Defiant Wisdom

Tag: symbolic insight

Waking life events, omens, or synchronicities that carry personal meaning or act as messengers — symbols that prompt reflection or change.

  • Yarrow | The Forging of a Shield

    Yarrow | The Forging of a Shield

    I’m afraid this story isn’t logical.
    How could it be, when it’s about how a herb—
    Yarrow, to be exact—initiated me?

    She barged into my psychic sphere and unpacked her bags.
    I didn’t invite her, but I didn’t stop her either.
    She guides you through transformation.
    Then slaps you if you get cocky.

    She’s not here for laughs or snacks.
    She demands attention.
    Commitment.

    If Valerian splits the ground to the underworld,
    Yarrow cracks the sky to insight.

    —

    When I began training as a herbalist, I started with an apprenticeship on the Isle of Arran.
    This wasn’t some cute wellness gig—
    it was survival.

    My body had gone rogue,
    serving up a cocktail of autoimmune chaos I couldn’t soothe.
    My mind? Gone.
    Packed a bag.
    Left a note:
    On vacay. Back… maybe never.

    I wasn’t on a journey to find myself.
    I was trying to stitch myself back together.

    There were two immersions on the island.
    Each time, we were asked to choose a herb to walk with.
    The first time, I chose Dandelion.
    The second time, I walked with Yarrow.

    Actually, let’s be honest—I’m pretty sure the herb chose me.
    I’d never even heard of Yarrow.
    I’d wanted to walk with Valerian, but she ghosted me.
    Instead, Yarrow stepped in.

    I didn’t know it then, but Yarrow is the herb that moves you forward.
    Most people think the hard part is making a decision—
    but the real transformation begins when you act on it.
    That’s where Yarrow thrives.

    When I met her, I was at the end of my apprenticeship.
    My mind had already left the building.

    I can’t package my experience into something tidy.
    That’s not how it works for me—
    or, I suspect, for anyone who walks with herbs.

    I know, I sound like a barn pot, don’t I?

    So I’m going to share it here—raw.
    These are my notes.
    No logic.
    Just sensation, memory, and myth,
    woven together into what I learned about Yarrow during our time together on the island.

    It started with a tea tasting.
    I closed my eyes.
    And here’s what came to me
    as the tea settled in.

    —

    A thousand yellow trumpets morph into a million brains,
    skulls and faces.
    This is war.

    Breathing dragon fire,
    licking.
    Barbed claws.

    Power. Strength.
    Brain,
    nerves,
    blood,
    lungs.

    A thousand hands.
    Gripping.

    Mythical creature—multiple heads.
    Is it Medusa, or Cerberus?

    Transformation through trauma.
    Owning one’s fate.
    Reclaiming power and narrative.

    Absorbing external energies without being consumed by them.
    Protection from those outside forces.
    Transcendence from trauma—sexual trauma.

    Love incantations—guide me.
    Flowers are sweet—
    notes like valerian and basil.

    Yarrow essential oil:
    lifts up, up, and away.
    Cutting through.

    Tastes like butter—Werther’s Original.
    Then green, floral, soapy.
    Astringent aftertaste.
    Draws down.

    —

    Medusa had claimed her place as an ally,
    and from what I gathered from the other herbalists,
    she was a formidable force to have on your side.

    —

    The next time yarrow appeared, it was in a dream.
    I rarely remember my dreams—only the ones that matter.

    It was the final weekend at my new herb school.
    I’d made the difficult decision to leave,
    the result of a slow-burning misalignment.
    Unfortunate, but necessary.

    That weekend, I felt it again:
    the soft creak of one door closing behind me,
    and the aching pull of another not yet open.

    With nothing more than a vague recollection of her presence,
    I knew: when I got home, I would need to walk with her again.

    So I did.

    I brewed a cup of Yarrow tea—this batch, foraged from the Holy Isle,
    still held its vibrant colour and sharp scent.
    I scorched the feather-like leaves with hot water,
    steam unfurling from the cup as I waited.

    When I poured the pale liquid, her scent hit me:
    that familiar buttery sweetness—her herbal trickery that draws you in,
    right before she cuts you with bitterness at the back of your throat.

    That night, as I settled down, I felt a weight lift as I exhaled.
    The past few months had been exhausting, unrelenting.
    I was finally ready to leave them behind.

    For the first time in a long while, I was looking forward to what came next.

    That night and over the following weeks, I walked with Yarrow each night before bed.
    She initiated me into a series of dreams—
    dense with symbols, saturated with meaning. (you can read the first one here).

    And Yarrow?
    She came back, night after night.
    A guide from the threshold.

    I dreamed of Yarrow sticks drying on a large, circular rack inside an old hut.
    The room was dark, filled with smoke; a fire glowed in the shadows.
    And yet, I felt relaxed—welcome, even.

    I remembered that Yarrow had once been used for divination,
    though I’d never looked deeper.
    That dream nudged me forward.
    Curiosity took root.

    —

    I learned that Yarrow was used in the I Ching—one of the oldest divination systems in existence.
    The ritual is deliberate: fifty sticks, a careful casting, an almost meditative process.
    Yarrow was chosen for her protection and her ability to reveal what lies beneath.

    I decided to try.
    I didn’t have real Yarrow sticks, so I made do with old prayer sticks from China—
    relics from a time when I was sleep-deprived and stressed
    but with lots of stamps in my passport.

    I asked:
    What do I need to know?
    Nourish yourself. The future is auspicious.

    Then came the knock—Amazon.
    Two books: one about nutrition, one on fermentation.
    Of course.

    Yarrow had whispered, and now she was talking.
    I’d been lost, listless after leaving my school.
    I missed mentorship.
    I was cheering my nine-year-old on,
    but craving someone to do the same for me.

    I almost reached out to an old tutor.
    But the message from the oracle was clear:
    Stop looking outwards. You’ve got what you need. Start there.

    Yarrow had called me,
    and spoken to me in a very specific way.

    It now felt rude not to revel with her in the ridiculousness of it all.
    Here she was—having sprung from a cup of tea,
    haunted my dreams,
    and now taking up a whole conversation through the I Ching.

    And not just some vague interpretation like the Tarot, either.
    Oh no.

    She was even slapping my wrist when I asked stupid, naive questions, like
    “Should I use this gift in service to others?”

    The answer loud and clear:
    Don’t run till you can walk, newbie…
    and ask me anything else dumb and I’ll ignore you altogether.

    I learned that while Yarrow might not let me be frivolous in her company…
    she can be snarky as hell when the situation requires.

    —

    When I dreamt of yarrow again, I was asking a woman:
    “Where can I find yarrow growing wild?”
    “By the river,” she said.

    I thought it best to keep my eyes peeled for a patch near a river—
    large enough to make a full set.
    You know, like you do when a herb is haunting your dreamscape.

    That weekend, I was starting training.
    I’d made the decision to volunteer as a mental health peer supporter—
    another new door about to open.

    I was finding it difficult to park for free,
    so I’d pulled up a few streets away.
    I got out of the car and started walking toward the branch.

    Nice garden, I thought.
    Bet Yarrow is in here, I pondered…

    And with that—she appeared.

    A huge, fat bunch, loosely tied into a bushel.
    Contained, or so someone had hoped.
    But failing—spectacularly.

    Yarrow presented with intent.

    This wasn’t just about Yarrow or the I Ching.
    This was about casting. Properly.
    The old way.

    I did a double take—and laughed out loud.
    The river was metaphorical.

    —

    It took me weeks to build the courage.
    I knocked.
    No answer.
    Classic anticlimax.

    So, a week later, I posted a note to the homeowner.
    It felt like a ridiculous question to ask, but—
    please, could I harvest their Yarrow?

    I left my number on the letter and crossed my fingers.
    A few days later, I received a response:
    Of course you may.

    —

    This story isn’t over.
    I still need to harvest this Yarrow.

    But I already know what she’s teaching me.
    The shield is not something you find.
    It’s something you forge—through rupture and return.

    Being human means living with uncertainty.
    It’s not about having all the answers—
    just a persistent tug to go this way,
    and the courage to trust that pull.

    So I ask.
    I cast.
    And Yarrow walks beside me.
    Shield at the ready.
    Snarling when I get cocky.

  • Auspices | The Birds Showed Up First

    Auspices | The Birds Showed Up First

    The birds started showing up before my journey had even begun to unravel. First, it was a little bird, tapping at the yoga room window. I was in Arran, having walked with my first herb, Dandelion, at the end of my herbal apprenticeship immersion.

    Mid-conversation—reviewing how things had gone and discussing my intentions for the next few months—I was mid-realisation, and there it was: tiny, relentless, insistent. It didn’t stop. Not when I looked. Not when I ignored it. Just this repetitive knock, knock, knock, a tiny little bird saying:

    Pay attention.

    At the time, my tutor and I brushed it off. One of those odd little moments you log under “curious but annoying.” But later, when everything else started to shift, I saw it differently. That bird wasn’t lost. It was on time.

    The next day, we said our goodbyes, and I returned home to my family with a clear intention: I was committed to the direction of my studies and needed to rebalance my life accordingly.

    I already knew my job was a source of deep frustration. I felt unheard, unappreciated, undermined. But I came back from Arran with a renewed sense of direction. Hopeful, even.

    That feeling didn’t last.

    Within a fortnight of returning, a colleague took his own life.

    I was devastated. We all were. Heartbroken for the young family he left behind, for the tangle of emotions they would live with. But also—for myself. As a suicide survivor, I know how that kind of emptiness consumes all the light.

    What haunted me most was this: I’d sensed something. In the short time we worked together, I could tell he wasn’t fully there. He was sunny, warm, positive—but underneath, something felt off. I knew it. And I didn’t press.

    I was furious. At myself. At the business.

    I spiralled. The whole thing rang like a warning bell: Get busy living. That could have been you.

    It was time to take a step back. And again—the bird. Not a metaphor. A literal bird, back at my window. Same kind. Same insistent tapping. It visited often that year. I even put seeds out for the annoying little bugger. But its message was loud and clear:

    Pay attention. This is big.

    Time out bought me just that—precious and infuriating time. Time to figure out how to use the opportunity to move toward something that made sense. Time to spend hours jumping hoops for the DSS while feeling guilty and useless on a weekly basis for not having another job already.

    Applying for jobs that align with a new, emerging path—when you’ve got no “official” experience—is like having your fingers broken by the lid of a piano you’re playing for someone else.

    So I said sod it. I’d get some experience volunteering. And the job? I decided to set up my own company. If I was going to fall flat on my face, I wanted it to be under my own weight—not someone else’s.

    Summer sprawled on. I spent my time getting to know Ginger as a log flume, Sage as a hospital cleaner, and choosing a herb school with herb-world credentials to start once my apprenticeship had finished—this time, I was headed to Somerset. When I saw the school’s website, I knew this was the route for me. It reminded me of the small junior school I’d attended as a child.

    My family slowly came round to the idea of me being away one weekend a month and me earning much less than I used to. It wasn’t ideal. But it was real. My priorities and values were shifting.

    I also started tuning back into my intuition—mostly thanks to my son, who dragged me into a Glastonbury crystal shop. We both walked out with two stones that had caught our eye. For me: Dioptase and Quantum Quattro. Later that night, I looked them up. Emotional healing. Psychic protection. Regeneration. Communication. Not exactly subtle.

    The timing wasn’t lost on me. I found myself drawn back to the tarot. I’ve always dabbled—one oracle deck or another—but I hadn’t felt the same pull since the rune stones incident. Let’s just say bringing occult objects into a Catholic school at fourteen is… ill-advised. I got suspended. A series of unfortunate events followed. Put me off a bit.

    I was excited to start my new school. But since I’d missed the first weekend (I was still on Arran getting to know yarrow), policy meant I wasn’t allowed to take two of my modules.

    Unfortunately, that stretched my six-year diploma into seven and meant I’d miss out on the two main herb modules of the year. Not exactly the ideal start, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me saying goodbye to the friends I’d made.

    My new cohort was a full spectrum of ages and personalities—despite there only being seven of us.

    I’d reached out to the school with some questions, some concerns. What came back wasn’t support. It was deflection. Dismissiveness. It didn’t sit right.

    And I started to wonder: Is this really what I want the next seven years of my life to look like?

    By the time we returned after the Christmas break, my body had already begun telling me a story.

    The year started with a cough that clung to me for over a month. My stomach began acting up. Old patterns resurfacing. And then… the birds started showing up again.

    This time, they were birds of prey. First it was a marsh harrier being attacked by seagulls. Then, a peregrine sitting tall on the motorway gantry. Then the buzzards started to appear. Week after week, month after month, they became a regular sight.

    By Easter, I’d started scoping out other options and had an interview lined up with a new school. There were too many little signs that this place wasn’t what I’d originally thought.

    Then came the bombshell.

    After a week of lessons, guest speakers, and a graduation ceremony, the school casually announced it had lost its professional accreditation—and had decided to go independent.

    I was shocked. And yet… not surprised.

    As the school explained its reasons for going solo, there were whoops of support from some of the students. But not from me.

    I felt like I’d slipped into a parallel universe. Their excitement felt surreal, misaligned. And I—quietly, disoriented—slipped away.

    I felt like I was watching a cult clap its own cage shut.

    I met my family at the end of the street for our onward journey to Cornwall.

    The week should have been relaxing. But I could barely get warm. I dragged myself around each day, ears weeping and sore. Each evening, I’d tear at my skin. I felt unwell. Drained.

    That was it. I had to leave.

    The next month saw me battling multiple ear infections. Even the herbs recoiled—Go see a GP, they said.

    My guts were giving me the finger.

    My class WhatsApp group was on fire. Half of us catatonic. The other half raging—feeling cheated, short-changed.

    I made it clear I was exploring my options. And by now, I had my interview lined up for the day before my next weekend of classes.

    “Hey,” I said to my buzzard friend as I drove down to school for the last time. In the past few weeks, I’d seen this bird get attacked by crows, train its young, and sky-dance—(Yeah, that’s actually a thing.)

    Now, it was flying alongside me, seeing me off on the last leg.

    I swung by my new school. And I knew: this next chapter was looking me in the eye. It wasn’t going to be easy. It was further away. More demanding.

    But if this was the alternative?

    Then yeah. I was ready to do the work.

    That night, I dreamt of Yarrow.

    I’d decided not to finish the school year or sit my exams. I couldn’t do anything with my study credit because I didn’t even have a full set of modules. And by now, I’d finally been accepted to train with a suicide prevention helpline, which was going to demand ten weeks of my time in training. The school experience had left a negative residue that I knew needed some time to heal from. So I was looking forward to a summer of making, volunteering, and preparing to start again.

    That final weekend gave me sweet relief. I said goodbye to my classmates. Left the group chat. I thanked my tutors.

    And on the drive home?

    The peregrine showed up again. Perched on the gantry, same as the first time.

    My journey had come full circle.

    But the buzzard didn’t stop there.
    Weeks later, outside my home, looking up, I could see it—riding the thermals, almost a speck in the sky.
    Then in Crete, months later, poolside, eyes on the clouds: “There’s my buzzard,” I said to my partner.

    It was a regular visitor to me now.

    That’s when it clicked. This wasn’t just any bird. It was my bird.
    Sure, I’d have loved something a bit sexier than a bone picker for a guide. I’d say spirit guide but that’s a touch too woo in polite company.
    But it made sense now.
    The buzzard is nourished by what’s considered toxic to others.
    I’ve always been able to take something useful from the ashes of life—
    to feed on what’s broken, and fly despite scorched feathers and fractured wings.

    Whenever I’ve been floored, I’ve rebuilt stronger.
    In this life, I haven’t just lived chapters.
    I’ve lived whole selves.
    So yeah—maybe the buzzard and I aren’t so different.
    No wonder it keeps showing up.
    I think we recognise each other.

  • Dandelion Tears | Reclaiming Resilience in Ruins

    Dandelion Tears | Reclaiming Resilience in Ruins

    Dandelion and I go way back.
    As a council kid in the Liverpool suburbs, I knew that if the juice from her stem touched your skin, you’d wet the bed.

    Too bad for me—and much to my mum’s despair—I was already a well-established piss artist, so couldn’t put her magic to the test.
    (Though I would’ve. Absolutely.)

    Dandelions were everywhere, making their disobedience known like graffiti on a pebble-dashed wall.
    They rooted between paving slabs and piles of white dog shit, barged into playgrounds, loitered in the back alleys I wasn’t meant to be playing in.

    And when their heads exploded, we didn’t need persuasion.
    Cheeks puffed out, we told the time.
    “Should we go home?”
    “Nah, not yet.”

    Back then I didn’t realise she was following me.
    Or was she waiting?

    By the time I truly met her—eye to eye, forty years later—I was on a herbalist’s path not by choice, but by breakdown.
    My body was sulking, my brain a blue screen.

    I’d arrived on the island of Arran, just off the coast of Glasgow.
    It was a three-week immersion, part of a year-long herbal apprenticeship.
    We were tasked with studying a single herb during our stay.

    I chose Dandelion.
    No brainer.
    I wanted to learn why she was a piss-the-bed—
    and maybe why I had been too.

    By now, Taraxacum officinale is the queen of herbs to me.
    She’s transcended her reputation as the annoying gatecrasher at my manicured garden party.
    Now I see her for what she was: a relentless invitation, blooming in every cracked corner of the grey city I grew up in.
    Her persistent presence, a perpetual inconvenience.

    After ignoring and persecuting her for most of my life, we were finally introduced properly—through tea, made from her fresh roots.

    Despite it being spring—when now I know you’d expect the roots to be bitter—her tea was sweet.
    Sweeter than I expected. Especially when I didn’t know what to expect.
    It made me pause.

    My notes from this meeting are raw.
    Her voice was loud as she started the conversation:

    —

    You underestimate me.
    I am here.
    Persistent.
    Resilient.
    Protector, companion.
    Adaptable.

    Suncatcher.

    Let me blow the cobwebs away.
    I bring life. I bring vitality.
    I’ll grant your wishes.
    I embrace.

    I hold you.

    I nourish.
    I am the magic of intentional and practical transformation.
    I sit at the boundary of water and fire.
    I move.
    I am Brigid.
    I am the May Queen.

    —

    Her taste: oats, milk, and honey.
    Her song: A Sky of Honey by Kate Bush.
    (Of course. Who else sings about the day in forty minutes?)

    As I learned, Dandelion rids the body of toxicity—mostly via the liver.
    Her bitterness reminds us of the sweetness life can hold if we allow it.
    She helps us let go of physical and emotional waste—through tears, urine, faeces.

    She was my first guide.
    Her real name? Defiant wisdom.

    She came to me in the form of Temperance—a tarot card.
    In this deck, she was Brigid at her cauldron, transforming fire and water into spiritual elixir.

    Alchemy.

    Temperance is a card of balance. It urges us to merge our opposing forces, to practice moderation, patience, healing, and growth.
    Brigid is a natural fit—goddess of fire and water, a bridge between darkness and light.

    I was being asked to do the same.
    To reconcile the warring elements in me.
    Fire and water.
    Passion and sensitivity.
    Impulsivity and connection.

    I’d always been a feral child—an emotionally virulent one.
    They used to call me Miss Electric.
    The feral child got locked away, but the emotions?
    Still joyriding.
    Still burning through my guts for fun.

    My meeting with Dandelion was profound.
    Her tincture: bitter.
    I took her home, and she took me on a journey.

    Dandelion didn’t just purge the shit from my body—
    she purged my life.

    —

    Within twelve months, everything had changed.
    I’d set up as a freelancer to make space for herbal study.
    Started volunteering—first as an apiarist, then as a mental health peer supporter.

    But the herbal school?
    The wrong lighthouse.

    The misalignment showed up almost right away.
    I raised concerns.
    I got dismissals.

    By Christmas, my body had started speaking.
    First a cough that gripped me for a month.
    Then my gut joined in—old pain, old patterns.

    And then? A bombshell.
    The school announced it was “going independent.”

    I sat blinking.
    Some cheered.
    I side-eyed.

    I’d chosen this school for its affiliations. That benchmark was gone.
    I felt a culture of compliance around me.
    I walked out—an outlier.
    Confused, but clear.

    Fury bubbled up.
    I fermented like unburped kimchi preparing to explode.

    —

    I continued south to Cornwall.
    A family holiday.
    It should’ve been restful.
    Instead, my body did what my mouth hadn’t.

    I dragged myself through the days.
    Body cold. Face on fire.
    Ears weeping.
    Skin tearing under fingernails at night.
    Mouth full of ulcers.
    Every bite hurt.

    Go see a GP, the herbs said, recoiling at the mess.

    So I made my move.
    Interviewed at a new school.
    Got a place.
    Accepted.

    —

    As my last school days approached, I decided to make a Dandelion root percolation—
    a parting gift for my classmates.

    Percolating herbs is fiddly.
    You grind, soak, pack, then pour.

    Despite having done this many times, my percolation failed.
    I’d packed her too tight.
    She was as constipated as I was.

    I pierced the root with a skewer. Gently.
    Just enough to breathe.
    Not enough to stir up a shitstorm.

    Not everything has to be destroyed when it doesn’t work.
    Sometimes things just need to breathe.

    —

    I named the tincture Dandelion Tears.
    On the label, I inscribed:

    A failed percolation of Dandelion root. Born not of precision but of perseverance, much like the flower herself. Proof that even among ruins, something stubborn can still be reclaimed. Use whenever resilience must answer your call.

    Even in concrete, Dandelion always finds the smallest crack to escape from.
    She always gets through.

    —

    My last day at school arrived.
    The next chapter stared me dead in the eye.

    It wasn’t going to be easy.
    It was further away.
    More demanding.

    But stay where I was? No way.

    I was tempered to this new path.
    But what if I wasn’t ready?

    Then get ready.

    —

    I chose not to finish the school year or sit exams.
    My experience needed time to rest and repair before I walked the path again.

    I took nothing away but the lessons I’d learned—
    and the medicine I’d made in spite of it all.

    I didn’t owe loyalty to any institution.
    I owed it to my body.
    And the herbs.

    I said goodbye.
    Exited the group chat.
    Thanked my tutors.

    And I purged once more—with Dandelion by my side.

    Still bitter.
    Still sweet.
    Still defiant.

  • When Others Drive Over Your Feet Without Looking

    When Others Drive Over Your Feet Without Looking

    A gentle descent into emotional gridlock.

    I pulled in.
    Waited, patiently.

    The car park was small—
    cramped, and full.

    Drivers considered their options.
    Eyes: nervous,
    expectant.

    Time stretched
    like gum.

    I had no time to move
    as the truck reversed.

    Crunch.

    My poor little car recoiled.
    We exchanged details.
    They apologised.

    “It’s OK.
    Accidents happen,”
    I said.

    —

    Exactly three weeks later,
    the same thing happened again.

    She’d been panicked—
    spooked by a road rager
    on our tiny country road.

    “My God!
    You’re the second to do this,”
    I said.

    “I’m so sorry,”
    she said.

    As I pulled in, shaken,
    I damaged the other side of my car.

    And that’s when I lost it.

    Fuuuuuuck!

    “Do you need a hug?”
    she asked.

    And there we were—
    two strangers,
    just…
    holding on.

    —

    Later,
    we both texted each other.

    Are you OK?
    we both asked.

    I apologised for my behaviour—
    though I guess
    I’m just tired

    of people reversing into me
    whilst I try to get on—

    with my life.

    Marginalia

    At the time of the first accident, I’d made a mistake on a client job. The client had been understanding, and so I tried to respond similarly to those who had reversed into me. But the bigger picture was harder to ignore: I was just trying to get on with my life, and other people’s dramas kept crashing into me—literally.

    There aren’t many whispers louder than a car crash, and I had two, exactly three weeks apart. It felt like the universe wasn’t so much sending messages as it was driving them straight into me.

    As part of a bigger story, both crashes happened just before I found out my herbal school was going ‘independent.’ By the time I unpacked that word, I was already in emotional gridlock.  You can read more about that in Dandelion Tears.

  • Jimmy | Residual Current

    Jimmy | Residual Current

    I’m asthmatic, I declared.
    The GP raised a brow.
    He tested, then explained,
    “No. You’re having panic attacks.”

    I didn’t understand.
    They came at night,
    when I was relaxed—
    not when I was anxious.
    I was twenty-one when they started.
    They’ve never left.

    —

    Twenty years later,
    I explained to my therapist
    (because we all need therapy, right?).
    I panic after the event—
    shame for what I’ve said,
    what I’ve done.

    And it feels like an electric shock.
    Like being plugged into the mains.
    I gasp—
    just one breath of air.

    “Any family history of electric shock therapy?”
    she asked—casually, curiously.
    “I’m not sure,” I said.
    “I’ll find out.”

    —

    Jimmy was my father’s uncle.
    Twenty-one, just a boy.
    A sailor in the merchant navy,
    on his way home.

    His family wait at the docks.
    But Jimmy doesn’t appear.
    He’s been badly, badly beaten,
    and taken into police care.

    Jimmy never came home.
    He was traumatised by the event—
    admitted to a psychiatric hospital.
    They tried to rehabilitate him,
    but he would always require full care.
    My grandfather couldn’t take him.
    No one could.
    So Jimmy was never released.

    —

    Forty years later,
    my dad found him—
    institutionalised,
    lost in the system for years.

    Jimmy spoke very little,
    and only repeated:
    “You better watch yourself…
    the Newcastle lads,”
    he said when they met.

    —

    I knew little of Jimmy,
    but my sister knew more.
    I asked her:
    “Did Jimmy receive electrotherapy?”
    “Almost certainly,” she said.
    “His records were lost—
    but they said
    he’d had all the top treatment.”

    Then she paused.
    “I never knew what to make of that.”

    I thought long and hard about Jimmy.
    What had he seen?
    What had he done?
    “I think he may have been gay,”
    I said.

    The merchant navy—
    a decoy of the time.

    —

    My aunt,
    a medium,
    said the same
    when she channelled him—
    twenty years ago.

    Marginalia

    Jimmy was institutionalised at the same age I started having panic attacks: twenty-one. They’ve never fully left me, and now I wonder—are they mine, or his?

    When I began using AI in my ancestral research, I learned more about Jimmy through his natal chart. It helped me understand why he may have been institutionalised, and how he might have coped.

    I don’t take everything AI says as gospel, but it gave me a sense of him—and how his experience might echo in my own chart.

    Ancestral trauma wasn’t something I’d ever considered until my therapist asked about it. I never expected astrology or AI to help, but out of curiosity, I uploaded my chart to see if it might offer direction. At the time, I was just trying to make sense of it all.

  • We’re Going to Need a Bigger Boat

    We’re Going to Need a Bigger Boat

    What happens when the storm breaks before the spell does.

    We boarded.
    Turbulence grew —
    typhoon season.
    Nothing new.

    When the screaming
    started,
    I knew to be scared.
    I held back.
    I felt embarrassed
    to ask a stranger
    for his hand.

    What if we didn’t die
    today?

    When we landed,
    we waited
    for hours —
    on someone else’s
    runway.

    Pressure in the cabin.
    Raised, demanding voices.
    The door opened
    and closed.
    The white guy left.
    We remained.

    Finally,
    like refugees,
    we disembarked —
    200 km away.

    Inside
    people were frantic.
    Staff mauled.
    Like a drowning child
    sinking their saviour.

    Our bags,
    dumped
    onto a conveyor.

    The end.

    I didn’t speak
    Chinese.
    I was lost —
    I watched,
    on mute.

    I never lost sight
    of the man who’d sat
    next to me.

    “We’re catching a cab,”
    he said.

    Five perfect strangers —
    only him
    who understood.

    Our final destination:
    just me and him now.
    Flooded, knee-deep.
    Dark, foggy.
    Silence, inside
    and out.
    Only the low hum
    of the engine,
    and the water
    at our doors.

    From the shadows —
    of our haunted river road
    cruise —
    Neptune’s statue
    emerged from the mist.
    I blinked,
    I laughed,
    what the fuck-
    was I dreaming now?

    My hotel was underwater.
    I had no chance
    of getting there.

    Reception wouldn’t send
    a boat.

    We drove on.
    “That’s my apartment,”
    he pointed to the sky.

    “I would invite you,
    but it’s inappropriate.”
    I nodded silently.

    I didn’t feel unsafe.

    The taxi stopped.
    Like an island
    in the middle of
    the sea.
    The driver panicked,
    unfamiliar with the city
    and the terrain.
    Persuading —
    loudly,
    like only a negotiator
    knows how.
    We continued.

    A new hotel, located.
    Safe, dry —
    but not mine.

    “Here is my number,
    if you need anything.”

    I was thankful,
    deep gratitude.
    I had a bath
    to steady my soul.

    The next morning,
    I met
    to negotiate
    a few more cents
    on plastic toys.

    “I didn’t think you’d make it,”
    she said.
    She was hours late
    for the meeting.
    The floods still raged.

    I was on time.

    I was done.

    Marginalia

    This trip was the last negotiation trip I took in my corporate life. When I found out I was pregnant in the airport on the way home, I realised that anything could have happened to me that night and without a signal on my phone, no one would have known any different.

    At the time, I was only focused on my itinerary, which was to essentially haggle for pennies over toys that only cost pennies in the first place. It was only upon reflection did I think ‘what the fuck is this all about’ and decided this wasn’t it anymore.