I wrote a blog because I was inspired. I posted meditation tips, interspersed withenlightening experiences that helped me be more in harmony with life. If the understanding was helpful to me, chances are it would be to someone else.

It wasn’t a thing I did religiously. And I don’t recall why I stopped writing, though it’s likely to be not long after September 2010 when I was catapulted on the spiritual path and turned my life inside out.

Anyway, I stopped blogging. That channel of self-expression dried up. I changed my website platform and mislaid most of the content along the way. That would have been three years ago.

During that time, a memory has visited me – nudged me – now and again, gently tapping me on the shoulder, as if to say: “Don’t forget. There’s a gift here.”

About four years ago, the soft-spoken husband of a friend, both who lived in Marbella at the time – revealed that he read my blog. As did several of his non-native-English speaking friends. I was amazed.

We were walking down a central London street at the time, giddy with wine and the energy of old souls celebrating. His words – a mellifluous flow that touched my soul – are lost. But the essence stays with me, faithful to their source – the same source of me and you: “Please keep writing.”

I’ve wanted to. I’ve written some ideas down. But it’s not until today, a Supermoon, four days into my 39th year, seven month's after my father's sudden passing, that inspiration is saddled between my mental legs, heading in the direction of Creativity. And I’m grateful. It feels like a dormant part of me is waking up again, blinking in the morning sun.

Never ignore your little niggle, folks. Listen to it. Even if it takes years to act on it. Just keep listening. There’s gold in it. Otherwise it wouldn’t keep trying to get your attention.

I dedicate this post to you, G. Forgive me for the hiatus… I’ve tried several times to get in touch to wish you well. I hope these words find you: thank you for being a divine messenger.

I focused on all the positive things I’d achieved that day. It felt good. Like a stroke across my face rather than, of late, an insistent prodding in the heart and head.

This morning, at the kitchen table with my mother, 79, eight months a widow after 55 years of marriage, I found myself stroking her short fine, dark brown-with-whisps-of silver hair.

I was silent, stood beside her in her wooden chair, encouraging her to rest a little. Her habit is talk, do, then sleep. I’ve never really known her to relax. To be.

She’d trust for a few seconds, then the fear-words would come to fill the void. I responded with silence… She’d relax again. Receive. Be loved.

It’s only in recent years have we begun to be intimate like this. Last year was the first time I painted her nails for her. I don’t recall her ever doing mine.

I go to my room and leave her to potter. I’m visiting for a few days from London.

About an hour later I go back to the kitchen and she says something I’ve not heard her say before: “I’ve done three positive things this morning!”

“Great! What are they?” She describes them as I smile, inwardly marvelling at how in tune we are. This is magic.

At 12.30pm we get in the car and head to the train station for my return journey to London. Near the door to the platform now, and preparing to part, I sense a sweet, shared reluctance to go. Since dad died, especially, there are always tears when we say goodbye. It’s not easy.

“You look like a furry navy bear,” I say, noticing her fleece jacket. She laughs.

We hug again, her petite eight stones of fragile femininity resting against my pint-sized frame. I wish I was staying. That I could comfort her forever. Take away any bad feeling, just like she’s done all my life.

Up from the well of silence tears flow. We break apart, wipe our eyes and laugh at ourselves. There is so much love now we barely know what to do with ourselves.

Over the last decade, we’ve become friends. Real friends. Long come past the day in my wilful teenage years when she stopped the car (alarm bells!) on the way back from church and said if my behaviour didn’t change she’d ask me to leave home. It's been work. We have a habit of irritating one another with our speech! She moans that I mumble. I complain that she doesn't make sense and is negative. We've 'driven each other mad' many times!

Yet we're both honest; compelled by an inward longing to be closer. To polish off the dirt from this once-in a lifetime-only mother-daughter bond. It is very you-can't-put-words-on-it kinship. She ferried my entry back into the world. Has devoted almost half her life to me. And has forgiven me for everything, as I have her. Whatever ever hurt we've caused one another in the past was never intended. We knew not what we did.

I’m crying-wailing again as I write this. Heart-achingly grateful to know such love, and for the indescribable BLESSING of being at peace with one another.

If God takes her tomorrow, it will be fine. There is nothing left to say, explain, confess. There is just kindness and love. Silence and laughter.

Thank you.

PS. Go call your mother and tell her you love her.