01 | The Slow Boat relaunch
Things happened. I lost my Dad. And after 2 years, I'm writing again.
Dear friends,
It’s been a while.
Two years, in fact, since my last newsletter. Much has unfolded in that time.
Firstly, I'd like to share that my family has endured the loss of my Dad amidst the most tragic of circumstances.
Perhaps one day, I'll open up a bit more about it. But for now, it's not the time.
The years leading up to Dad's death were difficult. This newsletter acted as an outlet for me — a safe place to share my creative projects and reflect on my connection to nature during the darkest of times. When we find ourselves enduring these personal storms, nature is always there as a healer.
Following Dad's death, I couldn’t write. I couldn’t face putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) and many aspects of my life have been on hold since then, including this newsletter. But here’s an attempt to relaunch the boat with a pre-cursor that future newsletters might be shorter, more sporadic, and less frequent than in the past.
We’ll see how it goes.
The fog begins to lift
About a year ago, I took a long hike with a friend in the mountains of North Wales.
It was a complete whiteout. We could barely see the trail beyond our footsteps for most of the day.
Later in the afternoon, the fog began to lift. We took a seat on a nearby rock, drank tea, ate handfuls of trail mix, absorbed the sun on our cold faces and marvelled at the peaks as they were gradually unveiled before us.
At the time, I felt this was what the year following Dad’s death had been like — navigating a long, foggy path without a compass. But now, life was starting to get a bit clearer. My family were finally coming out the other side.
But another 12 months passed by and there were many ups and downs.
I have since learned that grief doesn't follow a simple, linear path. It's not about ‘moving on’ or leaving events behind. Instead, it's more like the growth of tree rings, gradually enveloping the memory of a loved one who's gone but stays with you forever.
In our case, my Dad.
I’ve found metaphors in the natural world to be of great comfort when reflecting on the inner journey of grief, suffering and healing.
So it might be that some of my newsletters will be written in this sentiment, alongside the usual updates from the design studio, veg patch and beyond.
Hope in the dark
There’s a lot of darkness in the world right now.
From the ongoing wars to the existential climate crisis, we don’t have to look far. But if there is one thing I’ve glimpsed, it is that happiness can still exist when living through the darkest of times, though at moments this can feel like an impossibility.
How can we transform our suffering, and the collective suffering of the world, into something brighter, and more hopeful? And how might we do this from a place of positivity and joy rather than anger, fear and desperation?
These are big, daunting questions. And I'm not going to pretend to have any answers.
But I'm going to start small; by planting the seeds of others' wisdom in the safe space that is this newsletter. And perhaps, one day, something beautiful will grow.
Speaking on hope, Howard Zinn once wrote:
“To be hopeful in bad times is not just foolishly romantic. It is based on the fact that human history is a history not only of cruelty, but also of compassion, sacrifice, courage, kindness. What we choose to emphasize in this complex history will determine our lives. If we see only the worst, it destroys our capacity to do something. If we remember those times and places–and there are so many–where people have behaved magnificently, this gives us the energy to act, and allows the possibility of sending this spinning top of a world in a different direction.”
Thank you for reading this, all the way through to the end.
Your support of my writing and shared value for slowing down is deeply appreciated.
As always, feel free to send a reply. Your thoughts, reflections, and messages of note are always welcome.
Proud of you ❤️❤️❤️