a letter to my dead father

There's a new wisdom in me now. A patience I've not known before. I'm no longer forcing the future into being.

“Your Papa, is he ok?” she falters, the words fragmented in her French accent.

“Se morte, he’s dead,” I reply, hoping my Spanish-to-French translation makes sense.

“Oui, I know but, ah…” looking for words she does not have in a language unfamiliar to her.

I nodded. She wanted me to look into my relationship with him, to check in with him across the cosmic ether between the living and the dead.

It was my fourth day in the South of France in a villa tucked in the mountains behind Nice.

The bodywork this healer had just given me felt mostly energetic, subtly infused in long repetitive strokes across my naked body, loosening and wakening the tight parts, the coiled inside themselves parts, the parts that had hardened to protect me from life’s rough edges.

☾

This morning, I found myself back in the U.K. - a land so dreary and cold, even in the heart of July, that I've christened it 'Mordor'. The irony isn't lost on me.

I reached for my journal.

First, I immersed myself in the celestial dance, jotting down notes on the week's astrological forecast. Then, with a deep breath, I turned to a fresh page.

And there, in the quiet of the morning, I began to write to my father. Words flowed, bridging the gap between worlds.

“Ciao, Papa.” I began…

Though my pen hasn't formed words for him in years, his presence lingers, a constant whisper in the air around me. In quiet moments, I find myself reaching out, seeking his guidance. His spirit, a silent partner in my decision-making, a comforting presence I turn to in times of need.

Tears blurred my vision as I wrote, a familiar ache settling in my chest. The weight of a lifetime unshared pressed down on me, heavy with missed opportunities. A flicker of resentment burned towards my mother, whose actions had carved a chasm between us.

I often found myself wondering if more time together might have changed everything. Perhaps he wouldn't have met his fate, alone, navigating that serpentine mountain road in Sardinia, when I was just a ten-year-old girl, worlds away.

I poured my heart onto the page - my musings, aspirations, and visions for the future. Then, pen hovering, I asked if he had any wisdom to impart or requests to make. Closing my eyes, I let the stillness envelop me, waiting for that familiar whisper of inspiration.

Suddenly, words flowed through me, as if my hand had a mind of its own:

You and your dreams are important and valid. Don’t minimise or downplay them because they are unlike those of the majority. You are carving out a new way for people with your essence and Being. I am always here. Helping and guiding you.

☾

Those five sun-soaked days already feel like a distant dream. I can still feel the warmth deepening the brown of my skin, taste the juice of ripe summer fruits - peaches, cherries, melons - running down my chin. Those five days in southern France with my surrogate family awakened something primal in me. A reminder of my Mediterranean soul, forever tethered to sun and sea.

Yet, duty calls me back to this grey land, for now.

It's curious, though. After being caught in a karmic whirlpool the past few years that stripped away my old self, I've emerged with remarkable clarity. The path ahead shimmers with possibility, my motivation and inspiration at an all-time high.

There's a new wisdom in me now. A patience I've not known before. I'm no longer forcing the future into being. Instead — I'm engaged in a delicate dance with destiny — part trust, part inspired action.

The rest of this year is going to be filled with miracles. I can feel it.

They're waiting in the wings, ready to unfold.