My train is hurtling through the country between Harrow and Westacre. Out of the window I can see fields of old stubble and brown earth ready ploughed for winter wheat. This year's harvest has been brought in and is making its way to our kitchens.

Six months ago, as the year turned to spring, Alex and I started to work towards a new dream. Slowly but surely, I started to write online courses for the Westacre Spiritual Centre. I dreamed up a web site and a business. We both began to work for a whole new life in a different place.

Right now, after a summer of intense work, my life is divided between a field of stubble and a freshly ploughed one, ready for a new cycle. My life is stretched across a wide landscape.

Everything that is London and Harrow is stubble. I'm nearly finished with that field, and it is looking worn. But I am still fed by its harvest: friendships and connections from my work and my spiritual practice that I hope will last long past our move out of the city. Still, the Mother Clay holds me close to her and gives me strength when I ask for it. But it is beginning to feel old, and in need of ploughing over.

Westacre is the newly ploughed field. It is ready to receive the seeds of our new life. We are working away at it pretty much every day. Even when I'm not there, I'm arranging quotes and looking at online suppliers, or making episodes of Westacre's video blog. This is where all the excitement is, and where my husband is spending pretty much all of his time.

This is my year's harvest: an old life that has given and taught me so much, that has made me the person I am. And the beginnings of a new one, a virgin field filled with hopes and much work ahead. It's a new life that will challenge all that I am and demand that I use everything I have learned up to here.

At this tipping point between the seasons, I am compelled to look back at my 20 years of life in England, and at the richness of connection I have found here. I have discovered my spirituality and my tribe, and a family of friends for life. As we begin to pack up our possessions in the next couple of months, I'll have time to remember my gratitude for the oak tree on the Common and being godmother to my friends' children. Ties that will colour my life forever.

None of this would be happening if I wasn't looking forward to the next 20 years or more. I look forward to living at Westacre, in a new web of connections that has begun to grow already. I am grateful for the Warrior Mother who is the life of that land, and for a friend who has mentioned starting our own Druid group. There is a whole life there waiting for me.

My harvest this year is an old life and a new, and the blend of both together, like different fields in a wide landscape under an English Autumn sky.