Constellation

The voice insisted that she write. Despite everything, her current circumstances, she must write. Now, here, today. She knew this voice, always trustworthy. She did as she was told. She wrote.

The most insistent image was of young German seamen, submariners. They died that she might live. She knew that now. Felt the guilt and the gratitude, her father's fear, his desperation. The cost and the value of her life. She was deadly afraid, in awe of the responsibility of having a life that cost so much. The responsibility of choosing how to live, what to do with her life, was so immense that she felt suicidal.

If these dead men could talk what would they say? 'Do whatever brings you joy,' was what they said, 'you owe us nothing. Your freedom is your gift to us. We delight in your freedom. We died for freedom's sake. Do not squander your life in duty and guilt. Be good to yourself, be kind. You too have paid a price in pain to know this freedom, to reach this chance to live it.'

It was as if a heavenly host had joined the familiar encouraging voice she called Deep Self, Dear Heart. Their presence a physical sensation like leaning back into a strong wind - that image had always come before as leaning forwards against a gale. Now the wind had changed direction - she had a following wind. And this on the stillest of early autumn days, the sun glistening as far as her eye could see.

She had to learn how to live outwith the confines of 'duty and guilt' - those shackles that had fallen away. What now? All she could do was begin, practice, learn to follow her heart, be good to herself, be kind, do whatever brought her joy. Life, her life, had finally begun.