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I want to write a blog. It’s a battle between two parts of me. One says, you shouldn’t write anything. Any words will be embarrassing, saying too much, letting secrets slide. Or they will be too poor, simple, empty. The other says, year after year goes by. You lock everything inside, maybe you don’t need to.

there’s a windchime hung by a door across the street. It’s been here all the years I’ve lived here. Over a decade. When the summer wind visits, soft and steady, running like fingers through hair, the bells ring so gently you could miss them. I think I often do. But when I’m really here, so are they. I’m so grateful for that.

Summer makes me nostalgic. With a blue sky as near constant, the breeze through the leaves outside my window. The slowness of long days. It’s the perfect set up to slip away. To fill the quietness with what was there once. Other summers. Difficult times, but now I just miss them. I miss my old hurt that sparkled with the jewels of people who were loving, inspiring. I’m quietly still in love with every kind soul I ever knew.

strawberries are cooking on the stove, with powdered sugar and lemon juice, the air is so fragrant. For the past couple of weeks I’m making it a lot. To serve with vanilla ice cream. It reminds me of being 8 years old, pulling my mum’s handbag into the downstairs loo, pretty golden evening sunlight streaming through the frosted glass window. My heart would race as I would scoop my hand through the fine biscuit crumbs at the bottom, sifting for gold for the ice cream van. I couldn’t get enough of any of the sweet treats, but now it’s strawberry sundaes that stand out to me.

I hope one day my life changes in a way where I don’t look back so much for comfort, because the comfort will be right with me.

sorry if this wasn’t a blog post, but more like a journal entry. I don’t really know what a blog post should be. But it feels good to write something down anyway.