My bedtime lover(s)

A book is much more faithful than a lover I think.

A book can open you up to so many different experiences at the same time as reaffirming everything you’ve been feeling and thinking and struggling with.

I’m not sure a lover can do all that for me. But many more than one lover could?

Hence spending copious amounts of time in bed with books.

Reclaiming the Black Body: Nourishing the Home Within by Alisha McCullough is one of my current reads.

I used to be of the persuasion to read one book at a time. Devote all my time, focus and attention to one book in order to reap the glory/ knowledge/ whatever!

But these past few years, as I’ve become thirsty for stimulation and attempting to find like-minded people/ theories/ lovers, I’m moved into reading multiple books simultaneously, also known as “syntopical reading”.

And these books are not on the same topic either. They range from poetry around grief, non-fiction on gardening, personal essays around deep time, romantic and crime novels and short stories about myths and history. The list goes on!

I’m so enjoying this eclectic and multiple reading practice as it’s keeping me engaged, creating unique and original connections and it’s keeping me feeling loved.

By me.

So one of my current squeezes is Reclaiming the Black Body and I’m devouring it in small digestible bites because it is speaking to my soul.

This book is calling to attention the deep-seated, long-time, disproportionate amount of trauma, violence, marginalisation, discrimination, and adverse childhood experiences of Black women and femmes, and confounded by misognoir and racism, how we have learned to cope with it all through increased imbalanced eating behaviours.

Usually called “eating disorders” but even using that language implies that the individual is to blame and implying that some of us are just not equipped to nourish our bodies and do not know how to look after ourselves.

‘Disorder’ implies stigma and comes from the Western health ‘care’ system which from time has excluded and harmed Black people.

So this book is a balm for the wounds of silent struggles Black women and femmes have been going through around eating imbalances including myself. And is a vindication that we’re not fucked up and broken and just beasts, being less than human but that we are doing our best with the tools that we have to strive and thrive within a system that is hell-bent, historically and now, to demonise the Black body.

I will continue to cosy up with this book and others in bed, night and day, as reading is hitting the spot!

Water – RIver Etive

The River Etive, a river running through Glencoe, Scotland which I had the pleasure of getting into on New Year’s Day. This was my first wild swim of the year, of course, but it was also my first wild swim since November, 2024.

At the end of November, I got two new tattoos. I’ll share them at some point here ( a clue you’ve already seen them somewhere on this site already!). So with tattoos, I’m not supposed to get into the sea for three weeks afterwards. Three weeks came and went, and I still hadn’t gotten in. I could make the excuses of time and other commitments, but really there was fear and again me not taking my medicine.

Anyway, I’ve made a commitment to myself and 2025, to make sure I prioritise myself, putting my needs and wants first. Leaning into the joy and making sure I feel LUSH, more times than not.
I got into the River Etive, as I shared here. Now I’m back home, I’m making the effort to get into the sea. It’s on my doorstep.I have no excuses, and yet, I know 2024, saw me less than ever getting into the sea. I lost my rhythm, my mojo of getting in. I forgot how much I gain from walking into the sea, all year around. I’m not planning on doing the same thing this year. This year, I’m making water, inside and outside my body, a priority, as the rewards are multiple and multiply as the day/ days go by. Whatever it takes, I’m getting in. Watch me!

End of June Reflections

How do you practice self-care?

Visual Journal May/June 2023

As we near the end of June, I near the end of my current visual journal. This beauty has seen me through some ups and downs these past two months, as I’ve navigated major life changes and shifts.

Being able to keep coming back to the page in order to work out my shit, my internal shit, before I meet all the external shit is a gift. Is a massive gift I take for myself in the name of self-care.

Before visual journaling came along, I did keep a journal but it was maybe a lined notebook sometimes plain paper and pen. Simple and effective and got me through a lot of life’s changes.

But when 2015 came along and my life changed forever, words on the plain page would never be enough again. Could never be enough to express all the turbulence and upheavals within my life. I needed more and I also needed to feel safe.

So paints and images and quotes and collage and photography and text came together, merged and played off of one another to provide the time and space and safety I needed to have an ongoing, developing and becoming conversation with myself.

I feel blessed now to know I get to do this / {BE} this daily. I give myself the opportunity to get off this merry-go-round of life and take deeper breaths, while being in communion with myself, checking in on myself, making sure I’m okay and if not what I need to do in order to get back to being okay. But all in good time and a few visual journal spreads later.

This is one of my self-care practices which I am truly grateful for.

I’ll be sharing some more spreads, images and reflections on this process over the summer as this practice is multifaceted in terms of all the goodness of offers me. I gain insight, clarity and love in the present moment of the practice. But I also gain a lot of joy in the looking back over pages, reliving the feelings within my body of the practice. I also gain pleasure from sharing this practice with others.

Check out further posts to come.

Update – Mamathon

As I was saying over in the introduction to the recent episode released from The Earth Sea Love Podcast, apart from the year flying by, May was the month that kicked my butt. It’s officially going down as the worst month of 2023, so far for me. But hey I’m still here to tell the tale and I’m grateful for that.

I have to give some credit to still being here and getting through the trenches down to my walking practice of May. I completed the Mamathon as hosted by Girltrek and clocked up 53 miles. Of course I did more walking than that in May but these are the miles that were recorded with my Garmin watch. Just trying to keep everything recorded so I knew when I hit the miles, I knew I was banking them towards this challenge.

I’m so glad I took up this task. I started it with Miss Ella and finished it with Miss Ella yesterday afternoon. Even though she was full of cold she joined me to mark the occasion. I also went over on my right foot again. Same place / same injury as the one that stopped me completing the West Highland Way last year. But I’ve been icing and elevating it as well as walking on it today. A bit swollen and bruised but okay to walk on.

And I’m pleased about that as I would be most upset if I was out of action again just when I feel as if I’ve gotten into some kind of walking routine. Girltrek are running their Black History Bootcamp podcast this year again, which entails 21 days of meditations of Black stories are shared. So I’m just gonna keep on walking in June to the sounds of this podcast and clock up some more miles.

The West Highland Way is on again this year. Birthday week with dear friend, Alex, we’re walking the way together. More details to follow. Already excited about completing it. See what I did there? The power of positive energy. It usually get’s me through. Got me through May. Thank you very much.

Happy June.

Summer Wish List

Sheree may you offer yourself light

Sheree may you offer yourself grace

Sheree may you offer yourself rest

Sheree may you offer yourself love

Sheree may you offer yourself ease

Sheree may you offer yourself softness

Sheree may you offer yourself mistakes

Sheree may you offer yourself movement

Sheree may you offer yourself a deep clean

Sheree may you offer yourself hope

Sheree may you offer yourself deep breaths

Sheree may you offer yourself adventure

Sheree may you offer yourself surrender

Sheree may you offer yourself healing

I’m grateful …

for the people I love.

for the beauty around me.

for the pleasurable experiences in my life.

for the challenges that force me to grow.

for the more I focus on the good in my life the more generous my life becomes.

Meditative Walks

Thank goodness for the long light nights. They’ve been pulling me outdoors. Even after full days of activities, I’m finding solace in evening walks. Alone with my thoughts. Alone with my feelings.

I appreciate these spaces and places I roam. Allowing my senses to land upon some beauty. Some part of nature to hold my attention. To hold my hope.

Thank you.

I only saw his shine once it was too late to feel it

In the dream, he comes back to me, whole and young.

He was always young in my eyes. When I used to ask him at each birthday how old he was, Daddy would answer, 45.

He was always 45 in all the years I knew him. All the years I was living, he was dying.

In the replaying of images, I play it differently.

I keep my distance until he asks for me to bring his slippers or newspaper. I offer them with bowed head. I don’t throw them at him as I used to. Escaping his rage, escaping the beats.

I keep my distance, but I want to be close to him. To hold him. To feel his love for me. Then and now, still needed after so many years gone.

To serve, he brought me up, to serve. Instead of getting the vacuum clearer out, he had us on the floor picking up the bits of fluff and crumbs. To hear his pride at a job well done was enough.

When I enter the chapel of rest, it’s like I’m floating on air, light as the flowing curtains concealing a prize. I see him now, as then …

he‘a surrounded by gold satin, his mahogany black skin shines, relaxed and unlined, sea-black lips wave-curled and still.

He looks younger than 45. Even though the plaque on the coffin lid reads 1920 -1981 – he was 61. And the time he was dying. I was living.