Paternoster you seabiscuit

Sunday 16th March. I'm back at Mykonos, Langebaan. It's been a whole 12 months since I was last here. I was in the the first stages of grief then. What stage is agony? The one where you cling to what you know. With fists.

Today as I lie on a couch next to Robs watching Liverpool play Newcastle in the League Cup Final at Wembley... Having just updated the "connect the dots" map at the bottom of each chapter... And been with my dad as we chatted through some of the project.... As I lie here it's with a different mind. The fists have opened.

(That map (the one at the bottom) feels a bit agricultural still, but hey I'm figuring it out as we go too (",) I've never made a website but this journey is also me finding my own way here. Connecting my own dots. Choosing to face that which stands alone.)

And 12 months ago almost exactly - I sat at a plastic table that is now about 3 meters from my head and I first started to understand the determination of my father to walk. To do. To get it done. The writing came after... at others insistence. First Cathy and now us. And I saw that movement creates the story. That the best stories are factual.

I guess till now I thought that the strength of the main-character determined the significance of the story. That I was ever stuck on significance at all.

Its OK to get stuck.

Some stay stuck.

Others find their way.

To get lost in a story greater than my own.

Is this not what it means to find one's self?