A heat wave gripped London.
Under the surprise burst of sunshine, I meandered through the thickly historic and dizzily modern city, up and down bustling streets, going nowhere in particular, and also getting uncomfortably sweaty.
The choice of a black sweater tank and pale jeans was working against me.
Over the city cacophony, I heard the accent of home – an American father navigating British traffic lights and pushing a stroller to Kensington Park. I followed suit.
In the park, Londoners sunbathed out on the patches of green, children enjoyed popsicles, and bicyclists expertly maneuvered around sauntering groups of tourists (myself included).
Sweat ballooned across my chest and my tote bag bumped annoyingly along my side.
Irritation swelled.
I began piecing together the route back to my hotel (which Tube line would I be taking again?) when I stumbled across a garden.
Princess Diana’s memorial garden.
The self-pitying annoyance I had been experiencing evaporated as I made my way into the cool, lush and inviting haven.
The energy shifted.
I felt embraced, instantly, by the heart-centering greens, the soothing cascade of water from the fountain, the delicate blooms of flowers. The shade gifted me a reprieve from the unrelenting sun, but there was something else here that calmed me, a presence that somehow had sensed the exact spot in my heart that needed the attention, needed the hug, needed the lifting.
My hurriedness dissolved. I strolled. I paused. I let the beauty that surrounded me refresh my city-weary senses.
I abandoned the self-consciousness that sometimes creeps up on me when I am alone in a public space, surrounded by others who are with companions and in packs, and I sat by myself on a bench and I did not reach for a phone (not yet, and that was to snap photos). I let myself be alone and I did not feel lonely.
There was a presence here – in this memorial garden for Diana. And I wanted to feel into the presence, befriend and discern. I sensed no sadness, but was enveloped by a peacefulness, an exquisite serenity that relaxed my shoulders and gently encouraged my mind to drop the agenda, the itinerary and to be.
That moment travels with me, and especially now, resurfaces in this season of late autumn.
See, I spend my Novembers with Diana.
The last few years I have snuggled into sofas and slipped away into Peter Morgan’s sensational drama, The Crown. Typically, a new season about the British royals launches in November, and like a true fan, I am there … ready to enter with wide and curious eyes the world of the 20th century’s English monarchy.
(I do have to note – that when I was abroad in England, I found that I was rather up-to-date on British history because of The Crown. When I would share this with my British companions, it would provoke a sour reaction. Pursed lips and narrowed eyes. “That’s been fictionalized, you know,” they would counter, and I would acquiesce quickly, politely, and nod.
But … there’s something Peter Morgan said about stretching the details of real-life events. It had to do about getting to the essence of a truth, and sometimes, fiction could portray the truth more so than what actually happened.)
And with the newest and final airing of the last season of The Crown, the Princess of Wales once again regales my November days.
Though, to be honest, I’m currently finishing up the last season of the legal drama, Suits, and so it’s my younger sister who is keeping me in the loop.
As she breakfasts on eggs and toast, I ask her to spill on details of the first few episodes. We both wistfully muse on the Princess. We both remember being little girls and swinging on a playset underneath this magnificent tree that resides at our pool. There, in the last bout of summer heat, shielded by the tree, we learned about her accident.
I knew fairytale princesses, but I didn’t know that real princesses existed, and even though I was seven, and wasn’t perhaps fully cognizant of Diana and her international popularity, I sensed that the world had lost a light-being, someone very precious.
Now that I am older, I understand what my seven-year-old self intuited all those years ago. I felt that presence of love in Diana’s memorial garden. The world might have lost her physically, but her spirit was alive and in tender bloom in that garden.
And it’s this heart-replenishing energy that draws me to her in these November days. Diana has the heart to hold all of me.
Diana arrives right as I wrestle with own sense of purpose.
Diana arrives right as I struggle to be in this world but not of it.
Diana arrives right as I find clarity on what are my core values, what are my core beliefs, and one of them is something she and I share – an advocacy for children, a fierce love for their wellbeing and their happiness.
Diana arrives right in time with the waxing moon. And this particular phase for the lunar queen always prompts thoughts of the Princess, to remind me that even when I am in my own phases and in my own challenges, I still hold the capacity to shine light.
The waxing moon emanates Princess-like energy.
The waxing moon is linked to the archetype of the maiden, spring-energy, hopefulness and the courage to embark on the quest.
And Princess Diana embarked on many a brave quest.
In 1997, with unwavering courage, she walked in a minefield in Angola to raise awareness and garner global support to ban the use of landmines. This documented tour and her visits with children who had been injured by the explosives propelled a movement that finally succeeded in an international ban on landmines.
She hugged children and patients with HIV/AIDS at a time when the populace’s fear of the disease led to those diagnosed to be isolated and shunned. She, instead, held them tightly, and without hesitation. And would even drop by the hospitals, unannounced and with no media, to sit by the bedsides of the ill and keep them company.
Her genuine love for people graced so many, and if I could time-travel, in her own moments of doubt (because Diana had her share of drama and inner demons, enough for material for a Netflix show) I wish I could have sat with her and reminded her of her own luminosity.
Even in her darkness, she is light.
And even in our darkness, we too are light.
This is explored in the show, and frankly, this capacity for nuance and complexity, to honor and present the whole character (beyond “good” and “bad”) is what captivates me as an audience member. Peter Morgan portrays the humanity in each royal member, even … King Charles. That’s why in some episodes I feel such compassion for Charles; others I recoil at his arrogant coldness. The King of England is both – a man who is intuitive, intelligent and sensitive, and selfish.
A talented storyteller honors the light and the shadow, and gives us a human being we can relate to and understand, and perhaps in extending our heart to these characters, we understand a bit more about ourselves in the process.
As a writer, this is a skill I desire to develop and strengthen — to write multi-faceted characters. And I can practice by accepting more and more of myself, of illuminating and holding space for my own shadows, my own humanity, my own cranky lil self who just needed some shade and beautiful greenery. This is an acceptance that is whole and round like the ever-faithful moon.
Perhaps this capacity to hold both can be seen in the waxing moon.
It can appear split.
Our perception can trick us into thinking that the moon is half-full or half-empty. How human!
Our thoughts are forged by our past, and this past conditioning influences the way we see and interact with the present moment, the world and ourselves (for the two are one, how we see ourselves is often how we see the others).
We can fall into the veiled illusion that what we are seeing – half-full or half-empty, a success or a failure, good or bad – is the ultimate truth, but this is the lesson of the waxing moon.
One of the reasons I like the waxing moon is there’s a spark, a kick, a life-force energy, a gradual increase of light that continues to reveal more and more of the truth: the moon is whole and full, and so are you, especially now in whatever phase of life you are in, whatever the contents of the day hold, and however you’re showing up or not showing up, it’s the play of light and dark, and at our core, we’re whole and complete the entire time.
This is how I see Diana’s life.
A woman with life-force, who in all of her challenges, still shined, and whose heart was full, so full it over-flowed and continues to inspire and uplift and soothe people today. Like me, on that hot September day in London. Her garden offered me shade, and a quiet place to sit and be.
Tired and sweaty, I was welcomed. Grateful and in awe, I was welcomed.
There was love in that garden. A presence of love that was and is so real. As real as the moon in the star-glittering sky, and as the breath filling our lungs. Love that includes all the tides and all the phases.
And as we enter this next phase … as we embark into the landscape of the holidays, may I recommend watching The Crown? I do think the show premieres in November as holiday-prep for family gatherings.
At its simplest, The Crown is about family, royal family, but still … it serves as a juicy reminder that the ones nearest and dearest are all going through their own inner phases, their own shifts, and we can sway into our shadows and crouch and grouch, and in the next moment, we can show up with great kindness.
Every family has drama and intrigue. Some families just have jewels and crowns and castles. In the quiet corners of our hearts, we’re all hungering for connection, love and belonging, maybe with a side of mashed potatoes.
In the garden of humanity, under the allure of the waxing moon, we are welcome to the table, there is a space available on that bench.
Diana taught us that, teaches us that.
We can arrive sweaty and irritable. We can arrive heart-open, curious and thankful for the gift that is the present moment. We’ll probably arrive feeling a dancing mix of emotions. There’s room for all our tides and phases.
Come and sit.
Come and sit, exactly as you are, and let your royal self simply be.
