“That could take a while,” Fred quipped, dryly.
“Then it’s a good job we’re not in a hurry,” said Aunt Aggie.
Aunt Cam passed Fred a cotton drawstring bag filled with scraps of torn paper, and Aunt Aggie handed her apencil and a clipboard. “Now, take a few moments to settle and center yourself,” Aunt Cam began. “And then start to write each thing you’d like to let go of on the scraps. Just one thing per piece.”
Fred felt a strong temptation to scurry back within the walls she’d so carefully built around herself, rather than face her demons, but she’d already taken the first step on the boat, and if she backed away now she might not be brave enough again. So, she picked up the pencil and began to write. She took her time, thinking carefully about each negative emotion and how it affected her as she noted it down.
Feeling like Tim was right about me.
Feeling like I can’t trust my own judgment.
Feeling small.
Feeling that I am not enough as I am.
Feeling cross with Mum.
Feeling cross with myself.
Being quick to judge.
Feeling like I don’t deserve good things…
Finally, when she had a lap full of scraps, she put the pencil down. It had felt like hard work, laying down all the things she carried around with her.
“Good,” said Aunt Cam. “Well done. Now, you are going to take each scrap, and you are going to read it—in your head, if you prefer—and you are going to acknowledge that feeling, gather it all together inside you, pull it up throughyour body and push all of it out into the paper, and then cast the paper into fire and watch it burn away.”
Fred took a breath and rolled her shoulders. And then she began. She imagined each negative feeling as a web of colored string that had wrapped itself around her insides and knotted itself in place. She focused on unwinding the strings and pulling all the strands together in a ball, directing them upward through her body, before breathing them out onto the paper and dropping it into the chiminea. She watched each piece blacken at the edges and curl in on itself until it was nothing but ash. With each burning fragment another brick in her walls dissolved.
When the purge was over, and the flames had settled, Aunt Aggie poured them each another hot chocolate and then, with a grin that looked decidedly impish in the orange glow of the fire, she said, “And now for the good bit! Setting intentions and practicing gratitude!”
“Take a moment,” said Aunt Cam, serenely. “And then think about what you’d like to achieve emotionally and spiritually, each day, to be the very happiest version of yourself. Then tell it to the moon, three times over.”
“Out loud?” Fred asked.
“Don’t be shy,” said Aunt Aggie. “I once watched you take a dump in a flowerpot; I think we’re past embarrassment.”
“I was four,” Fred retorted. “You are never going to let me live that down, are you?”
“I don’t imagine so, no.”
Fred rolled her eyes, then let out a long breath andreasoned that she’d come this far, she might as well go the whole hog. She took a sip of boozy hot chocolate and began to speak her intentions out loud, giving herself time to make sure she was feeling them from the heart.
Once she’d gotten over her self-consciousness, largely due to the very alcoholic hot chocolate taking effect, she quickly got into the swing of it and informed the moon that she intended to be open to love, to be authentic, to be a better listener, to forgive herself for the things she couldn’t change, to be mindful of making the same mistakes again, to let go of old grudges and to practice kindness daily. She shouted the last one, flinging her arms wide open: “I intend to hold my own self accountable and to let go of the resentment I have held against Mum, because she doesn’t deserve it!” That one earned a cheer from Aunt Aggie.
By the time she’d finished, she felt more than a little drunk. And when they moved on to the gratitude part of proceedings, the positivity in the air was so palpable it caused a great deal of giggling and dancing and whooping directed out toward the ocean.
When she finally kissed the aunts good night and watched them disappear into their little cottage near the woods, she made her way slowly back to the house and up the stairs to bed, feeling loose limbed and lazy, replete with gratitude and benevolence toward the people in her life. This was a new start, a clean slate, and she couldn’t wait to get going on it. She would call Ryan in the morning and tell him how very much she liked him, and that being near him made her happy, it always had. And she would tell her mumthat she loved her, that she’d been a great parent, and that she appreciated her.
She fell asleep with good intentions dancing in her head, and she slept like a woman who had laid her ghosts to rest.
23
Sunday, December 15
Her phone pinged her outof sleep. It was still dark and the glare from the screen made stars in her vision. A message from Ryan blinked green; the time read 6:15 a.m. She groaned at her aunts’ boozy-hot-chocolate-induced hangover, and flumped heavily over in bed. “Why are you texting me so early?” she croaked out as she tapped her screen to open the message.
The man is an arsehole!
