Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Words of laziness and love A day at home. It’s morning. Sat in bed, first coffee drunk. From the window see a frost, a trailing mist. Mr is watching videos of people having self inflicted accidents of which some are engagingly stupid; one admires the ambition, the optimism, the care free higgedly-piggedlyness which pandemic restrictions have currently outlawed. From the window see the sky iced blue, see marigolds in the polytunnel leaning through lime tree branches, too tall to stand alone. I ask for a second coffee. Mr, downstairs, talks to the dog who woke us at dawn but is happy to sofa-nap now till breakfast. Yesterday's marigold harvest.

Mid-November, 2nd Lockdown, Notes: At night I drive home by porches and windows that flutter with fairy lights: the lights of Autumn-Christmas, visual cries through dense uncertainty, celebrations through doubt. How can I not smile? People have hunkered into this second lockdown and not given up, or they have said Meh and given in to the need for shine. There are decorated trees beaming out, bright strings from yard to roof, muted stars.  Bought a cheap but pleasantly coloured diary, (the turquoise side of teal) daring to think about organising next year. Walked Dog up the hill in a late autumn chill, a wave of starlings breaking overhead; the lowing sun, a bewildering array of cloud types, a sliver of waxing moon. She sniffed stories, and I the loamy aroma of rotted leaves. Home again for snacks and writing. Yule Tale 2020... brings back Barry The Shelf Elf. The pandemic has meant changes to the usual ways of doing things. Teleporting presents, holographic elves. All the tests ...

Space for soul work Monday 9th November 2020 It’s write anything day. Tap out words. Thoughts adrift. In my car when I’m in fine voice, no one knows otherwise. I might be pitch perfect. Doesn’t matter. The important thing is to sing if I want to. Write. Always watching the weather, jumping in the mud. Walk my feet into the sea until my shoulders slip under, limbs fold-unfold, swimming. Write anything. Be. Let the cliche be. Doesn’t matter. What matters? Yes the little things, yes the big picture. Making mistakes YES. Be serious. Be fun. Misuse punctuation in the general flow. Beautiful words that come to me when I’m lacking a pen or a keyboard, that will never be replicated, that were either perfect or illusionary, that do or don’t need to be shared: tumble through it. Look but seek nothing. I’m at work, it’s drizzling. Sky a pale blur, all colours softened. Indoors the light is warm and also soft. I’m tired from the hot flushes that are stalking my nights, from the dog’s odd new ob...

Words for reaching through uncertainty and facing the winter Hello November, I hope you know what dreams we have for you: some that seem lost all ready, and some that glow like the moon behind the clouds that can yet illuminate this nightscape. November- here you bring your rich warmth, the golds and flames, here the evergreens begin to stand out, here we see bared twigs, the bones of a winter pending. A winter of what, November, will you show us? Hello back, the wind blows. You know the secret of divination: you start where you are. You stand in the stir of the leaves and reach for what you can touch. Dream bigger, yes, always: dream of storms, of calm, of the destination. But make a brick before you make a house, and choose your shelter wisely. Plant a seed before you have a crop- make sure there is a path through it. Lean into my wildness to find yours. Centre that. The rain and the wind, the trees in green or moulting, they go beyond talking, they dance away.