Three words came to me during my morning meditation. Life is fragile. When I blinked open my eyes, to see my dog loyally lying at my feet, the words ‘life is fragile’ were resting in my heart. Ringing in my ears. I wasn’t sure why these words came to me, but I accepted them. They made sense. I agreed with them. Life is fragile. And then I got on with my day and did not give those three words a second thought, until later, when they were shouting at me from the ocean.

As I sat in the sun, on the deck of our humble shed this morning, reflecting on my meditation, I watched a young magpie poking around in the wet grass and dirt. His fluffy feathers made me smile. As did his little leg shorts. It looked like he was wearing a pair of feather knickerbockers. He was nice company in the morning sunlight. He reminded me of another bird, I knew once. Long ago. A bird who has a piece of my heart.

Stringing memories together of my childhood, sometimes it feels like my childhood itself was a musical. There was so much singing in it. Music and song has filled my soul since I was a baby girl. It has always been a part of my life. I still love to belt a song out in the shower. Or the car, much to the amusement of those passing by.

Our humble shed in the back yard has the same energy as all the bungalows I have known. Bungalows don’t need the size and grandeur of the main house. They escape the responsibilities the main dwelling has been designed for. And, therefore, they can always be something a little more fun. Bungalows are subtly attached to garages or tucked away behind trees in the back yard. They aren’t trying to stand out. To make a statement. Their presence is a whisper. A welcoming space. Inviting you inside.

This is a tribute to all the bikes in my life. The wheeled creatures, which accompanied me on many an adventure around the back yard, on the gravel road circling the neighbourhood houses and along the bitumen leading down to the rickety bridge crossing the river. Those tyres ripped up the dusty, and sometimes very muddy, motorbike tracks running alongside the flow of the water. And my favourite feeling was flying down the big dipper. Fear in my throat. My feet forgetting the pedals.

Tata Ona, my beautiful godmother, was very dear to me when she graced this earth. And she remains very dear to me, her spirit is always in my heart. She was my real life version of a fairy godmother. Her wings tucked neatly behind her smiling eyes. She saw me. She loved me. Without judgement. Without condition. After we gave Tata Ona, her last kisses, I have worn this amber ring every day since, a gift from her many moons ago. A beautiful ring made of butterscotch amber. I have always loved this amber ring. There is just something about it, I cannot describe what exactly, it just makes me feel alive and connected to something mysterious and larger than all of us.

One of my favourite ABBA songs when I was growing up, was Money Money Money. I loved it because it was one of the few songs where my favourite member of ABBA, Frida, was the lead singer. I would belt out those lyrics with her, every time, singing as loud as my little five-year-old lungs could manage. When prompted recently to think about my relationship with money, and where my attitudes and feelings toward money have come from, I realised this song had a lot to do with it.

Life is our story to write, no one else’s. We are the hero of our own journey in life and we decide what kind of hero we are going to be. This is a story of how, with an open heart, trusting the world again, I realised the full potential of my life had been sitting right beside me the entire time, just waiting for me to be ready to welcome it into my heart. And with my unconscious singing in harmony with the universe, things started to happen as I finally woke up to myself.

We are creatures of conversation. Conversations are at the very core of our being. There is something spectacularly special about a good conversation. It has the power to nurture us, spark creativity and drive our motivation for change. A good conversation is, at its simplest, just so damn enjoyable. I love them. They energise me. Inspire me. I can carry them for days. They can carry me for days. A good conversation can lodge in your soul, building the essence of who you are and who you will become.

As I watched my brother perform at the Paris Cat Jazz Club I couldn’t help but notice the joy in the room. His joy. Our family’s joy, mixed with pride. And everyone else’s joy as the music tickled their souls. Listening to him sing and seeing him do it with such enjoyment, reminded me of the importance of doing what you love, and inspired me to commit to doing it more in 2020. Hope his story and his love for music inspires you too.

Somehow my husband and I stumbled into each other in life. And through twists and turns, love, laughter and heartbreak, we ended up making a commitment to each other, for ever. We said our vows, we exchanged our rings. We promised to stand by each other through good times and through the hard times. And we have.

The beautiful art of mothering has been passed down through generations, for generations. I am so grateful to all the mothers in my life, for their gentle guidance driven by unconditional love.

I am a writer. I write what I remember. I write what I feel. Remembering Anne, our faithfully departed on All Hallows’ Eve.

With only eight days to go of Blogtober after today, I thought it might be nice to write about the number eight. Although what ended up coming out was not what I originally intended. Oh well. Giving in to writing about being eight.

When people leave this earth, they leave a gift behind. For us to enjoy. Something for us to hold onto. To remember them by. For us to have them in our hearts. Nearby.

Who we are is determined by who walked before us, and who walks before us and within us. The generations past are here in the present. Writing about how we carry inside us the thousands who have walked before us. We carry them in our hearts and souls.

A tribute to the person who gave me my love of stories and storytelling. Of moral tales, talking animals and fairytales. Of memories, personal triumphs and of love.