Would not wake easily my son - stroked his head and body and still fast asleep. Sleeping under this rain, under this cvcer of darkness, under dream land where stories are made and stories make us.

I’ve been made by story - my parents story, the christian story, the story of the news, and my education. Now as adult I do get some say over the stories cycling deep in me. Sometimes I need to be triggered like I was by a dear friend the other day - to anger - to realise I have an old story from a would that women are not safe - wowee - I just wrote that. Yes, that story that my body holds in some very young part of me - and by allowing that anger towards my mother to play out in the safety and strength of our friendship, was able to see that the story need not apply now any more.

More and more invitations from the universe to unpack the stories again and again so the site of the wound can be seen and dressed by my inner mother, my inner nurse - the wounded healer they called Christ and the Christ in me, in us all who calls - invites healing in the most bizarre of ways. It could be losing your shit outside your favorite cafe with said friend, or it might be the stuff of dreams - where a feeling comes into heal an old wound - like an old friend, like, the peace of my sleeping son.