Spirits and Books and books-about-spirits.

I have this voodoo thingy where I don’t talk about good stuff that is happening until after they’ve come to fruition… It’s totally a reference to nm and such conditioning… but maybe it’s time to step through that discomfort.

So here goes.


I am totally trying – trying… like full hard out Trying-To-Conceive.
After a few months of ‘not trying’, I’m all in. Tracking, monitoring, sexing, all in.

Books about spirits

Complete change of subject (it’ll loop back, I promise)
I am reading an awesome book!

The Afterlife of Billy Fingers
By Annie Kagan

Somewhere, at some time years ago I came across a chapter that was online. The first chapter I think, of this book. And I read it. I loved it. The book title has been in the far reachers of my beautifully convoluted mind for years.

A few months ago, out of the blue, I ordered the book. Along with 8 others. Which you’ll hear about in due course 🙂

It’s been sitting on my bedside table for maybe a month.

So last night, I decided (even though I’d taken a sleeping tablet and was exhausted) that it was time to start reading it. I devoured it! I love it. LOVE IT. It’s easy to read; light, with it’s own depth and real-ness to it.

At some point, Annie scatters her brothers ashes.
But not at the lake, Billy tells her it’s too cold.
But maybe a little bit at the lake, it’s close to her home.
He knows she needs a little bit of him, close to her home.


Spirits and Deaths and Ashes

It has only just been the two year anniversary of loosing my divine, beloved, god-sent, angel of a mother-figure. My spiritual mother. Mumma Bear.

I hadn’t touched her ashes.
Other than to quickly move them slightly as I cleaned the shelf they were on.

But now the only thing in the whole world I wanted to do was to hold them.

So despite it being near midnight, I found my Mumma Bear.

I held onto her so tight.
I wrapped my arms around and pretended my hands were her arms hugging me right back.
My heart ached.

And I cried. And cried.
Those aching, heart wrenching, this-is-everything-right-now cries.

I kept repeating that I love her.

I just needed her to know that I love her. Insurmountably.

She knows.

In the book, Annie opens the container and touches the ashes.
I don’t know why. But I needed to do that too.

That was hard.
Really hard.

I cried some more.

I opened the lid, and got angry that this gorgeous angel was reduced down to literal ashes. Some white bits. Some black bits. And a lot of grey ashes. But it wasn’t right to stay in the anger, so I moved on.

Touching the ashes was hard.

My intellectual mind wanted to ask if I was touching her heart, or her mind. Maybe ashes of her hands. But it wasn’t right to stay in that, so I moved on.

I didn’t know what I was supposed to be doing with this. But I kept going.

I turned the urn, and watched the ashes slowly unsettle.

It created this puff of ash cloud.

I cried even more.


The book.

And as I was crying, I remembered a book that I gave her.


It was a divine book. Filled with incredibly profound love. As it documented some of the innumerable roles of mothers.

I had bought this book when I was about 10 hours away from home. Maybe 10 years earlier.

I remember holding it, before I gave it to her. Knowing that she was what this book represented. Knowing that she’d feel the profound depth and love I held in this book and equally, in the act of giving it to her.

I remember my hesitation.
Years earlier, I had accepted that it was not right to give to nm.
That nm would never be worthy of this.
But that was okay, because I would be worthy of this.

I would be a mother worthy of this piece of heaven.

Just before I ended all contact with my nm, I gave this book to Mumma Bear.
For being my mumma.
And for the incredible, profound, divine love that she loved me up with.
So completely.
It epitomised her in those few gold pages.

It was the only thing I asked for, after she died.
The only thing I needed.
Her daughter gave it to me the day she passed.
Even she knew this was somehow important.



I hadn’t touched it in those two years, other than at some point to move it – because it wasn’t in the car anymore.

I needed it now.

My husband got out of bed.
In the middle of the night.
He held me whilst I cried.
I didn’t tell him anything.
I couldn’t. It was so heavy on my heart.
All I managed was telling him I needed that book right now.

He went into worker mode and knew all the right places to look.

He found it.
He gave it to me.

I cried a lot more.


Beginning Journeys.

She was giving it back to me.

Exactly last night.
Exactly at that moment.

My journey has started.

My personal mother journey has started.

And I am worthy of that book.


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