Hey Reader,

If you've been with someone for years, decades even, and then suddenly you're not, there's a specific kind of unravelling that comes with it. Not just the practical mess, the finances, the living arrangements, whatever needs untangling. Underneath that there's a much bigger question sitting quietly. Who am I, now that I'm not 'half of something'?

In the landscape work I use, this is the Ghyll. A steep drop, no clear path down or back up either. You're just stood at the edge of it. The ground's gone from underneath in a way that's genuinely disorientating...not metaphorically, but actually.

Foxglove keeps me company here. It's not a plant you touch, it's got a warning built into it... 'Admire me, but keep your distance'. There's something in that I find steadying rather than cold. It stands tall and entirely itself, asking nothing of anyone nearby. A kind of sovereignty that doesn't need to soften itself to be trusted.

You might not feel like that yet. I don't think you're meant to, standing at the edge of a drop like that. But it's there as a waymarker. Something to walk toward, even in small pockets of time you can steal back for yourself, while everything else is still being untangled.

I made a video on this, sitting in the rather Autumnal polytunnel with a coffee, if you want to spend six and half minutes with me:

Watch the video

P.S. After we cross the Stile, there's something else coming too. Walking the Fell Wall. More on that when it's ready.

Big love,
Sarah