The mist rolled in last night and by this morning had turned to our first frost of the season. Today is all sunshine and golden leaves and conkers. I expected to want to be outside soaking it in but instead, for the first time in an age, I want to write. I want to sit at my desk and splurge words.

I could tell you about our trip to Australia and how wonderfully other it was, leaving me with a piece of my heart claimed and yearning. I could tell you how coming home didn't feel comfortable and how I felt excommunicated by the spirits of this place, realising only now that in fact it was me who had disconnected and that nature spirits are not sentimental the way we animals are - they simply carry on wherever we are. I could tell you I am obsessed with wombats. I could tell you that my perceived need and then opportunity to be alone resulted in my understanding that I have changed on a cellular level into someone who is now so interwoven with the other members of my little family of six that it pains me to be separated from them. It took me 50 years to become this person and it feels good but oh so strange. Oh look...I just told you all that.

Mostly I want to say that I am closing this blog after three years as The Art of Wildness. I am reading about the rebirth of blogging and although, for me, it has never died, I feel inspired and excited by this micro-movement back towards my first internet love.

Three recent posts have reminded me what blogging can mean when it touches your own experience:

This post about the passing of the much-loved Chuck, by the Queen of Bloggers.

This one from Michelle Gardella whose creativity and perspective inspire me (also: "I do not care about being desired'. Me neither.).

This one from Mel because yet again we share thoughts and feelings and that makes me feel better.

And that's what it is: when we can read a really good blog post and admire it, then make the short leap to recognising the feelings and experiences it describes, perhaps some of that regard is transferred to ourselves. Perhaps we understand that if one person's feelings - which match our own - are valid and valuable, then maybe ours are too.

My personal preference for Instagram these days is absolutely driven by the ability to pick up my phone and plug in, whether I'm in a queue at the shops, in the car wash, waiting for the kettle to are all just there in my hand and I can quickly join in with a photograph, an emoji and a hashtag. Writing a blog post means sitting down, taking a breath, applying myself and spending dedicated time.

I want that back. I'm re-creating that space in my life and it will be a new space. I'll let you know.