The Caring Years

Being a carer was in fact probably the most singly defining, character building experience of my already rather complex, unorthodox life, it was rich and funny and enlightening and pleasurable and solitary and seamless and precious as it was courageous and frustrating, lonely, isolating, haphazard and beguiling and downright bloody irritating at times, we’re not angels you see, it’s not a calling or a duty or a gift or an option, it’s a process of loving and letting go, of laughing and crying of finding your strengths and pushing them to their absolute nth degree, it’s a journey, it was our journey one that mum and I embarked on together. Today, as I walked through the forest I captured this picture, mysterious, enchanting, frightening, unclear, distant and real, not a million miles from those Caring Years xxxxx

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