can be god, the universe and / or me, they are, when you feel about it, one and all – the same…

Then having celebrated my day, it is time to celebrate then placidly and purposefully plan for tomorrow. To set my intentions joyously, to marshal my emotional resources quietly, in the cool of night’s darkness. I write out my next day’s gratitudes, what I will achieve and how I will enjoy; and these thank yous are my perfect, stepped, what next plans.

And when schemes come to mind, they find their way into the journal too – the outlet for my creative thoughts unplugged and released from my head, to be captured and kept on the page, urging my memory then to transpire them into actions in the long light of day. These are my fledgling plans – they are the start of all my possibilities; some to sleep and some to seed and bear fruit. Tomorrow I can structure and shape them or simply imbibe them, intentionally, as peace to my soul, as breath in my morning meditations.

But at the end of the day, it starts here, in the journal of my heart. And I have this fresh opportunity every night and here is the new year – ahead of me, beckoning me on and in – time to reap what ever I sow, starting gently on this pristine page.

So Twelfth Night, I celebrate and contemplate you and to keep your promise and promises clear and dear to me, it is, now and always, time to write…

With fondest regards

       Sandra

PS: As well as being the author of this particular ‘Love Letter to Life’ , I have also written a whole, gorgeous book of such letters, for you to peruse, to dip into or to read from cover to cover – whether to answer life’s puzzles, to entertain, to know you are not alone or to simply find the love in everything, seemingly bad or good, in life… You buy your own copy of ‘Peachey Letters – Love Letters to Life’ on Amazon and book websites around the world, in both paperback and Kindle.

Letter to a Lost Birthday

cake candle

Dear Day of the year

It’s January the 2nd… A strange day. We’ve just edged and nudged our way into another New Year.

It is a date that some of us will recognise and remember. And a few of us will think back to other anniversaries on this day…

Today is my mother’s birthday. My mother isn’t here in body any more, but the day has returned, regardless, and is here again. An ‘is’, not a was…

So it’s time for some nostalgia, of birthdays past… This day was the elongating and ending of the Christmas and New Year season, starting with my brother’s birthday on 24 December and ending, neatly here on the second day of the New Year. A time for more treats and final feasting before returning to reality.

My New Year, thin me dietary good intentions, as a result, always start on the 3rd of January… And to honour my mother and demarcate the date, I still celebrate this day and smile and treat and feast again.

Today is not a sad day, it is instead warm and easy, because today was, for along while of my life, a day of celebration…

My mother loved treats and as they gave her pleasure, after my father was gone – my brother and I were happy to make her happy.

So together we saw shows, soaked in spas, ate fine meals and gadded gently about.

And now she is gone I see no reason to stop all that. Today has come round again and it is therefore time to celebrate – again. A treat here, a feast there, some smiles and the languid remembrance of birthdays past and lived full out. Days where we chose to enjoy ourselves, to do something fabulous, and to be together to seize that day.

I’m so glad we seized those birthday days, to have stored up a cache of memories that I can take out and polish and love through again. And life being what it is and mother being who she was, they weren’t perfect times and yet, on this day, why would I do anything other than feel and think about the best of those times? Yes, this is most definitely a day upon which I can choose to love…

On Christmas Eve, my brother and I were walking along, taking a well worn route to celebrate his birthday, when he asked me how many Christmases it had now been without our mother. (He knows that I know and measure these things). And I replied that it was the third year. He took this information in with a tiny shock, since no matter how long we travel through it, time never seems to cease to amaze us by its’ constant movement onward and forward.

He said that he missed her and I understood, because I felt the same, yet there the fact was and still we carried on walking. Soon we reached our destination, that day without her, and yet as we walked, talked and remembered, she was there too – in us, in memories, words, in actions – imprinted.

So back to today… Here marks the end of the bandwidth of my Christmas celebrations. From this point I will start to slowly tune out of this dreamy mode where I hear Christmas loud and clear, through the crackle and hiss of time, of movement and find my way, with clear sound into the next chapter of my life.

I’ve prepared, partied and am now peaceful… Another year in the life, another day lived and celebrated, chosen and cherished to its’ close. And what is wonderful is that I know that so much of the time I can chose more joy, see the best in what is, and learn the lessons lent to me. On even greater days I get to share these lessons too.

And it’s farewell now to this day and still, this day will come again.

Happy Birthday Mum.

S xx