DAY SEVEN: Rebirth from what I thought was a dead plant. I didn’t inherit my mother’s green thumb, so a lot of my plants end their lives no matter what I do. But this plant surprised me and came back! I’m grateful for small miracles, little reminders that, sometimes, we just need a little time to find our way before we can thrive again.

Autumn is a farewell song to summer as winter creeps nearer with each turn of the earth. Already I forget the hot sting of sunlight on my skin, the sun-warmed blood pulsing, radiating through patchwork veins, a soothing quietude. Damp skies painted with grey strokes leave a chill in my bones, deep in the marrow where winter’s blood is made with old magic, but somewhere, buried within the blackness of my flesh, a spark of gold lingers, a brief image of summers past with a promise of more to come. There is hope hiding there, in the darkest of times, waiting, like summer’s blazing sun, to rise again and envelop the world with its light.

Venturing outside as lockdown in London eases has become more harrowing and anxiety filled than before as people flood the streets and pavements once again. It feels both dangerous and normalising to see so many people out and about, as though the threat has evaporated, but on some level we know it hasn’t. It’s still there, lurking in the shadows, waiting to reappear–and perhaps with a vengeance. Walking through the park and gazing upon mirrored pools of water evoke a sense of calm; feelings like serenity, peacefulness, and tranquility assuage the unease settled deep down within our nerves. If only it wasn’t temporary.