In 2012, I conceived, and grew through pregnancy.

Myself – physically and mentally – and the egg – fertilisation, foetus and baby.


The egg, the sperm, the baby, the boy.

Me. The daughter, the student, the arts manager, the dance animateur, the dancer, the mother.

2016. The Maker.

It’s a new era.

I’ve been procrastinating, hiding, scared, too tired to think, crazy, unsettled, confused, happy, sad, working, breastfeeding. Whatever it is. It’s been too long. Or maybe it’s the right amount of time.

It has been an amount of time.

Something has passed.


Black holes.

Space stations.


Sleepless nights. They’ve passed too. I’ve made it through to the other side. Please, that probably shouldn’t happen again.

I’d like to produce something of a different sort now.

We’ve cleared the hedge, the peonies and the fuschias. We wanted to make a corner for new growth.

We’ve dug, raked, weeded and dug and raked, until the soil was flat-ish.

I’ve planted some seeds.

It’s obvious.

Water, when necessary.



The vegetable patch
I stole a friend away the other day, and took her home. We sat in the garden, while the boy slept.

We dreamed, took photographs and then we began to write an application.

Time was short. I hope it wasn’t too late. If it is, if it was, then I have another idea. It doesn’t matter.

The process of even considering has been useful. We might even have found a way to work together.

It has rained gently and consistently for the best part of a week. Possibly since my friend was last here.

In the garden the seeds are beginning to show their shoots.

The boy, so impressed by the first bean shoot, pulled it out of the ground in one piece, and brought it to me in his blue bucket.

seeds of growth