It’s been nearly 3 years since my first book Peachey Letters was published and so I can forget that whilst writing it I was engaged, energised and managed to exorcise many personal demons. At the end of that, a huge weight had lifted off my shoulders. And then, the feedback started to come in…

“A M A Z I N G… this is such a wonderful, moving, heartfelt read, it is absolutely compelling. What I love about it most is your raw honesty and how I was able to relate to so much of what you describe… Your ability to communicate what you feel and who you really are is wonderful… You convey so much about the artist you are – beautifully creative, sensitive, a deep thinker and a beautiful soul that cares so much about life and the people in it. AWESOME, truly AWESOME.” ~ Sarah Christie

Have you bought the book yet? You can get hold if it so easily – whether you are into Kindle or paperback, from me direct, from shopping online or in a good old-fashioned book shop.

Whether you’ve read the book or have yet to, let me tell you that for me, becoming a published writer is, in unashamed cliché speak, a dream come true. Yet, as with most experiences, being an author is a mixed one… Not least because my inner egoist has been at constant war with its’ evil twin, my inner critic.

What my cerebral twins war about, is this book of mine, i.e. ‘Peachey Letters – Love Letters to Life’; a glorious collection of missives sent to the blend of people, past and phenomena that have shaped my psyche. Peachey Letters looks at the darkness and levity of life and how, woven through out it, when I look for it, I will always find the positive force of love, lighting my way.

It all sounds so purple when I write it like that and I always giggle when I think about being the actual author of a personal development / self-help book. But don’t let those definitions put you off! To me it is a memoir mixed out of memory and laughter that will entertain the reader as much as anything – even if, that reader is only me…

But I’m NOT the book’s only reader, so I know that the book has both its’ lovers and also its’ detractors – not least my (only) brother, who really cannot understand its’ appeal.

As there are some very personal stories shared about our family, I wanted him to read it before it was published. So he did and he found it ‘selfish’. This comment made me smile. I love how a family member can just cut to the chase and anchor your floating ego solidly to the earth. And I agree, it really IS a selfish book; yet by sharing my stories, I found I was touching a chord with other people’s experiences and as a result am able to entertain, educate and enervate so many others, as well as myself.

I still get feedback, from all sorts of sources – near and far, from around the globe, from complete strangers, from people I knew at school and lost touch with long ago, including this from one of my old teachers…

“Sandra’s subjects … are addressed in writing that is warm, heartfelt, full of emotion and deep feeling. One gets the impression of a deep thinking woman who wrestles with the whole business of life, the past, the present, the future and feels things intensely… The author bares her thoughts and feelings in a writing style that is lucid, touching and inspiring.” ~ The Rev David Boulton

And, after all this time of writing, I forget that my words sit still out in the ether, while I move on to pastures new, and yet people are still reading and responding to them…

“What a book – I can’t put it down! Thank you for writing it!” ~ Shellie Curtis-Wood

The tone of the book is intensely honest and personal, so it was a huge vulnerability putting my ‘stuff’ out there. My stuff being the education in emotion of a woman grappling with a life of loss and love, in all its’ trivial, dark, comical and constant complications and incarnations…

I’ll admit it – my inner egoist loves the praise and the limelight and so I have to remind my inner critic that great feedback is, in fact a good thing, to be received gracefully, and not batted away like an annoying fly (which is my natural tendency).

“Sandra has the unique gift of being able to turn emotional personal experiences into positive missives, which bring hope and happiness to all who read them. I loved this book; it is as funny, intelligent, warm and engaging as its author!” ~ Tanya Bullock

Before I put all this out there, I cringed and was scared that I would be judged for being egotistical, narcissistic and seen to be suffering from mid-life crisis triviality. Yet as a coach I know that such thoughts stem from an archaic self-protection mechanism of negative thought patterns, that ironically are in place to keep me small and therefore ‘safe’.

“I can’t begin to tell you how amazed I am with your book. Just a few pages in and I love it… I thought nobody else felt that way!!” ~ Hayley Singlehurst

And my inner critic, that small, shy bastion of loneliness and self-loathing is still shocked every single time my longing prose receives praise…

“A very thought-provoking read. I love the way that Sandra has woven stories into this book that will encourage you, motivate you, and touch you at the deepest level. It will tug on your heartstrings, bring you to tears, but most of all, it will inspire you to live your best life. Highly recommended.” ~ Karen Williams.

I am a life coach so will imbue all I do with a navel gazing, life improving spin.  And all of this is presented in my own lyrical and poetical prose, combined with my daft sense of humour, too. You can read it straight through or you can dip in to it daily, as there will be a Love Letter to suit just about every mood.

So if you don’t have your own copy yet – you can buy one from just about anywhere in the world…

My Peachey Letters book has featured in national journals, including Psychologies magazine and The Lady. I’ve chatted about it on the BBC and it has been featured in the local press, with me, as a local lass (in several locations) ‘done good’ many times over.

Needless to say, my happy egoist will tell you that it is an ideal Christmas present – either as a gift or for yourself.  The nuts of bolts of buying it, are that you can order it from your local bookshop or buy it online from any global website that sells books.

“Like a box of deluxe chocolates, this is a book you can dip into and find something different to delight you every time. Sandra’s letters are open, original, inspiring and beautifully written. Peachey Letters is a pleasure to treasure.” ~ Helen Blenkinsop

If you buy it directly from me, I can sign it for you, if that is your bag – here are all the details. You can buy it too from independent sites / stores such as Hive and from Amazon (Prime) – both in electronic (Kindle) form and paperback. And if you buy from The Book Depository site, you can get it delivered, anywhere in the world, free of postage.

Once you’ve ingested all that, there’s more to come. Having been well and truly bitten by the writing bug, I’m currently working on 5 new book projects – (both fiction and non-fiction), one of which will become my latest published work, next year. And what is THAT one about, I can’t tell you just yet – as my publisher has sworn me to secrecy… just watch this space…

So, plug over, and I would just like to finish off by wishing you a ‘Peachey’ Christmas, in ALL senses… 😉

From me and The Twins.

S xx

You sit down and tune in to the on-going soap opera… It’s the next episode of a set of serialised stories that you have been watching… How will all these posed situations resolve – who will: kiss who, win the argument, suddenly move abroad, solve the dilemma, break a heart, find themselves in deathbed hospital scene, go crazy, have an affair or a baby, steal, cheat, find out they are adopted, loathed or lusted after???  But still these have all happened to me or my loved ones in just the last few months… So why watch invented stories, when it’s all happening out there any way..?

Dearest Soapie

As a child I would spend hours in front of the television. I turned it on when I got home from school and then it was turned off, many hours later at the bed time of whoever was the last person to go to bed, usually my mother or my brother.

In those antiquated distant days, if the TV set wasn’t turned off before the programmes ended (in a much shorter schedule than the 24 hours we have today), somewhere around midnight, then the picture would shrink away to a bright dot in the middle of the screen and instead of pictures and voices; dancing darkness and a static crackle would emanate, eventually building to a shrill warning whistle, evincing from the google box – a demanding patrician authoritarian, commanding you to turn it off and silence it; so that you would quietly retire to bed, and it could sleep blackly and silently. That is until it was awoken the next day, by pushing in a big bland button to snap it slowly back to fizz and crackle, thence progressing to recognizably tangled patterns of wide dots which shaped themselves to a wide molecular clarity of character, voice and scene.

My mother and I, in our little world, centred on our urban terrace, shared our lives with various characters, cast in soap operas.  The radio would be on in the kitchen all day, (tuned to Radio 4) and the TV on all evening. I loved the world of radio, and still do… There were 2 serial soap operas back then, with the spoken word taking my mind’s eye into other people’s kitchens and churches; listening to their conversations and mild BBC adventures.

Whilst we lived and breathed through our own lives and happenings, my mother would then sit on the sofa in the early evening, after dinner, and watch her regular fix of ITV idiocy, a televised soap opera.  Even as a small child I felt the sets to be flimsy and the pretexts of the character’s lives and loves to be even more so. That daily dose of 30 minutes of commercial drama bored me.

But later I grew up and into them and as a teenager, sat and watched them alone, as after dinner, instead of putting her feet up, my mother went out to work, as a cleaner.

They became a kind of addiction, a daily habit of ingesting tacky sharings and stories. With time came more TV channels, which led to more soap operas. As the world changed and television became increasingly, ridiculously lurid, I could stand the sexual intrigues and peddled misery no more and simply stopped watching them.

Instead of living through other’s lives on the TV box, I escaped to live my own dramas and intricate emotional serialisations.  All around me, my friends had their own minor and major dramas, but otherwise went on to have seemingly normal, stable existences. But not me, never me – instead I stepped towards and stumbled from job to job, from relationship to relationship. There were constant changes and crises, a rise and fall of fortune, from rags to tears.

For years and years I acted out on amateur stages, screaming and singing my way through fairies and villainesses, slapping my thigh and crying crocodile tears, performing mini dramas in draughty church halls and tiny theatres.

I always craved change and adventure.  I always bored easily and instead of watching soap operas, I created my own plots and dramas; sometimes I felt, entirely for the entertainment of my friends…

Later in life, on the road to becoming a coach, with support and self-analysis, I started to see the patterns of my life and tried to re-draw them and so invent a new character for myself.  I dressed differently, I talked more positively and changed the script.  But to my chagrin the story did not end the way I planned, instead, just like all the soap operas I had imbibed as a child, there would be a cliff hanger of an ending, begging to be the beginning of the next, crazy episode in my serialised life.

One of the things about soap operas though, is that there are only so many plots that can play out before they come around again, as recycled repeats – a balled up Sunday omnibus of intrigue and what will either become self loathing or learning.

So I have decided to learn and to turn that learning towards helping others sift through their lives, and their stories and strategies. So I listen and I coach and I support, and so it all moves on through time.  It is something that I excel at, helping others, and in a gorgeous giving cycle, being the audience for other people’s dreams and dramas, means that I get to resolve and grow along with all of my clients.

To my amazement though, the Sandra Soap Operas are still playing out, with unexpected plot twists that I never could have foreseen, even now.  In the world of coaching many will tell you that you are the cause of all the drama in your world, that you manifest all the sighs and the symptoms.  I worked with that premise for a long time, taking control of my destiny and changing it.  Well that was the intended plot, so I have always been surprised when my will and work still did not alter time and tide.

And next to me stand my faithful friends, with one in particular who has recently gone through whole box sets of happenings in her life, looping on escalating, ridiculous repeat, to a crescendo of change to which we still cannot see an end.  She crashed and burned for a while, but is now walking through the ashes, and living day to day rather than in the past or future, and it is something that I have taken on board – that sometimes you just need to let the plots of life wash over you, and mark your time instead in milliseconds of happiness or meaningfulness, rather than concern yourself with a neat, filmic ending.

Unlike the rolling soap opera genre, the film instead has a definitive ending, if not by plot, then by virtue of the end credits, calling the story to a stop.  And maybe I like films better because they have that finality, that conclusion, rather than the drudge of repetitive story lines replaying forever on.  The film will work to the finale – to the kiss, to the Bollywood song and dance routine, to the victory; or to the death.

But once, in another before time when I was going through my soap opera stuff and bemoaning my repetitive plot, my own coach, a very warm, wise woman, said to me that the pain I was going through was because I simply did not know what the ending would be.  For we can reach a conclusion in life, only to find that it is actually a continuation and we never really know the ending.  And insights like that just make you sit back in the cinema seat of life and reflect on, rather than suffer through life…

So whilst I have so often cursed fate or DNA or the odd synergies of life which still surprise me half a century in; I’m now just letting the story continue to unfurl, without knowing the ending.  I’ve made my peace with the Writer, I keep moving forward and plotting new story lines, whilst also returning to old favourites and cosy routines.  In life, at times, it is right to take action, yet right now, it is time to bide my time and to simply watch the screen.

So maybe, it just may be, that I am still a soap opera kind of girl after all, and in amongst all the cliff hangers – for me and my loved ones, there is still laughter and pleasure and immeasurably, there is always love – both defining and illuminating all my stories.

And that my friend, is the end of this particular episode.

With love and lazy attention.

Sandra xx

PS: Did you know that a collection of my ‘Peachey Letters’ have been gathered together in to a beautiful book, exploring all the facets of my soap opera life in all its’ badness, banality and beauty? This is love seen in every aspect of the life that I live.  In it you will find the dark and the light of love, in a way that will make you think, entertain you and let you know that you are not alone in life, what ever it holds for you… You can buy ‘Peachey Letters – Love Letters to Life’ by Sandra Peachey, from book websites any where in the world, including on Amazon (in both Paperback and Kindle)…

Dearest Holly

I have in my possession a recipe book from my childhood. Looking at it now, it is a gorgeous and glorious gourmet scrapbook for my stomach.  It is woefully worn, some what battered, spattered with food and stuffed full of / suffused with, love.

It is a simple thing and yet it signifies so much, this little book – and I am writing this latest love letter so I can wallow in unashamed nostalgia, see the seeds of my childhood growing into quirks and sense memories, and not least to search for any metaphors and messages for the me that is planted in the here and now, in this moment of foodie reflection.

Before the book there was food. Plain and basic. Cooked up by my mother to feed us by rote and routine. My parents had lived through the Second World War and created their own simple menu of post ration availability and nourishment. My mother told me that her own mother was a plain and simple cook. My father only liked plain and simple food. My elder brother ate up whatever was on the plate. But not me. Never me. I was the “fussy” one. My palate did not like plain and it would change its’ childish tendencies frequently.

To be fair to my mother – if I told her I liked something, she would serve it up again, and again and yet again. And then my taste buds would be bored to the point of nausea. The fussy one. It wasn’t easy for my mother in that sense; but then I wasn’t really allowed to be fussy. If it was on the plate I had to eat it, for I had a strict post war upbringing and no nonsense was ever brooked.

But my taste buds and sense of self would not accept that, even if I was sent angrily to bed with an empty stomach and no baby boomer pudding. It wasn’t until I was in my 30s that I could actually leave food on a plate at the end of a meal, when one fine day I realised the roots of my needy greed to leave a clean plate behind, as tangible evidence of a meal consumed.

So to the Recipe book… Sometime around the age of 10, my taste buds decided that plain and repetitive could not be constantly repeated – I had to take my stomach into my own hands. Given my mother’s draconian tendencies and the threat of verbal and quite possible physical violence if I decried the relentless menu, I came up with a plan. Looking back on it now, I can see that this sort of thinking has shaped my life so much – and how I believe that we are all creatures of both nature and nurture. I used my creative tendencies and innate mental intelligence to manage my mother, who I understood from experience could be persuaded by certain means – using my knowledge of her and my own brand of emotional intelligence.

I love good food – with a wide variety of tastes and influences. There are times when baked beans are manna and there are times when only fine dining will do. It is a combination both of being born that way, and a reaction to the plain food that I grew up on.

So the 10 year old me stepped up to my mother one day, with a plan on my palate. I told her that I would like to learn more about food and cooking; to try out new recipes and ingredients, and suggested that it would be terrific fun if we did this together… I knew too you see, that my mother loved me and loved spending time with me… Without hesitation or consciousness of manipulation, my mother agreed and was obviously pleased.   And so the Recipe Book came into my life and a blossoming of my obsession with taste and tendency…

It was like divine timing. The very next time we were shopping in town, I came across this self-same (now battered, then pristine) book, nestled in its’ own orange box. Looking at it now, it seems like the product of a much more innocent era. The picture on the cover is of Holly Hobbie – a little girl, dressed in a patchwork dress and bonnet, who appeared often with a cute kitten in tow or doing sweet domestic things, like cooking… It was the current craze for little girls on both sides of the Atlantic at the time, with posters, dolls and other merchandise and so I had bought the brand, and also the opportunity to commit to my new food journey, now to be contained in its own, tasty journal.

From that point on, my mother and I taught each other how to choose and cook lots of new things. It broadened our horizons and in lingering history, my taste buds have long thanked me…

As I was learning at home, I was also learning at school and so I started to capture my favourite recipes along the way in the book. Christmas Cake was one such – I made my first one at secondary school in the Home Economics class and for many more for years after, taking and twisting the listed ingredients with my own ideas and spins and turns. I was also precociously pretentious and when it came to examination time, decided that by giving all my dishes a chef-fy French name, I would earn extra kudos and test points. Who knows, maybe it did, but whatever the result, still it was for me, an education both in food and in French, as I joined the dots of my learning life.

Later recipes reveal the summers I spent in the kitchen of the UK headquarters of what was then known as Moral Re-Armament (now Initiatives of Change), an ideological movement founded in America. My parents had been involved in it and from the age of 13 I volunteered to work in the kitchen of Tirley Garth – a stately home in Cheshire, helping to cater for upwards of 50 to a 100 people.

They were happy times for me, living in the grand house, with the run of the most amazing gardens, covering many beautiful acres and meeting people from all over the world.  People of all ages, all with the united purpose of being committed to the transformation of society through changes in both human motives and behaviour, all starting with their own. I would attend meetings, sing, cook and chatter all through my summers and as a result my food love grew more international. I ate and cooked exotic new delicious dishes, including this constant dessert favourite of mine – Lemon Parfait.

Those times gave me a real world view in many ways and long before I left Britain’s shores to explore the world, the world instead came to me, in presence and in taste and this gorgeous global experience has most definitely opened my mind and shaped my psyche

And as I grew from girl, the Recipe Book travelled with me, even when I left home and started my adult life at University and now even that time is long ago history for me, I have the proof of my growth, still here, to be turned in my hands… To linger and hunger over, to treasure and digest…

And I’ll be back to share some more love / food soon…

Yours, stirringly…

S xx

PS: Did you know that a collection of my ‘Peachey Letters’ have been gathered together in to a beautiful book, exploring all the facets of love in its’ gore and glory? This is love seen in every aspect of the life that I live.  In it you will find the dark and the light of love, in a way that will make you think, entertain you and let you know that you are not alone in life, what ever it holds for you… You can buy ‘Peachey Letters – Love Letters to Life’ by Sandra Peachey, from book websites any where in the world, including Hive (paperback and Ebook) and Amazon (in both Paperback and Kindle)… Or you can ask your local bookshop to stock it or order it in…

‘Orlando’ the novel by Virginia Woolf, chronicles the adventures of a character through many centuries and changes, through time and tide. Orlando learns to live by changing location, situation and even gender; moving on and letting go, each time…

As a coach one of my fundamental roles is to support my clients to let go of many things in their lives too – the behaviours, emotions and situations that do not serve them… It’s a lesson that I have to keep learning too…

Dear Orlando

I was driving to a party last night anticipating who might be there, what hugs there would be, and all the positive possibilities of the evening ahead of me.

I’d already been through the negative thoughts… That I might be on my own, that people might not talk to me, that they’d judge me in some way, shape or form… Yes all those old moths of pessimism had already flown around my brain. They are old adversaries those moths, so they flapped about a bit in my head, until I realised that they were blocking the light and then opened a window and let them fly away… Tonight it was actually time to be a (social) butterfly, colourful and free; not doleful and regretful.

So that’s me – patterned as both moth and butterfly: with dark thoughts worn by default and positive ones through choice and practice…

There have been many such moths and butterflies flying about my world in this month of August 2015. Curiously it has been an unprecedented time of meeting up with old friends, of sifting through my past and thinking about what I will compare, treasure and let go of in my life.

One of the first coaching experiences I ever received was to map out my past life and soon it became apparent that there was a very clear pattern which I repeated over and over… Up to that point I clearly had not learnt my life lessons and so occurrences, relationships and more had to be repeated again and again in my life…

Sometimes I feel like my quietly unconventional life has been created to give all my friends a real life soap opera to watch from the side lines. But when I sit down and analyse it there are a number of recurring themes and one of them is around my relationships.

As a friend, you will find me loyal, lazy, loquacious and prone to making you laugh, either by tickling your funny bone with my observations on life, or by recounting with sardonic self- mockery, its ups and downs. I must admit that I prefer the laughter to the loathing, and the self-mockery to the self-pity which will also characterise my chatter if I am not careful.

And encountering so many people from both my recent and distant past was an interesting introspection, not just into myself and those I was reunited with, but also about the absent friends who we discussed and dissected, or else dismissed.

Making my way to yet another reunion this month, I realised that this is the umpteenth time in just a few weeks that my past and present have colluded in this way, and rather than this being a curiosity, I am seeing a synergy – a coming together of some ancient alchemy, a pattern of occurrences that have coerced into a concentrated continuum of time, all neatly packaged into a yellow box named (the month of) August.

As always I start to see two views… The first being that this is simply is a random sprinkling of events, which by coincidence have happened in a late summer month, when anniversaries are created and then repeatedly celebrated; or that is what the moths would have me believe…

Or, secondly that a special ‘butterfly’ energy has bought all these latent happenings into my life right now, all clustered around this time, because there is something I need to learn / to change / to do / to heal / or some other onwards action I have yet to fathom.

Interesting… for now is most distinctly a time for change in my life, for re-evaluation. And I go through many such minor metamorphoses in this spinning span of living I inhabit, but now I know, this is a major one and I have to treat it differently – to listen, to think, to re-calibrate – where and who I am.

So I stop… What are the patterns here for me and why would all these reunions cluster around my consciousness at this particular time?

So many things in my life are shifting and changing right now and it is as if the past has come back to anchor me, so that I can start to reappraise and reapply myself – looking backwards, so I can move forwards; for somehow I have been stagnating, under the guise of surviving, and I know that what I am (being and doing) right now, is simply not enough…

So I am thinking through this month’s gathering stories, for me to see what the patterns are, then trace them back to whatever it is that I need to remember and to learn…

One of my many reunions this month was with two of the flat mates I shared rooms and lives with at university in Newcastle upon Tyne, long ago, as a teenager turning into a young adult. I was simply excited just at the thought of reliving that part of my past.

The most delicious aspect of that anticipation though was the thought of seeing my old friends again. We’ve rarely kept in touch in the decades since – for any number of reasons – mainly circumstance, scattered geography and that we all simply got on with our lives in other ways and with other people…

Yet I was so excited to be seeing them again. They said they both felt that too. On the train to the North, I started texting them both and suddenly my phone was buzzing and fizzing with all our messages criss-crossing the country, as the delicious build up to our get together.

It was a clear, gorgeous happiness to see them both again and to hug and to chatter as if it had been days, not years, since we had all seen each other. I love that particular currency of the past, one that we can spend again, not having expended our friendships and memories and now being prepared to keep investing that into the present.

On this occasion we three had a few hours together and it was wonderful. I felt ridiculously happy. We laughed so much in that small parcel of time we had. We asked questions of each other that only close friends could and we listened to and accepted all the answers.

I found it fascinating that we were now evaluating the time we had together (back in the day) and each other with the perspective of distance. We had all changed and yet we were all the same in so many ways. It certainly opened new windows and nuances of knowledge for me… Of how I was perceived then and now. Of the things that I never even realised about myself – about what I bought to the mix of our relationships and what I bring to life, in every way that you can frame that concept. It was fascinating for me to ponder on how the past can shape us, or more interestingly how we (you can hear the cliché coming here) actually shape our past – and can choose to respond to our time travels in a positively meaningful way and learn our lessons from them.

And this was just one in a circle of get-togethers, where I met old friends, went to parties, celebrated with and chatted to long lost friends. I’ve always found it so hard to let go of so many people in my life – whatever I did to them or they to me. And sometimes I have just walked away and shut all the doors.

Much as I have consciously wanted to keep so many of my connections, life does not allow for that. We don’t have room for all of them physically or emotionally, and likewise they for us.

In this past month there have been hugs, laughs and much nostalgia. There have been questions and spaces too, where former friends created a gap, which the rest of us closed in with life and talk and eating and dancing and walking and carrying on with what we have in front of us.

At the beginning of the month I craved (to give and receive) silent forgiveness, to look into eyes of friends long lost as well as the ones re-found. But it didn’t happen that way, I didn’t get all the fairy tale endings that I planned, greedy girl that I am.

But still I got to celebrate a wedding, an anniversary, a couple of birthdays and the simple act of catching up and catching my breath – taking stock of the things I have, rather the things and people I have missed.

And that is always the key for me – delving into the gratitude of what I have, then filtering out of the thoughts that make me bitter or regretful and choosing to let them go. And that often means having to let go of people too, for any number of reasons…

I can see broken bonds with those absent friends or I can accept that I have brilliant memories and so many life lessons learnt. With that acceptance comes a clear (head) space which is liberating and gives me the air and creativity to push on and plan.

And whilst all these things are churning on in my life, I realised too that I have an urge to clear out my house. It feels like it is stuffed with baggage and rubbish and materialistic crap. I want to clear the space and free myself from things that no longer serve me and in doing so I make a choice about what few things stay with me too.

What is now surplus to requirements was once a treasured possession, a sought after object, or a thing of greedy joy and so I will celebrate each and every piece of bric-a-brac, of clothing, of anticipation, of duty and let it go, with love. And the same process applies to the people in my life. No doubt along the way there will be some memories and if it comes to choosing between the moths and the butterflies, well that’s easy – today I choose to fly with colourful wings, out in the day light.

I have wanted to hang on to so much in my life, but there simply isn’t room for it all. I don’t need it all. I don’t need all the things I have possessed and I don’t have space or time for everyone who has crossed my path, to walk the whole way along it with me.

Now I can see the metaphor and of course realise the metamorphosis that I am going through. It is clearly time to cleanse, choose and change.

I teach letting go techniques to my coaching clients and in doing so, learn to let go more myself, always analysing, then learning, accepting and moving on…

I’m letting the painful things in my past go, with gratitude for all the lessons I have learnt. In this crazy, amazing life I lead, last night I was dancing and singing in a hot and happy crowd; today I am quietly pondering the notes and the steps; and then of course, just what it is that I will do with tomorrow.

Then the moths are gone… And it’s time to fly, again, free…

Yours – then, maybe when, and always,

With love and laughter.

S xXx

PS: Did you know that a collection of my ‘Peachey Letters’ have been gathered together in to a beautiful book, exploring all the facets of love in its’ gore and glory? This is love seen in every aspect of the life that I live.  In it you will find the dark and the light of love, in a way that will make you think, entertain you and let you know that you are not alone in life, what ever it holds for you… You can buy ‘Peachey Letters – Love Letters to Life’ by Sandra Peachey, from book websites any where in the world, including Hive (paperback and Ebook) and Amazon (in both Paperback and Kindle)… Or you can ask your local bookshop to stock it or order it in…