Invitation to participate in a survey for my book on mental illness and the church


I don’t normally write my blogs like a letter, but today I want to. Because today I would like to ask you a question.

I am working on a book about mental illness and how Christians, in particular, feel they are treated/supported/not supported by their leadership in their church community. I want to see if there is a correlation between Christians leaving mainstream churches (which seems to be happening all over the world, and in every denomination) and the person having a diagnosed mental illness.

So, I have created a couple of surveys. Would you like to participate? You might be a leader in a church who has had a person under your supervision, who also has a diagnosed mental illness. Or, you might be that person with the diagnosed mental illness and been in, or are still in, a leadership role in your church community.

I am looking for any age, gender and cultural background and any denomination of the Christian religion. I hope to survey at least 100 people to see if this issue is valid and worth presenting my ideas to the community. I also want to see if church leaders are actively working on this problem and if we can collaborate and come up with strategies to help both leaders in churches and people who want to be involved in church leadership.

I appreciate your time, and that you’ve taken the time to read my invitation. If you would like to participate, you can either leave me a comment in the thread here with your contact details or email me at

Please feel free to share this invitation with anyone that you feel would be keen to participate and if you’d like to know more about why I am writing this book, just ask :D


Miriam Miles

The Box

Why do I wait to write? What stifles the compulsion so successfully that I avoid putting pen to paper so often? Why do I hide the key that opens the box inside that I know holds all my truths, my unique voice and my capacity to share it with the world?
vintage key and treasure box
I have a box, and I’ve known about it for some time. I suppose not everyone knows they have one, but we do. I am sure of it. Sometimes I open it up and let a few things out onto paper, letting these truths breathe and develop but then I do the most terrible of things. I carefully tuck them back into the box, close the lid and lock it all up.

Lately, my box is beginning to feel very crowded. I feel numb with the overload and am having trouble putting pen to paper, as it were, and fear that if I do not do something soon, my box may explode and with it, all my carefully developed and protected words will float up into the air like ticket-tape and be lost to the winds forever.

How is it that fear can wrap itself around me so quickly that I am not aware of its strangle hold until it’s nearly too late? Like an anaconda, it seems to move slowly, mesmerising me and hypnotising me into servitude to its will. Suddenly I am no more capable of releasing my words than I am of changing the colour of my skin. It has won another round and succeeded in keeping my treasured truths from the ears and eyes of the world.

I move day after day, in this state of hypnotised thinking, and convince myself that every other pursuit on my list is vitally more significant than what I have known since early childhood was my one thing to do for the world. I can, in this state, even write thousands of words for anyone or anything, as long as it does not touch the core of my own truth.

Under the guise of ‘making a living’ I wrap myself up in my need to pay bills, feed my family and live a comfortable life and let the muscular snakelike body of Fear squeeze the motivation from my soul and use it for these reasonable needs instead of freeing the voice that lives within like Rapunzel in her tower.

Sometimes I ask myself questions. I ask for answers that I already know.  I know the truth of who I am and I know what my writing looks and feels like when I am revealing the contents of my safely guarded box. It’s like honey, so viscous and pure. It looks like mercury as it pours out: freed from my soul it covers me, protecting me and feeding the dry bones that have become brittle from too much exposure to Fear.

And so, I let it free. And I write. Sometimes for hours. Like a steam train it picks up speed, hurtling toward the finish with reckless abandon and all my words glisten with the exhilarating sweat of being set free.

So why is this stuff still sitting on the shelf?

Why I am still stuck?

I have written thousands and thousands of words.  I am wordy by nature and my brain seems completely wired to tell things in detail, to not only jump in the pool and exclaim it is nice, but to describe the ebb and flow of the liquid surrounding my now weightless body.

So why do I wait?

I am afraid.

I know the voice of Fear. It has been my unwelcome companion for more years than I can remember and has succeeded so far to keep me silent. But as I force my eyes open, and struggle free from its hypnotic gaze, I see that perhaps, with my box so full, my words are finding ways to store themselves inside my very being, under my skin even, and soon, there will be no choice but to release them, or die from the suffocating squeeze of Fear, always wondering what would happen if I opened the floodgates and tossed the key.

A life lived wondering over lost dreams is more powerful a motivator now than Fear ever can be.  It is I therefore, who am this box, and the only thing stopping me from moving forward and writing freely, is the key I hold in my hand. Only I stop the flow of  being true to the voice that I have carefully locked away.

Now that I recognise Fear, now that I feel these life-breathing words rippling under my skin, forcing their way to the surface of my fingertips, I have little choice but to release them.

A letter to my grandmother

You passed away today. The funny thing is, that you weren’t actually my grandmother, not biologically. But you decided to accept me as your grandchild, something a young child never fully understands until many years later.

I sit here, wondering if I have any regrets: things I should have done differently; said differently. Times I should have spent with you but for whatever reason at the time, chose not to.

I could live in this space and get swallowed by the quicksand of ‘should haves’ but if I do, I may never break free. I cannot spend my time tracking the wallowing mud into my heart’s house, and I do not believe that you would want me to live out even a day in regret.

Mind you, it’s so easy to sit down and begin the journey into the past, neglecting the good moments and focussing on the ones that could have been. I wasn’t always kind to you; wasn’t always understanding, and certainly did not give you the respect a grandmother probably always deserves.

As a teen, I am certain I caused you heartache, never fully comprehending the magnitude that is taking on someone else’s child as your own family. I am not sure, that even at 40, I really understand it now.

But this is what you did. You, my grandfather, and the rest of the family, accepted that I came along as part of the deal. Many times I recall the story of Pa taking me down the street and introducing me as his granddaughter.

I remember the old house in Young, too. Dark heavy bricks, a fortress in the front where you could hide. Cool and inviting on a hot day, a spot to see the lay of the land. Dad and his brothers and sister must have played in this garden, sat on this wall, hid amongst these bricks.

This was a place of safety away from the things little girls cannot come to terms with.

A father who leaves, knowingly shying away from the responsibility of fatherhood. A man who becomes a father, willingly embracing a child that will never resemble his family line. A family who take in their stride a frightened little girl who wants to protect her mother and wants to fall in love with this man who holds her mother so tight.

These are the small things that my mind has held its grip on. A sadness hangs in the spaces where memories should be, but until eternity, may never be filled. The reasons are unclear but the stillness rattles around in these empty spaces. I am sure that there were many conversations that have been muted and I wonder what we talked about in those early days.

But I do remember trees, glistening orange and gold, touched by the autumn suns fingertips. I remember the question. I remember your answer, as these bronzed soldiers stood tall in ever occurring lines as we whizzed by. Poplars. It’s autumn and they are deciduous trees. I remember thinking that deciduous might be the most fantastic word I had ever heard. Their leaves will float away soon when the water begins to shiver and their trunks will still stand tall like grecian columns. Then, their insides will begin to burst forth, budding green fingers laced with soft tendrils and once again, new life will settle in their arms.


photo courtesy of photodune

This memory may now be coloured by my own language, but it is one of just a few that shall remain locked away for safe keeping, and is one of the most potent memories I have: one that is often polished and maintained as I drive past another stand of poplars.

I do wish more of my memories were as well kept and not like the photo-like image I have of the two of us standing in your little apartment, where you introduced me to cauliflower cheese, a dish I still enjoy, and your diaries, where you recorded anecdotal information about your life. I have no memory of conversation, just these two images and the taste of creamy cauliflower melting in my mouth.

I expect this singular moment has impacted my desire to write. I thought you were so cool. A writer! I’ve no idea if I’ve ever read a word, but to me, you must have been a writer, to have penned so many words! I was in awe. Maybe one day I will take those words and bring them back into the light while I sit quietly and ponder a life I knew only too little.

For now though, I must settle with my trees. Goodnight sweet lady. May your days be full of autumn leaves.

When is it time?

When is it ever a good time to share?

To say all there is, and will ever be said?

To open the wounds that they may be healed;

and to waken the heart that to live, must first feel?

When is it a good time to make amends?

To push on the boundaries and break down the fence?

To grab hold of time as if this day it ends,

to say those true words that come only from friends?

When will it be, that we can see we?

Free from the fetters and thorns that conceal

the truth behind eyes that are pained and at loss,

the moments that need to be spoke, hang the cost?

Time is Golden

Now is the time, there is no other way.

No time of the night nor no time of the day

is ever the right one, the best one, the sure:

no one can test time and come out the victor.

Always there’ll be loss, and always such a scar,

that reveals all the time that has passed by so far.

But once wounds are opened, despite the deep pain,

and tended and sutured, time can be regained.

Today be the day where your hand touches mine;

the hurt now forgiven; the healing Divine.

Today be the day when our eyes meet without

the one standing guard and the other, sword out.

May sorrow be wiped out with cloths full of love;

may anger be washed out with dove-purest heart.

Today be the day I see you, you see me.

Today be the day that all pain now be free.

Miriam Miles

Are the heavens really brass, or is this a season to learn contentment?

For the past 2 years I have been on what some would call a drift away from the presence of God.  I think I have also wondered if I would categorise it like that.  I’ve even questioned my faith, what I’ve experienced and the reality of God himself.

For most of this time, I have experienced only what I can describe as a gradual breaking away from the ways in which I understood God, felt God, experienced God.  In many ways I have felt numb and nonchalant. 

Odd thing is that unlike other times when I have been riddled with discontentment, fear and guilt, I feel almost nothing. In fact, you could go as far as to say that I am in neutral and not really that concerned about being there. 

Okay, so for those who are currently getting sweaty palms and having conniptions about my faith, please, don’t start flooding me with scriptures and prophetic words! I am fine! I’ve always been a questioner (you can ask my mother!) and have never been content with the status quo.  This is nothing new. 

What is new though, is the thought that perhaps when we talk about being in the desert seasons, we have an opportunity to look at it from a new point of view.

What if the desert season is in fact the season to learn contentment?


What if instead of feeling alone, abandoned and disillusioned, we have the opportunity to look at it from a different angle? Change the focus, and perhaps we change the outcome? 

For the record, I have never had a time in my life where I have genuinely questioned the existence of God.  And there have been times when I have run away, cut communication and severed ties.  And there have been times when my heart is so pregnant with desire to know, feel and understand God, that I am unable to concentrate on any other pursuit. 

Perhaps I’ve been to the sun and back then? I don’t know.  Some folks contend that you can never be fully satisfied.  What about Paul then? Didn’t he say that he’s learned to be content?


I know what it is to be in want, and I know what it is to have more than enough — in everything and in every way I have learned the secret of being full and being hungry, of having abundance and being in need.

Philippians 4:12


I realise that some scholars may say that this is out of context, and that’s fine.  I am not contending context here.  I am just looking at one sentence uttered by a very wise man and wondering about the depth of that declaration.

‘I have learned the secret of being full and being hungry, of having abundance and being in need’.  Is it possible that he’s not just talking about earthly treasures here?  What if he’s also talking about spiritual satiation and hunger; spiritual abundance and need? 

From where I stand today, I see this scripture in light of my current place in God and just wonder if this time of not being able to touch the sun is actually a time to learn how to be content with that.  I see that there is a possibility that I may never touch the sun again – am I okay with that?


Do we know how to be okay with that? Do our Christian teachers mentor us on how to be content with not finding, and still seek? To be content with not seeing, and still believe?


I realise that this post is full of questions, but that is because I know I do not have all the answers.  I am no scholar and can only write about what I have experienced and what I see in my own journey.  And I am certainly not trying to pick a fight with any set ways of thinking.

I am merely opening up questions that I feel have a need to be answered.

Where do I stand right now? Well, I suppose what I feel right now is that if I have not ‘walked away’ from God (which, frankly is not possible, if you believe that he is omnipresent…just sayin…), and I am not rebelling as far as I am aware, then there must be something I am meant to be learning from all this.

I still pray.

I still seek.

I still worship.

But that intense desire that pushed me into deeper places just simply doesn’t seem to be around at the moment.  I think this is often where we begin to think that the heavens are like brass and that for whatever reason, God is not speaking.  But is that really true?


What if the heavens were not brass, and instead, this is a time to learn contentment?


What if we took that energy we tend to spend in running around in circles chasing the experience of God, and channeled it instead, into focussed, disciplined patience? Into trusting that when he says I will never leave you nor forsake you, he actually means it? Into being like Mary, and just sitting at his feet and listening?

What are your experiences? Do you have a point of view on what we’ve come to know as the desert season? How do you navigate these times?

I’d love to hear your thoughts.  Go deep, I really don’t mind! In fact, let’s go deep together: perhaps we can unravel this quandary together and learn how to touch the sun from a distance.


Thanks for reading,


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Strike While the Iron is Hot

to write is to birth what is already conceived...

to write is to birth what is already conceived…

When it comes to motivation and inspiration, they go hand in hand.  But sometimes, when you’re inspired to do something, it doesn’t fit into the schedule.  So, what do you do with that then?

I personally believe in striking while the iron is hot.  Inspiration doesn’t come around every day and there are times when it’s difficult to come back to it once that initial flow has subsided, so I tend to just go with it.  This is what happened to me on Saturday so I wanted to quickly share a little about my crazy brain-dump of a weekend.

This is what it looked like:


5:15am – stumble out of bed to take youngest sonshine to work

6:15am – stumble back into the house and stand in the kitchen trying to decide if bed or desk is the right place to move to next

7:00am – after procrastinating, eating and cyber-socialising, I start to write.

For the rest of the day, in spits and spurts, I wrote.  By 9pm, I had written 6057 words.  It is singularly the most content I have ever created, ever.  I went to bed pondering how the following day may look and promptly crashed into dreamland.


5:15am – stumble out of bed to take youngest sonshine to work

6:15am – stumble back into the house and stand in the kitchen trying to decide if bed or desk is the right place to move to next

6:30am – got cracking on my draft.  I decided that I needed to ‘complete’ this today, because like many downloads of this nature, if I don’t strike while the iron is hot, I will never release the inspiration to anyone.

It took me until around 4pm to finally have my work ready to download via a subscription to my blog, create all the right links and bits and pieces to publicise what I’ve accomplished and end up with something I am super proud of.  Does it say everything I wanted to say? Not quite.  Will there be any mistakes in it? Probably.

But when a moment like this occurs and you end up dillydallying around making it perfect, it might just miss its moment to shine.  I expect that those who read my words are intelligent, savvy and intuitive people; folk who can work out what I’m trying to say through my honest, transparent and quirky style, so I don’t suspect a few grammar or punctuation errors are going to deter them.

So then, what was this all about?

  • Strike while the iron is hot – throw caution and housework to the wind. By take out if you have to.  Just don’t let that moment pass you by because it’s a shy creature, creativity, and rarely comes by again looking and feeling the same way.
  • Don’t over criticise your own work.  In moments like these, your true voice rings loud and clear.  Don’t over edit or refine what you’ve done.  Just let it breathe on its own!
  • Enjoy the moment and do cartwheels if it helps to release the bubbling tension in your gut – I went  for a walk this morning and felt giddy with genuine pleasure at what I have achieved.  This is not narcissism or self indulgence.  I truly believe I was feeling the pleasure of God in that moment.  Enjoy it – you deserve it!

So, that’s all for now folks.  My arms are beat up and I now have to be self disciplined and write for my clients.  The voice control may be in use today!

Have a wonderful week and be blessed with incredible spurts of inspiration!


For now,



I’m not going to write today.

I’m not going to write today. I’m dog tired and bleary from a very busy few days, so no, I’m not going to write today.

You see, I’m really good at starting things, but it’s a challenge to cross the finish line. A typical firstborn, I like to make a great impression off the bat and so pour almost every ounce of myself into that first few moments of a project/friendship/etc.  

But sometimes something odd happens. It’s like someone or something unplugs me and my power drains out. I need recharging all the time – is this how other creatives feel? Or am I but one?


So you see, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to write today.  I just don’t have it in me. My mind is slushy, not from alcohol but from sleep deprivation. Did you know that even if you’re getting sleep every night, you can still be deprived? I learned that a little while back. It makes sense now how some days I feel like I wander through, vaguely managing to get things done but having no sense of time or direction.

It’s just going to be too hard to write today. My arms are sore from working solidly yesterday and my body just wants to lie on the couch and absorb sound waves from the telly. But it’s funny you know, because we think that watching telly will help us relax, because that’s what we’ve been taught it does, but it’s a lie.


It saturates us, numbing us to the sensations we are otherwise surrounded by: birds, trees, rivers and seas.


We can watch them on the telly – even see ones that we will never see in our lifetime. That’s a good thing, right? And as we marvel at the rare insect from the Amazon crawling along our telly, we miss the wondrous marvel of the spider systematically weaving its web outside our back door.

So, I’m no going to write today. And I’m not going to watch telly. I may have to unplug the darn thing but I will resist. At least until dinner time, when me and my family gather around it to eat. We watch, we chat, we commentate on world events from our armchairs and scoff our food down. We catch up on our shows and crawl to bed after an evening of entertainment. We miss each other’s cues and go to sleep, blissfully unaware of each other’s worries.


But we’ve shared family time and can tick that off the list for today. That’s got to be worth something, doesn’t it?

Anyway, I just thought you had a right to know that I’m not in the mood to write today, so I’m not going to write. Thanks for understanding.


Now why did I have to go and discover that for?

11:10pm. Way past my bed time, but I get so wired up after going to the drama class. But I had to put pen to paper, so to speak, to get some stuff out of my brain box. I find early morning and late night my mind is quieter and I can encapsulate what is going on.

So it’s no wonder that while driving to my drama workshop I inadvertently discovered something. I realised why I had been having trouble choosing a script that resonated with me. It’s always the way, that when I discover something wonderful, I often end up discovering something else that is potentially wonderful, that simultaneously has the potential to be terrifying. I’m often left thinking “if only I didn’t know that, I wouldn’t have to deal with the crossroads that I’m at now”.

What did happen during the week was that a) I forgot to find a script until last night and b) after looking through a couple dozen, I didn’t end up choosing one, and instead wrote two of my own. I’ve done this before, with other creative pursuits and what I realised in the car, was that I made a choice that was governed by my default position. I chose not to choose someone else’s script because that puts me in a vulnerable position.

I might not like the script and therefore not do it justice
I might do a bad job and be criticised
If I feel judged, I will probably feel like I’ve failed and won’t want to try again

So it seems that my choice has nothing to do with finding a good script and everything to do with feeling vulnerable to the fear of failure.

Great, now I have a choice. Damn. Now I am at the crossroads and am vulnerable to whichever direction I take.

On the one hand, if I choose to stay where I am, I let go of any opportunity to grow through my inhibitions and fears, and possibly even overcome them. On the other hand, if I just go with it, choose a script, even if it doesn’t immediately grab me, and just see what happens, I might just break free and release something extraorodnary hiding away.

If I’m to be totally honest with myself, I don’t have a choice. This is why I say that it’s a shame when I discover something of this nature, because once unearthed, I cannot ignore the new information. I’m an addict of sorts. An addict of self discovery and growth. I cannot help myself!

So, even though I am pretty sure it’s going to be uncomfortable and I’ll feel pretty vulnerable at times, I am going to open this chapter to find out what’s inside. Maybe it won’t be so bad this time! Maybe I’ll get through it more quickly and with greater success than I have in the past. Maybe I’ll stop judging my future attempts by my past ones. And maybe I’ll discover a new default position has taken the lead and not only my writing will benefit, but my inner being will too.

Time to open this chapter and get discovering. After I sleep :)

(C)2014 Miriam Miles. All rights reserved.

Don’t let me run…

I relish the thought that my words may someday resonate so deeply within a persons’ own core, that they become a part of that person.  That at the moments when they need them the most, my words vibrate their physical being and cause them to rise up to whatever demon or mountain they face.  


I don’t care for words that flatter or words that pump up a false sense of security.  ‘It’s going to be okay’ is probably one of the worst.  Maybe it’s not going to be okay?  Have you ever thought about it? Or how about this one ‘I’ll be thinking of you’.  That one is really saying ‘I am really uncomfortable with the situation you are in, and I don’t actually know how to help you, so rather than tell you I don’t have the answer, I’ll just placate you because that makes me feel better’.

Jaded much? Perhaps.  Words are powerful.  Some are like a grenade and some are like a cool glass of water on a stinking hot day.  I hate the words that tumble out of the mouth without reason the most. The ones that are uttered with no heart; no desire; no belief.   

It’s time that we stop saying things that we think make the situation better.  

Who do they make it better for? You? Or your friend who is drowning in the quicksand of depression?  What makes you think ‘It’s going to be okay’ is what they need to hear right now?  Stop talking and start helping.  HOLD THEM.  They’re drowning!  Grab their hand and cry with them.   

Sob into their shoulder as they let go because they’ve finally found someone who isn’t afraid of their pain.

You see depression and anxiety run together.  They feed off each other’s wins too.  You can be both depressed and anxious at the same time.  For me, this is sometimes the case and it’s genuinely exhausting.  On the one hand, you have depression swallowing your fight and on the other, anxiety is stirring you up, slapping your fear senses and throwing fuel on the fire of paranoia.  You’re caught in a vortex of sorts, being sucked in and frantically trying to get out.

Other times one takes the lead.  If it’s the darker beast, it grabs me and like a constrictor, slowly and systematically squeezing every ounce of fight out of me.  Sometimes I forget that I can fight, and I let it win.  It slows me to a coma, closing off my tenuous connections with society and support.

It’s these times that I need you to grab hold of me.  Pull me back.  Don’t tell me to help myself.  If I’m this far gone, I don’t remember how to.  I’ve lost my words.  I’ve forgotten my strength.  I no longer recognise me.  This is why I need you.

I don’t need you to be brave or have answers.  I need you to be real.  I need you to cry with me and walk alongside me.  I need you to stop trying to fix it and just be here…in the dust…I need you to be real.

And if it’s the razor rather than the snake, it cuts me into little pieces, and I am fractured and confused and full of paranoia and fear.  I can’t rationalise that this is going to go away.  I’m like a jack in the box being continually sprung with no respite.  I’m coiled up inside, mentally constipated, unable to formulate ideas that will release me from its’ grip.

So then, grab me for I shall run. I am in full flight. When I say I’m okay and you can see that I’m not, don’t listen to my lies! Grab me. Speak black and white words. Don’t wait it out and see. Slap my mind with your concern. Tell me you don’t know how to help but you want to anyway. Shout so that I hear your words because the noise inside my head is deafening. It drowns out all sense and reason.


Run, run, run! All I want to do is run. Don’t let me run!


Hold me until the shaking subsides.  I don’t mean emotionally.  I mean physically.  Waste your strength on me, for I am worth it.  Your solidity surrounding my fear tells me, somehow, that you believe I am worth it.  I need this right now, more than I need air.

This is what friendship is all about.  Being there when the boat is capsizing.  In the waters, waiting out the storm, arm in arm.

You may feel like you are doing all the work but please know that I am in this too. I’ve not disappeared – I am still here but I am trapped.  I am here, and your strength is rushing into me, flooding my senses, bringing me back to life.  You are my lifeboat right now.  You are humanity holding on to the one who needs you most right now.  You represent the core of being human when you refuse to let me go.

And as the storm subsides, you will feel it.  The release.  Your strength may be used up but what you must know is that it will be replenished.  For what you have given, you will receive ten fold.  Your sacrifice has brought me back from the brink of turning to stone.  Your hope has revealed new truth to my despair and my fractures will now begin to heal.

Will this happen again? Maybe.  Possibly.  I don’t know.  Maybe many times.  Maybe never again.  But know one thing.  You didn’t let me run.  Your aid delivered a strength that no drug can recreate.  Hope.  You gave me hope, though you may never have realised.

Someone cares. I don’t need you to have the answers.  I just need you to care.  To show me that I’m not alone.  To hold my hand when I am afraid.  To cry with me and hold me.

Your words count, yes.  But your actions scream louder than any perfectly scripted letter.  Use both in tandem, and know that you are part of why I chose not to run this time.

Sometimes depression comes calling. It’s time to stop answering.

Sometimes depression comes calling. Sometimes it’s hard to ignore, because it creeps, quietly, slowly, taking it’s time. One door at a time, you enter in, initially unaware of the game, until eventually it sucks you in and you’re lost to the labyrinth within.

Feel familiar? Hm, I know this beast too. In fact, as I write this today, I sense it’s pull.

It’s a lethargy. A senselessness. A numbness that tries to take over the senses. The body wearies and the eyes become laden. The mind, sodden with claggy, muddy half-born concepts. The heart grows colder, isolating itself from the pulse of the mind, eventually taking you down and over the edge.

I write these things, not to scare, or to torture the psyche, but to reveal the occasional inward workings of my mind. I write these things to remain transparent.

I too suffer.

Sometimes for just a short while, a few hours perhaps. Other times I am not so fortunate and days go by before I realise how long I’ve been wandering around the labyrinth.

I write these things for you who know this place.

Rolling down the hill into a depressed state is not something easily understood. It’s not something that can really be categorised. It’s not even something that you can truly recognise each time, as it wears so many faces.

It is a chageling, a chameleon, morphing itself to suit your current circumstances.

It is wily, and therefore we must be wily too. On guard, day to day, minute by minute, we must stand against the assault.

Aware, awakened and alert.

R.I.P. R.W.