New beginnings
On returning from an unplanned sabbatical, stopping to smell the azaleas, and a year since Florence!
Oh, friends!
How best to slide back in here, after a (totally unplanned) sabbatical? ‘Hello, again!’ doesn’t quite cut it. “I’ve missed you”? So easy to say, yet true. Last night, I recorded you a voice note, then deleted it. I’ve abandoned too many drafts to mention.
So, no sliding here. Just a heartfelt apology for the absence I didn’t see coming. And I’m so sorry it’s been a longer break than I’d ever have wished for.
Thank you so much for bearing with me, and a HUGE and special welcome to new subscribers who’ve taken a leap of faith and signed up to Life Stories in this in-between time, thanks to a kind recommendation, or via the Substack-asphere.
There’s been so much I’ve longed to share with you, but the words kept getting stuck somewhere between my heart and the screen. (Side note: I’ve even developed this funny little tension cough, which only comes on when I’m talking about something to do with my mum, or my dad. I find myself constantly have to clear my throat when talking to someone official from the care home, or to a doctor — or the mobile optician who rang out of the blue last week and I was convinced was a cold caller.)
As much as anything, I’ve SO missed hearing your stories, too.
In the early weeks after losing my mum, one kind friend told me, “grief isn’t always linear”. And I’m SO grateful, because, without her having shared her own experience of losing her beloved father, I might have chastised myself more for what’s often felt like taking ten steps backwards.
In truth, I know, it’s been more that the loss has simply sunk in a little deeper, over time. As my friend, Sally, who has written powerfully and beautifully about grief at
, puts it:Grief work is sacred and mystical because at its core it involves being able to move sorrows from our heads to our hearts where all healing takes place.
All the while, day to day life at home and work goes on (including a “side-stack” on midlife health and wellness, which I’m SO enjoying putting together). Our children are currently home – one with big summer exams coming up, and another recharging and researching her next adventure.
I’m reminding myself to soak up every minute, to be fully in the precious present, even as I’m rebuilding the leaning tower of Reebok in the hallway, on repeat.
As I know many of you will be wondering, I’m so happy to report that my dad is doing really well. He is now settled, content and being wonderfully cared for in the residential home near us that we found for my parents, when they were no longer able to live alone at home, without specialist care. Never have I been more aware of and thankful for those with a true vocation to caring for our elderly and most vulnerable. (For anyone navigating this learning curve, or for whom it’s on the horizon, this post has proved helpful to many, and I’ve updated it with lots of readers’ tips and advice, too.)
What has surprised me in these months is how much I’ve missed my mum as she was before her memory struggles really kicked in. I hadn’t expected the memory of who she was — not only the picture of her in my mind — and how she mothered me, to be so very vivid. Hard, but also strangely, and unexpectedly, comforting.
On Sunday, I could almost feel her delight as I pottered in the garden, arranging cheapie, bright outdoor cushions on ancient wooden chairs, and feeling a disproportionate amount of pride over my refresh of an old deckchair— with a hot red and orange cover I found on Amazon, and thought looked sort-of Spanish. (At this point, I have to just stop and recommend HOME by India Knight for all things relating to the true joys and comforts of home.)
My mother would have LOVED that I’m now sniffing azaleas as I walk past Homebase, in the hope of tracking down the intensely fragrant pinky-peach variety we had in a giant wooden pot on our family patio in East Sheen, in the Seventies.
More than anything, she would consider it a miracle that I’m actually watering things now (she always bemoaned the fact that I neglected this, so I’d panic-soak the pots in the porch, just before she and my father visited).
As another dear friend said, it’s not only the times we expect to miss loved ones that hit hard, such as birthdays, Christmas, Easter and Mother’s Day (coming up soon for American friends, I know). It’s also the ones that catch us unexpectedly, such as a change of seasons or a time of year. A kind of light, even. Her mother, like mine, loved spring.
I wish I could give my mother a tour of our little garden, and show her how its come along, including the Mary garden I was inspired to create after seeing so many beautiful ones on Insta (I’ll share pics this spring!). There’s even an established wisteria that
of would, I think, give the thumbs-up. Suddenly, I appreciate it all so much more: the flowers, the colour, the birdsong.Home.
I’m so glad to be back, and beyond excited to share many of the books, Substacks, podcasts and more I’ve been loving in recent months, and a couple, at least, due to release very soon.
Unbelievably, it’s a year ago to the day that I wrote about the trip I took with my daughter to Florence last April, the city in which I was reunited with my birth father three decades ago, before going on to meet my grandmother in Siena.
That makes writing to you today feel even more meant to be.
I’m planning to travel to Italy again soon, to see the family in the small town in Liguria where my story began.
And I can’t wait to hear your stories, too, and to explore — along with other writers, authors, and other guests — all that it means to be family, to be home and to belong.
I’m not sure where to begin, but I just know I’m ready to, again. And that’s always a start, isn’t it?
With so much love!
Welcome back, Jenni. May you feel very much at home in this space because I hope to visit it often! It meant the world to me to know that my words spoke to you as you have been going through this season of loss, and longing, and remembering, and grieving. The way you are saying your hellos to your mum by remembering the way her hand helped to nurture you and mother you really touched my heart. I know what you mean about wishing your mum could visit your garden and see all the memory of her inspired you to do. I do think that is how we keep our loved ones alive in our hearts, by creating spaces we think they would have loved to spend time in with us. Also, we have inspiration as we create because we remember them, and our actions become a way of expressing that love after they are gone. We make new memories knowing they were with us during these creative times.
Also, thank you for linking my Substack here.
As always, I loved reading your newsy letter. You bring so much of your delightful personality to all you do. Sending much love across the pond to you. Hugs.
"the leaning tower of Reebok in the hallway' : ) Loved this, Jenni! I've missed you. I'm excited to read more of your words -- especially of your adventures in Italy! xx