How do you know if there is asbestos in your home?

You don’t.

If you are in Australia click Here for an information link or call 1800 621 666

If you are in America click Here for an information link or Here.

If you are in Britain click Here for an information link.

The British site, ‘Take 5 Stay Alive’, is quite informative for anyone thinking about doing a little DIY this weekend.

Take 5 Stay Alive



Waking up again

Sometimes I wake up unaware he is gone.  These are moments of bliss.  My life is whole.  We are together.  Everything is the same.  Then suddenly the guillotine of reality severs my thoughts.  We are broken.  I remember now.

At that moment I travel through a mini version of the macro shock and grief that has engulfed me for 18 months.  And while the shots of reality become familiar the news they deliver to my system remains as potently repulsive as ever… every time it seeps in.

Like falling asleep on a plane and waking up somewhere I wasn’t intending to go.  Each time I awake, surprised to be where I am, it becomes a little less unnerving.   Because, although I boarded a flight for Paris and am shocked to disembark in the jungle I remember this hellish detour happened yesterday too.

And the day before.

And the day before.


Some mornings, however, I do wake up knowing perfectly well where I am and what has happened.

But the simple fact that I have woken up… into this reality brings: ‘Aw fuck.  Really?  Really? Am I really still here?  Do I really still have to be doing this?  awwww-shit.’  And up I get.


And go make school lunches.

“doing this” means; being a single parent.  being a grieving widow.  being lost.  being detached from the reality that was my life.  And doing my work, which is, now, learning to let go of being tethered to the things I want.  Being OK with floating, unattached to any outcomes, lives or dreams I think suit me.

Letting go of my flight plan.

And then I will be ok waking up in the jungle.

In the jungle


Blades of Grass

I was so relieved this morning when I woke up to look out my window and saw that the new gardener had mown the lawn yesterday. Didn’t even know I felt this way until it was mown.


Blades of Grass

I never cared much for gardening

though it can be a healing place

where ornamental pears will grow a brick a week

as they did years ago after my brothers death.

Promising growth and, unlike life, never letting me down.


But how I wish the grass would now.

Let me down.  Stop growing.  Keep me up.


With every inch I watch it reach and ache and long for him.

Stretching toward his heaven. Without a voice it’s still so loud.

‘Come tend me. My gardener. You neglect.’

It’s wild and angry. Messy and lost. I hate it for that.

How right it is.

How it mirrors my state and mocks my strength.


I despise the grass growing.

Fundamentally set for sadness, that seems.

Every length off the soil, wounding my heart.

The blades that cut are everywhere.

Blades of Grass

Thank fucking god the gardener came yesterday.