Times Change

I haven't written a warmup since Monday.

I've now not had any caffeine, of any kind, for nearly three weeks. My body will, from time to time, eject everything inside it because there is too much fat in my food for it to process effectively. These incidents have become fewer and further between since I've learnt what specific triggers to avoid. Then, in the height of the summer, an almond butter protein bar reduced me to a wreck.

There's a vague sense that allergies are also becoming a Thing now I'm post-menopausal, and asking about this is absolutely on my list of Things to Check with a Doctor when it flares again. For now, the caffeine removal absolutely has affected my brain, but has vastly improved sleeping and my ability to function on a administrative level. I've been waiting for a lightbulb to come on in this new state.

Last night, it did with some brightness.

I've read at Go to the Poets pretty much since the thing began. Kim pointed that out to me, which I had forgotten, because in the constant clamour of life and drama and upheaval and growth we often miss the important cues until they've passed us by. Wordsworth Grasmere's space gave me a purpose when I had none. It allowed me to dream that one day, I might end up as the Feature Reader.

Now, I have another pamphlet coming. There is a Virtual Launch and a Quite Special Reading at the local Arts Collective, plus a lot more yet to be made public. I look back at where I have travelled, what happened before, and there is a sense of genuine satisfaction. There is also a growing relaxation about what that means in practical terms, and how this personal landscape is altering.

The last three years have transformed into an important rite of passage.

Then, on Saturday, I'm part of the poetry reading for this event. I've written enough poetry about the Estuary that creating a set has been a pretty easy task to complete. Of all the things I am doing in the next two months, this has probably been the easiest to rationalise as a result. It has helped me accept how far things have come in terms of confidence and self-belief.

It is never always about your work. People who make it so, and I can name names if pushed, fail to accept the reality of what poetry means right now. The individuality of expression is essential, more than has ever been the case before. Poetry as a coping mechanism, as part of a mental health strategy is only now being considered seriously. Words being published is only half the story.

Words spoken grant power but increasingly serve as a form of closure.

Some of you I know will already be tired of me plugging my book to an inch of its life. These are no longer the days of organic reach and guaranteed attention spans. If you want to help me as I make this journey, buy a pre-order. It means my publisher can publish more books and other poets benefit from an astute mind with top notch editing skills and a real sense of what makes compelling reading.

The light that went on last night is shining in a direction I'd not expected but is no real surprise. It makes next week's planning a lot easier as a result, because that's when we knuckle down and the last of the old wood is finally stripped away.

I finally accept what must happen next.