Last day in France.

Whew.

Everything has had a feeling of lastness today. The last workshop, in a beautiful forest full of standing stones. The finality of a group photo, everyone grinning in unison. The last supper, with everyone gathered around the table. Swapping email addresses and phone numbers. Goodbyes, and thank yous, and promises to stay in touch.

It's not that I don't want to go home. I am so fortunate, in so many ways. I love my home, and share it with the loves of my life.

But I've been thinking a lot about how much this week has meant to me, and how starved my life has been of the kind of inspiration and interactions I've experienced here. I've been extremely isolated and lonely for the last year; lonely in the kind of soul-gnawing, bone-twisting way that I associate with my early teens. I hadn't really thought about it much until now. I knew I was lonely, but I suppose I've just become used to it. Most of my days are spent alone, with the dogs for company, and as much as I love my ridiculous hounds, they don't talk back when I talk to them.

I don't want this week to be a bright spot in a dark year - I want it to galvanise me into making my life a more joyous space. I want this to be restorative. I want to enjoy my life more. I don't want it to be something I tolerate, or sleepwalk through. I want to be writing more, laughing more, living more.

Remember this place, with its whispering walls 
alive with the passage of time.
Remember the half-sunken tree that awoke
the schoolboy's desire to climb.
Remember the thistles that stung your bare feet 
spots of pink creeping through green. 
Remember the person you are in this place 
Remember the poet you've been.