At Least We Have the Stars to Guide Us

Dear friend,

The city feels like someone left the oven door open. I have Bessie with me—I picked her up this morning as the heat was building. Her flat is on a school road, so there are times of day you’d be fined for driving on it. I saw the signage and, although technically I had four minutes' grace before the morning curfew kicked in, I thought better to chance it with the local traffic wardens instead.

I had this blimp-like SMEG mixer to return to Maya, Bessie’s human, so I found a parking spot, left the car windows rolled down, and legged it with the SMEG forty doors up the road. Getting into the flat went well enough and Bessie is a dream of a dog, so no bother there—but trying to get the keys back into the key safe, with mental images of traffic wardens and their ticket scanners, proved trickier.

The keys would only fit into the little metal box at a certain angle, and by rushing I kept unscrambling the digits and then rechecking the combination on my phone, imagining the wardens. It was pretty frustrating.

But we made it back to the car—no tickets, no mischief with the open windows. Don’t ask me for a logical explanation—somehow I thought leaving the windows down would confuse the wardens and buy me time. I was pretty grumpy lugging that food around in the heat, but part of me was laughing too.

A sweaty business—but worth it.

It’s great to have Bessie. She was a good friend of Santy’s, and we’re heart-bonded, the two of us. It’s been extra special too—I’ve been feeling Mam’s presence. There were moments of bliss this afternoon pottering in the kitchen or coming down the stairs, as if my ten-year-old self were looking out through my 56-year-old eyes.

That feeling started after a group coaching session—networking with other coaches as part of some training I’m taking with the Association for Coaching.

The times we’re living in call for connection. It’s always been about connection and belonging, but now we’re becoming more consciously aware of our need to stay in communion as we face the dark forces rampaging across the earth.

I checked my bike wheels today for snails before heading out for tinned fish and celery to mix with Bessie’s dried food. I know she loves it—and the celery has vitamins she needs. Bessie is jet black, with a thick short coat like a Labrador. She’s lying now in a shady spot between the decorative grass and our neighbour’s wisteria at the bottom of the garden.

I try not to overwhelm myself with news, but even the little I see is enough to know that fascist ideologues aren’t even disguising their motivations.

I watched footage of people being rushed—dying, bleeding—on the backs of open-bed trucks into bombed-out hospitals. Shot while collecting flour from aid trucks. Deportations. Murders. Bullying, televised and memed.

As if it were a dystopian TV show.

The horror show keeps going.

But I also see communities connecting. Brave voices speaking about the world they are holding sacred. That’s where my power flows. Imagine all of us, connecting like rivers in the sky—our power flowing into a world meant for all children.

Individually, we may lose heart on any given day.

But together, we are strong.

The yin and the yang.

Not us against them.

Just us.

Fear is their weapon, but love is beyond the reach of the fearful mind. It cannot grasp love in its madness.

Choose kindness. Be gentle.

Water the garden.

My nose just itched and my hand went to it and caught a tiny insect, which lay on my finger. Looking closer, I could see it was dead—or dying—and would never fly again. I rubbed it between my fingers, and it was as if it had never existed.

Following in the footsteps of saints and master teachers of all faiths is hard—you can’t help messing up.

But we can try.

When the skies are dark, at least we have the stars to guide us.

Till tomorrow,
Love
Mikey

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