It has been a few days since my last blog and I felt amazed at the response. Thank you to all who wrote, offered support, who posted incredibly moving stories on Mumsnet and on blogs, who posted on Twitter or who read the Story of the Young Girl.
When I wrote the blog then pressed the 'publish post', I will admit that my hands were shaking.
That day, I cried an awful lot, felt very wistful and read many stories other women had written - different women, the same devastation. I felt utterly wretched and angry at our vulnerability and strange legal system.
Where do you begin once you have shared an enormous secret which changed your life?
Tears dry, practical head replaces wistful head; food has to be cooked, work done, back to life and back to reality.
I feel different now. I feel lighter and have a greater understanding about how other women have been affected.
The realisation that the woman I am today is very different indeed to the young girl who had the course of her life altered in a few hours.
Today, the person I became can assess people very quickly, can stand up and defend myself against those who try to violate your life in alternative ways eg harassment. I have learned not to feel fear and to fight for what is right.
Some people go through life and never seem to have been affected by trauma, losing loved ones when young, violence, moving house. I am never envious of these people but wonder if they hide the issues which have affected them or am genuinely glad for them that they have had a straightforward life.
Those of us who do recognise and have been wounded by the less pleasant aspects of human nature; we try to heal ourselves of the pain, try to make sense of what has happened. We become different people to who we were. We work almost on a Shamanic level to redress the imbalances. Silently.
I have come to terms with my trauma. I did not like the journey as it was long, difficult and lonely but I've reached a place where I feel safe and prepared now.
To be believed was a crucial factor. For women and men to say from their heart 'We believe you', unconditionally, anesthetized the pain I felt when sharing my story. It felt empowering and positive. The years of loneliness fell away and left a huge space filled with love.
Thank you.
The farm at the back of beyond.
Saturday, 17 March 2012
Wednesday, 14 March 2012
A story of a young girl.
She was 15 years old - just newly 15.
Her family had newly moved to a tiny village beside the sea. She loved her new bedroom which was only a few feet from the sea itself and she liked to sit on the old fashioned heater under the window and watch the constant change of the water.
On the third night in the new village, her mother asked her to post a letter. She was glad to get away from all the unpacking and disorder so she ran up to the postbox. It only took her five minutes.
The postbox was beside the red telephone box and this was where the village kids hung out.
One of them, slightly older than the others, asked her if she was the new girl. "Yes" she said.
He said that he lived near by and he would walk her along the road.
When she went to turn down the little vennel to her house, he grabbed her arm and said he wanted her to walk a bit further...she said she had to be home and her mum would be cross.
He insisted.
He pulled her in behind a shed. She could smell the creosote on the wood. She could not make a sound as he had his hand over her mouth.
She was terrified.
She did not know what happened to time. She was now no longer behind the shed but on the sea front. She did not know how she got there.
He was there.
He was telling her that there was little chance of her becoming pregnant as he could not have children.
He had used a knife.
She was confused, in enormous pain and felt strange.
He put the knife away, told her that if she told anyone he would find her and kill her then he put his hands around her neck and she did not know what had happened again.
When she came to, she was on the sand. Alone.
She walked home with difficulty.
The house was locked.
There was a small caravan in the garden, the one which the family went away in at weekends or holiday time. There were blankets which she pulled over herself.
She did not cry, despite the pain. She did not know what had happened but she knew it was a bad thing.
Her mother came out to the caravan in the morning. She was dressed in her nurses uniform and was ready for her duty on the district.
"Were you with a boy?" she snapped.
"Yes" said the girl although she had never been with a boy before. No boy had ever kissed her.
"Whore!"
The girl did not know what whore meant.
She was then beaten very badly by her mother. The mother used the metal pole for holding up the caravan table.
The girl told nobody what had happened.
She coped with the bleeding herself; there were maternity packs in her mother's surgery cupboard and she used them for a long time.
Years went past and the girl grew up. She had never told a soul.
She sometimes forgot about what had happened but sometimes she did not.
She learned that there were good men, good men who liked her and wanted to be with her.
She had a son.
The good man she had the son with left her for another. She brought her son up alone. She finally knew what love really was and she loved her little boy.
She is half a century old now, the little terrified girl who was once mute with fear, bloodied, confused, beaten.
She married not long ago to a man who loved her and her children and they loved him too. He was kind and non judgemental. He adored her and she trusted him.
She learned how to come to terms with the picture which ran like a video in her head. At first, she went nowhere without being armed with something, she was always on the defence. It was wearing on her nerves and exhausting.
She learned how to switch it off. She learned forgiveness and how she was not to blame.
After spending years trying to heal the little girl, the woman found peace.
The wound would never truly heal but it became managable.
All those years and she never told anyone.....
This is a contribution to the Mumsnet rape awareness campaign called "We Believe You".
I hope it helps somebody. There are many who will recognise the young girl and her story.
This is with love to them. x
Her family had newly moved to a tiny village beside the sea. She loved her new bedroom which was only a few feet from the sea itself and she liked to sit on the old fashioned heater under the window and watch the constant change of the water.
On the third night in the new village, her mother asked her to post a letter. She was glad to get away from all the unpacking and disorder so she ran up to the postbox. It only took her five minutes.
The postbox was beside the red telephone box and this was where the village kids hung out.
One of them, slightly older than the others, asked her if she was the new girl. "Yes" she said.
He said that he lived near by and he would walk her along the road.
When she went to turn down the little vennel to her house, he grabbed her arm and said he wanted her to walk a bit further...she said she had to be home and her mum would be cross.
He insisted.
He pulled her in behind a shed. She could smell the creosote on the wood. She could not make a sound as he had his hand over her mouth.
She was terrified.
She did not know what happened to time. She was now no longer behind the shed but on the sea front. She did not know how she got there.
He was there.
He was telling her that there was little chance of her becoming pregnant as he could not have children.
He had used a knife.
She was confused, in enormous pain and felt strange.
He put the knife away, told her that if she told anyone he would find her and kill her then he put his hands around her neck and she did not know what had happened again.
When she came to, she was on the sand. Alone.
She walked home with difficulty.
The house was locked.
There was a small caravan in the garden, the one which the family went away in at weekends or holiday time. There were blankets which she pulled over herself.
She did not cry, despite the pain. She did not know what had happened but she knew it was a bad thing.
Her mother came out to the caravan in the morning. She was dressed in her nurses uniform and was ready for her duty on the district.
"Were you with a boy?" she snapped.
"Yes" said the girl although she had never been with a boy before. No boy had ever kissed her.
"Whore!"
The girl did not know what whore meant.
She was then beaten very badly by her mother. The mother used the metal pole for holding up the caravan table.
The girl told nobody what had happened.
She coped with the bleeding herself; there were maternity packs in her mother's surgery cupboard and she used them for a long time.
Years went past and the girl grew up. She had never told a soul.
She sometimes forgot about what had happened but sometimes she did not.
She learned that there were good men, good men who liked her and wanted to be with her.
She had a son.
The good man she had the son with left her for another. She brought her son up alone. She finally knew what love really was and she loved her little boy.
She is half a century old now, the little terrified girl who was once mute with fear, bloodied, confused, beaten.
She married not long ago to a man who loved her and her children and they loved him too. He was kind and non judgemental. He adored her and she trusted him.
She learned how to come to terms with the picture which ran like a video in her head. At first, she went nowhere without being armed with something, she was always on the defence. It was wearing on her nerves and exhausting.
She learned how to switch it off. She learned forgiveness and how she was not to blame.
After spending years trying to heal the little girl, the woman found peace.
The wound would never truly heal but it became managable.
All those years and she never told anyone.....
This is a contribution to the Mumsnet rape awareness campaign called "We Believe You".
I hope it helps somebody. There are many who will recognise the young girl and her story.
This is with love to them. x
Wednesday, 7 March 2012
A Brief History of the Universe...
...in Hebridean wool.
CHAOS
ORDER
Theory: The Creator of the Universe had a four year old boy plus a collie named Grace.
CHAOS
ORDER
Theory: The Creator of the Universe had a four year old boy plus a collie named Grace.
Tuesday, 6 March 2012
L'eau de Laird
My car finally fell to bits last week or at least bits fell off. The bits held on with bailer twine.
The farmer drove it off to Killin to be fixed and was promised a car to do us until mine was repaired. He had returned late on Friday night and being a fairly quiet man, never said anything about the trip.
Saturday morning, The Farmer announced he was off to 'up the back of Aberfeldy' and would we all like to go. The bairns scrambled to get ready, find wellies, argue, coats and hats, dogs rounded up and sandwiches made for the journey.
I went to help them settle for the journey and saw it for the first time.
"What is that?"
"A Range Rover" said the Farmer.
"What was wrong with a Fiat Punto?"
"They only had a Range Rover"
"Well, I'm not going. You know how I feel about Range Rovers. Lairds and things drive them. They are elitist unethical piles of crock".
"And, how many times have I been forced into a ditch by a Range Rover while the driver looks at you with mean eyes saying you did not get off the road fast enough?"
"And it is going to look like we are slipper farmers".....
"There is a new tea shop which does good home baking. I thought we might stop by"
Reluctantly I got in but pulled my hat down incognito like.
Then it hit.
"OH MY GOD, what is that smell!"
"Laird pee" he said.
It truly was eyewatering. If Jilly Goulden or Oz Clarke had been where we were sitting, they would have launched into the description. "Overwhelming whiff of 'fual' treated Harris tweed, after whiff of Bunnahabhain, a lick of leather, a brace of ripe peasant (sic), a lungful of Havana cigar, soupcon of wind farm subsidy, a snatch of land grab, a hint of eviction by stealth annnnd yes! there it is, the thump of Eton and arrogance!"
We set off, heads out the windows like the collies. Even the children were quiet and silently sniffed their scarves rather than the customary bickering.
The tea shop was refined. My cheese toastie came with potato salad and real mustard bits. Posh tatties.
I knew that things were going to go hideously pear shaped. Small boy would utter his first swear, loudly, the dogs would go off on one spying new sheep on yonder hill, we would get the wobbly table and subsequent spillage, Rosie would huff, the Farmer would take the 10,000 mile stare whilst eating a biscuit.
Stink car would honk noisily to remind us that it honked inside and out when the alarm was triggered off. Often.
My bottom lip would quiver as I apologised to the nice families about the noise and that it was a loan car. We were not lairds really although we stunk a bit.
Withnail like, we were on holiday by accident.
Yup.
We left fairly rapidly. The tea room was lovely and smacked of elegance, all the things our family were not. We were unlovely and stank.
Schiehallion scowled at us with the disapproval of a Highland minister catching you hanging out washing on a Sunday..
We passed by a house which looked like it was made of gingerbread.
Loch Tay looked bruised.
We arrived back at the farm and went to see our eldest son.
He is always glad to see his younger brother and sister and enveloped them in a big hug.
"Mum, the wee brother and sister stink, OMG what is that smell, you all smell funny!"
"L'eau du Laird" came the weary reply. Don't even ask".
The farmer drove it off to Killin to be fixed and was promised a car to do us until mine was repaired. He had returned late on Friday night and being a fairly quiet man, never said anything about the trip.
Saturday morning, The Farmer announced he was off to 'up the back of Aberfeldy' and would we all like to go. The bairns scrambled to get ready, find wellies, argue, coats and hats, dogs rounded up and sandwiches made for the journey.
I went to help them settle for the journey and saw it for the first time.
"What is that?"
"A Range Rover" said the Farmer.
"What was wrong with a Fiat Punto?"
"They only had a Range Rover"
"Well, I'm not going. You know how I feel about Range Rovers. Lairds and things drive them. They are elitist unethical piles of crock".
"And, how many times have I been forced into a ditch by a Range Rover while the driver looks at you with mean eyes saying you did not get off the road fast enough?"
"And it is going to look like we are slipper farmers".....
"There is a new tea shop which does good home baking. I thought we might stop by"
Reluctantly I got in but pulled my hat down incognito like.
Then it hit.
"OH MY GOD, what is that smell!"
"Laird pee" he said.
It truly was eyewatering. If Jilly Goulden or Oz Clarke had been where we were sitting, they would have launched into the description. "Overwhelming whiff of 'fual' treated Harris tweed, after whiff of Bunnahabhain, a lick of leather, a brace of ripe peasant (sic), a lungful of Havana cigar, soupcon of wind farm subsidy, a snatch of land grab, a hint of eviction by stealth annnnd yes! there it is, the thump of Eton and arrogance!"
We set off, heads out the windows like the collies. Even the children were quiet and silently sniffed their scarves rather than the customary bickering.
The tea shop was refined. My cheese toastie came with potato salad and real mustard bits. Posh tatties.
I knew that things were going to go hideously pear shaped. Small boy would utter his first swear, loudly, the dogs would go off on one spying new sheep on yonder hill, we would get the wobbly table and subsequent spillage, Rosie would huff, the Farmer would take the 10,000 mile stare whilst eating a biscuit.
Stink car would honk noisily to remind us that it honked inside and out when the alarm was triggered off. Often.
My bottom lip would quiver as I apologised to the nice families about the noise and that it was a loan car. We were not lairds really although we stunk a bit.
Withnail like, we were on holiday by accident.
Yup.
We left fairly rapidly. The tea room was lovely and smacked of elegance, all the things our family were not. We were unlovely and stank.
Schiehallion scowled at us with the disapproval of a Highland minister catching you hanging out washing on a Sunday..
We passed by a house which looked like it was made of gingerbread.
Loch Tay looked bruised.
We arrived back at the farm and went to see our eldest son.
He is always glad to see his younger brother and sister and enveloped them in a big hug.
"Mum, the wee brother and sister stink, OMG what is that smell, you all smell funny!"
"L'eau du Laird" came the weary reply. Don't even ask".
Thursday, 1 March 2012
The Woolly Fairy
There has been lots of activity by Mumsnetters recently.
We have been knitting or crocheting squares for blankets to give a woolly hug to families in our forum who have been hit by tragedy. We hope our blankets can offer some comfort to those who are feeling bereft.
We knit and natter online, sharing patterns, donors sending wool to knitters (wool and chocolate!), helping novice knitters to cast on for the first time, then marvelling over some of the magnificent squares created by many talented hands.
I moaned that my wool was slipping, that I was using a child's needle and a bigger one of the same millimetre size. They were a brilliant size for a 6 inch square, just slippy and odd.
Patterns flummox me so my squares were plain.
Today, a parcel arrived.
Inside were a pair of amazing needles. Child size, non slip bamboo and an absolute joy to work with.
A note said they were sent with 'much love from a Woolly Fairy'.
I cried.
So I want to thank you, Woolly Fairy for such a kind and loving gesture. The needles are at work as I write, the wool no longer slips and knitting is easier.
Bless you for your thoughtfulness. x
We have been knitting or crocheting squares for blankets to give a woolly hug to families in our forum who have been hit by tragedy. We hope our blankets can offer some comfort to those who are feeling bereft.
We knit and natter online, sharing patterns, donors sending wool to knitters (wool and chocolate!), helping novice knitters to cast on for the first time, then marvelling over some of the magnificent squares created by many talented hands.
I moaned that my wool was slipping, that I was using a child's needle and a bigger one of the same millimetre size. They were a brilliant size for a 6 inch square, just slippy and odd.
Patterns flummox me so my squares were plain.
Today, a parcel arrived.
Inside were a pair of amazing needles. Child size, non slip bamboo and an absolute joy to work with.
A note said they were sent with 'much love from a Woolly Fairy'.
I cried.
So I want to thank you, Woolly Fairy for such a kind and loving gesture. The needles are at work as I write, the wool no longer slips and knitting is easier.
Bless you for your thoughtfulness. x
Respect.
Today was one of those days when the sun comes out, things go well and you sing the same song as your surroundings.
The Farmer and I made a critical tour of the farm this morning. Pen and paper to hand, noting all that we intend to do, which fields to plough, which will be given grass, which ones to oats.
The sun was so warm that a thin mist of evaporating moisture hung over the first ploughed field, perfect for drying out the waterlogged soil and ideal for breaking the ground up so it would be soft and crumbly for seed. A little more work and soon the field will become a grass pasture for a few years.
It is good work, sandwiches and a tartan flask work, music in your ears work, lunch with the red kite wheeling overhead, listening to it mewing like a kitten, a good tired and proper sleep sort of work. You dream of furrows and the dreams are sepia coloured.
The countryside surrounding the farm slowly turns into little patchwork squares of brown (or green if winter barley was planted.) Perthshire's beautiful trees throw up a contrast with their bare and elegant forms. You can still see the countryside through them, devoid of leaf but waking rapidly from the winter dormancy.
The old drystane dykes grin toothlessly, a coping stone fallen here and there or a bigger gap where cattle have knocked some of the stones over and then used the hole as a new throughfare, the fieldstones scattered in their wake.
I think of the people who built the dykes, miles of dykes. Sometimes an old lemonade or milk bottle appears from an old hiding place; a rusty tobacco tin left by the dyker. What skill and strength made these stone dykes.
They mark boundaries and offer protection for many animals. They say 'This marks the Farm at the Back of Beyond".
The builders of the dykes are long gone but certainly not forgotten. Their work an object of beauty, practicality, boundary and protection.
What legacy will The Farmer and I leave when we hand the farm to our children one day?
We hope we can offer clean water, maybe even a roof for the farmhouse!
My husband has worked and respected this tiny area of Scotland, never harmed it and has worked to the heartbeat of the land and seasons. He teaches the fifth generation the same respect.
It is not organic here but fertilizers and chemicals are rarely used; some areas have never had anything other than help by sheep or cattle.
How sad then to see disrespectful people pollute wantonly on areas which were unpolluted by Man.
The work put into this farm was often done on a shoestring. Respect and manners cost nothing, common sense would advise that loutish behaviour and newly turned out cows with calves do not mix well especially when their grazing and territory has been marred by clays, cartridges and environmentally unsound shot.
We want to hand over something lasting to our children, a farm which has been tended with care, a respect for the land, our animals and the wildlife. A farm which is not tenanted. Where bullies do not exist.
It could happen.
Then we have a legacy to pass to the next generation.... With respect.
The Farmer and I made a critical tour of the farm this morning. Pen and paper to hand, noting all that we intend to do, which fields to plough, which will be given grass, which ones to oats.
The sun was so warm that a thin mist of evaporating moisture hung over the first ploughed field, perfect for drying out the waterlogged soil and ideal for breaking the ground up so it would be soft and crumbly for seed. A little more work and soon the field will become a grass pasture for a few years.
It is good work, sandwiches and a tartan flask work, music in your ears work, lunch with the red kite wheeling overhead, listening to it mewing like a kitten, a good tired and proper sleep sort of work. You dream of furrows and the dreams are sepia coloured.
The countryside surrounding the farm slowly turns into little patchwork squares of brown (or green if winter barley was planted.) Perthshire's beautiful trees throw up a contrast with their bare and elegant forms. You can still see the countryside through them, devoid of leaf but waking rapidly from the winter dormancy.
The old drystane dykes grin toothlessly, a coping stone fallen here and there or a bigger gap where cattle have knocked some of the stones over and then used the hole as a new throughfare, the fieldstones scattered in their wake.
I think of the people who built the dykes, miles of dykes. Sometimes an old lemonade or milk bottle appears from an old hiding place; a rusty tobacco tin left by the dyker. What skill and strength made these stone dykes.
They mark boundaries and offer protection for many animals. They say 'This marks the Farm at the Back of Beyond".
The builders of the dykes are long gone but certainly not forgotten. Their work an object of beauty, practicality, boundary and protection.
What legacy will The Farmer and I leave when we hand the farm to our children one day?
We hope we can offer clean water, maybe even a roof for the farmhouse!
My husband has worked and respected this tiny area of Scotland, never harmed it and has worked to the heartbeat of the land and seasons. He teaches the fifth generation the same respect.
It is not organic here but fertilizers and chemicals are rarely used; some areas have never had anything other than help by sheep or cattle.
How sad then to see disrespectful people pollute wantonly on areas which were unpolluted by Man.
The work put into this farm was often done on a shoestring. Respect and manners cost nothing, common sense would advise that loutish behaviour and newly turned out cows with calves do not mix well especially when their grazing and territory has been marred by clays, cartridges and environmentally unsound shot.
We want to hand over something lasting to our children, a farm which has been tended with care, a respect for the land, our animals and the wildlife. A farm which is not tenanted. Where bullies do not exist.
It could happen.
Then we have a legacy to pass to the next generation.... With respect.
Monday, 20 February 2012
Love, Life, Passion.
Now that we are well into February and have been waiting for Nature to whip the rug from underneath our feet and replace it with a sheet of ice, I think it is almost safe to say that the absolute worst of winter is behind us, gently nudged out of the way by Spring.
In some ways it was one of the quickest winters in years. No long hard frosts, no deep snowdrifts to isolate us from the rest of the world. No frozen water for weeks on end.
The first warmish days lure us all out, daringly without dung coloured duffle - a dufflectomy. You physically begin to feel lighter and slightly chuffed when people remark that you have lost weight; you haven't really, you have just removed three of the woolly jumpers and two pairs of trousers. Maybe even got slightly wild and worn shoes instead of wellies. Ok, that bit is a fib.
The woes and stresses of the long dark winter evenings evaporate a bit with the increasing light. The quality of light changes and wakens us up as the earth wakens up.
We are preparing for the rush of spring work. Planning, ploughing, seeds to sow, things to mend, all the time accompanied by a burst of life and growth as your work companion.
Our family had a rare day out on Saturday, a break from the farm.
Our little boy's two nursery teachers got married on Saturday and they invited all their small charges to come along for a glass of juice and biscuit and to see them in their wedding finery.
The man looked resplendent in his kilt but our son became rather upset. He could not understand where his much loved Helen was as there was a 'real princess' standing beside his teacher.
We explained that the real princess was Helen in her bridal dress and he just stood in awe. She was so beautiful.
After the little ones became a bit restless, another mother invited us to their farm to see some new lambs so we headed up into the hills, feeling very self conscious and uncomfortable in our best clothes (and shoes).
The new lambs were beautiful. Tiny Oxford Down x Texel, sturdy with small panda like faces and fat woolly cheeks. One nibbled on my finger and another very couthy one leaned on me for ages. The shed was sunny and quiet. A tiny bit of Heaven, I thought.
The little ones played happily, fussing over the lambs then went to feed the chickens. We stayed a short while then headed for home as a blast of heavy snow fell.
We stopped for something to eat and our little boy danced to the music in the cafe. He did not leap about or anything, just danced then said the music made his heart feel full. I knew what he meant.
The land makes my heart feel full. The sun on your face, the tiny snowdrops and daffs which are beginning to appear, the new lambs, new life and the sheer passion of Life itself makes my heart full.
We are so grateful that this winter was kind to us and feel rested somehow, ready to tackle all the nonsense that is thrown to trip us up and make our life difficult.
It is easy to tackle with the energy from a full and passionate heart.
In some ways it was one of the quickest winters in years. No long hard frosts, no deep snowdrifts to isolate us from the rest of the world. No frozen water for weeks on end.
The first warmish days lure us all out, daringly without dung coloured duffle - a dufflectomy. You physically begin to feel lighter and slightly chuffed when people remark that you have lost weight; you haven't really, you have just removed three of the woolly jumpers and two pairs of trousers. Maybe even got slightly wild and worn shoes instead of wellies. Ok, that bit is a fib.
The woes and stresses of the long dark winter evenings evaporate a bit with the increasing light. The quality of light changes and wakens us up as the earth wakens up.
We are preparing for the rush of spring work. Planning, ploughing, seeds to sow, things to mend, all the time accompanied by a burst of life and growth as your work companion.
Our family had a rare day out on Saturday, a break from the farm.
Our little boy's two nursery teachers got married on Saturday and they invited all their small charges to come along for a glass of juice and biscuit and to see them in their wedding finery.
The man looked resplendent in his kilt but our son became rather upset. He could not understand where his much loved Helen was as there was a 'real princess' standing beside his teacher.
We explained that the real princess was Helen in her bridal dress and he just stood in awe. She was so beautiful.
After the little ones became a bit restless, another mother invited us to their farm to see some new lambs so we headed up into the hills, feeling very self conscious and uncomfortable in our best clothes (and shoes).
The new lambs were beautiful. Tiny Oxford Down x Texel, sturdy with small panda like faces and fat woolly cheeks. One nibbled on my finger and another very couthy one leaned on me for ages. The shed was sunny and quiet. A tiny bit of Heaven, I thought.
The little ones played happily, fussing over the lambs then went to feed the chickens. We stayed a short while then headed for home as a blast of heavy snow fell.
We stopped for something to eat and our little boy danced to the music in the cafe. He did not leap about or anything, just danced then said the music made his heart feel full. I knew what he meant.
The land makes my heart feel full. The sun on your face, the tiny snowdrops and daffs which are beginning to appear, the new lambs, new life and the sheer passion of Life itself makes my heart full.
We are so grateful that this winter was kind to us and feel rested somehow, ready to tackle all the nonsense that is thrown to trip us up and make our life difficult.
It is easy to tackle with the energy from a full and passionate heart.
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