writing – Dear Jo-Anne

‘Meet Me There’ — by H. WEND

Image Credit: Tran Phu via Unsplash.

Written by H. WEND, May 17th, 2023.

I’m thinking about

the moments we spent together

within our daydreams.

My memories

of the family room in the back,

the hazy days

when the sun shined

through the windows

are fading.

Share yours with me,

and I’ll share mine.

Everything is within grasp.

Even a home beyond brass gates

sprawled across an acre or two.

Tell me about the colour blue—

curtains in your kitchen.

Tell me about the foyer table,

the vase,

and lily of the valley.

Share something sweet with me.

Tell me where you are,

lost in the daydream.

You’ve got that look in your eyes.

Meet me there—

we’ll talk about what will be.

Let’s get lost again,

over something sweet.

Where are you—

now?

It’s been so long.

I’ll build the things—

the home sprawled across green grass,

a circular driveway,

a bench beneath a great big tree.

I walk empty hallways,

holding something sweet,

untouched blue curtains,

furniture made of pine.

Walls your hands will never graze.

The hope I’d find you,

curled up on your bed—

fitted with floral-print sheets,

watching a midday film,

grows empty.

The only dreams I share with you—

now,

are the ones long gone

and the ones that awaken

when I fall sleep.

But dreams—

They’re all I have.

Dreams with empty halls,

a quiet kitchen with blue curtains,

and furniture made of pine.

Meet me there—

on the bench

beneath the great big tree.

© H. WEND 2023 Dear Jo-Anne

Sinking and Floating

Image Source: Engin Akyurt via Unsplash.

Written by H. WEND. April 11th, 2023.

I’ve been distant. I am so used to abandoning my ship, I almost did it again. I create something really wonderful, something I want so badly but then after a while the waters within and around me grow violent. The doubt sets in, the fear of not being able to stay consistent hovers over me, and unworthiness unveils my truth. Get to safety, return to quiet, return to nothingness. My body knows the drill all too well and I drown in the torrent again. Then, when it’s safe, I emerge in rebirth and start again.

“Let yourself be gutted. Let it open you. Start there.”
Cheryl Strayed, Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life From Dear Sugar.

Nine weeks ago, my world imploded. Just like everything else, I figured I’d talk about it another time when I’ve found healing but sometimes it just doesn’t work that way. I’m so tired of pushing things away to deal with later, only to spend years in its pain. Nine weeks ago, a long term relationship came to an end. It felt like an earthquake and though I am familiar with loss, I am no expert at coping with it.

“David Kessler and Brené on Grief and Finding Meaning” | Unlocking Us with Brené Brown

Image Credit: Vasilina Sirotina via Unsplash,

Written by H. WEND. January 27th, 2023.

The Podcast

Unlocking Us with Brené Brown is the podcast that drew me into the podcast world. In fact, it was this very episode that I listened to first which means this podcast is special!

Miss Harvey’s Grief

Image Credit: Alexander Grey via Unsplash.

Written by H. WEND. January 12th, 2023.

Miss Harvey was a young teacher, in her early to mid twenties. She had short red hair and freckles. I adored her. She was beautiful, upbeat and goofy. She was my kindergarten teacher.

One day, Miss Harvey came in and she was quiet. Throughout the morning it became more apparent that something was wrong.

‘I Dreamt of You’ — by H. WEND

Image Credit: Ithalu Dominguez via Pexels.

Written by H. WEND. January 5th, 2023.

Today marks 4 years since my mum’s passing, which seems absolutely surreal. Today, I thought I’d share a piece of writing I made recently in thought of her.

I Dreamt of You

by H. WEND

The sky nearing sunset,
We sat on a hill;
Our favourite place.
Lush green grass beneath us,
A bed of sunflowers.
Just us and the world.
As it had always been.
We were watching the sky,
As the sun began to fall;
Soft pink and orange hues,
Purple ink bled through scattered clouds.
I saw the evening light touch your face…
Your skin, your green speckled eyes–
Illuminated by the light.
It was as if,
Maybe,
You had never left.
The wind blew a gentle breeze.
I took a deep breath.
Suddenly, I realised the depth
Of missing you.
Desperation filled my lungs,
My heart grew heavy.
“Mum,” I whispered,
“I don’t want this to end.”
The wind grew stronger,
Singing as it swirled around us.
You smiled, took my hand in yours,
And, you said,
“We don’t have much longer,
Stay in this moment with me.”
Then you nodded toward the sunset;
An array of the most beautiful colours
Painted across the sky before us.
And us,
At the edge of night.
Our world;
Slowly fading, slowly fading.
It was painstakingly beautiful,
It was all too familiar,
It was ‘Goodbye’.
© H. WEND 2023 Dear Jo-Anne

Goodbye 2022, Hello 2023

December 30th, 2022

The year is coming to a close and many of us are reflecting on the year we have had and the year that is about to come.

I’m definitely the type of person to take an opportunity to turn a new leaf and set some goals. Though, if anything, I have achieved shameless persistence rather than actually completing any goals but hey, I don’t mind, persistence is also good.

For me, 2022 has been similar to years previous with just a few differences- most of them, I’m very grateful for.

This year I am grateful for all the things I’ve learned and the ways in which I was able to grow. I thought I would share just a few reflections here.

Grief Feels Like…

17th December 2022

Grief kind of feels like that time- when I was four years old- I had terrifying nightmares and I would wake up crying and beg my mum to call the police so they could take the bad dreams away.

My mum would hold me tight and whisper softly “Hannah, everything will be okay.”

It seemed that the only relief I truly needed in that moment was to be held in my mother’s arms.

Although I look back now and find the idea of calling the police on a bad dream funny, in essence this scenario is exactly how grief sometimes feels for me.

It’s the nightmare, the inescapable agony that no one else can see or feel. There is no remedy but to hope it goes away.

Invisible, terrifying, powerful.

In my experience with grief, the difference is that this time the nightmare is real, there is no waking up and what’s worse is that I cannot be held in my mother’s arms.