"As long as I kept moving, my grief streamed out behind me like a swimmer's long hair in water. I knew the weight was there but it didn't touch me. Only when I stopped did they slick, dark stuff of it come floating around my face, catching my arms and throat till I began to drown. So I just didn't stop." - Barbara Kingsolver
Three years ago, I couldn't outwardly explain my grief.
It’s the open air markets that I love. The way that you don't even have to know the way to the Borough Market in London for the aromas carried by the wind will guide you right to its core. Cross this street, go through this alleyway, down those stairs. Right to the heart of the action.
I set off on my own Personal Legend almost a year ago. I wasn't actually sure what a Personal Legend meant, or why I chose that places I did, or the order in which I would do things. And that became crystal clear when my boots met Gatwick's vast airport floors and my eyes tried to decipher which train ticket would get me where.
Oscar Wilde said, "I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read on the train". I wasn't quite ready to expose any of my innermost thoughts at the time, so admittedly, this doesn't apply to me. I wasn't even thinking of writing. But I did have a book for the train rides – a book that was given to me from my dear friend, one that contained all the words I needed to hear. Its pages became adorned with underlining and scribbles, corners becoming earmarked. The spine has become weak and worn as if exhausting itself with the sharing of its knowledge.