Being Outside More

  The tide of rampant consumerism is rising, meaning the queasiness that used to be just for Christmas excess has leaked into many other festivals throughout the year. So much plastic tat, fossilised sea creatures transformed into fake cobwebs adorning front gardens, lurid orange ultra processed synthetic foodstuffs. All this has become such a banal background, accepted as a norm, but every so often you just have to stop in your tracks and notice just how absolutely insane this all is. I am a killjoy old witch, many dusty cobwebs lurk in corners of my house, making me always Halloween ready. Artificial autumn leaf garlands have been in the seasonal aisle since late August. Seasonal decorating is a pleasant idea, a way of marking the seasons, and festivals make life more bearable after all. But with my consumerism-sick anti-fun goggles on, I see how these things are squeezed of joy, monetised and sold back to us. Landfill in waiting. The storms have blown in and made me cantankerous...

  Sunrise where I live is currently around 7.40am, meaning that when my weekday alarm goes off at 6.30am it’s still very much dark. I pull back the curtains as I start my morning scribbling and see deep blackness, punctuated by the occasional golden oblong of a neighbours window, all on our separate morning routines. I feel the waning of natural light pulling on me, slowing me down, I’m more reluctant to reach for my notebook and pen. I think back wistfully to spring and summer mornings where I would start the day writing in the garden, and I miss it. The bedroom feels dusty and cluttered in comparison. Being inside always reminds me of domestic chores I should be doing. In a change to routine, one morning last week I was due into work earlier than normal due to a preschool outing. I sat on a bench in a park on the other side of the city amongst falling leaves and as I watched, the lampposts extinguished one by one as dawn broke. Hidden sensors in each had tipped them over from nig...

How to write the seasons without falling into a pile of cliches, heaped up like autumn leaves (do you see what I did there). I am struggling for words today, I have been mooching in the drizzle this morning, reaching instead for my phone camera to capture the changing colours. In cities we are encouraged to be disconnected from the seasonal turn, it can take effort to seek it out, it must be glimpsed as you turn a corner. If it happens every year, why the fuss? There must be some ancient button pushing going on in my brain, reacting to the ripe reds (berries and fruits for winter stores), plus all the flaming oranges and yellows, no wonder we reach for flickering campfire words, those old memories are etched deep. Once the only way to survive was to stick together in those evening gatherings, watching shadows play across faces. If you’re lucky, you might have happy childhood memories too, collecting conkers in the local park, kicking your new wellies through piles of crunchy leaves. Al...

On a bright Sunday morning in early October, I rode through the quiet streets to Arnos Vale , a large Victorian cemetery in East Bristol. I live only a 15 minute cycle ride away, but I had never visited despite best intentions, so when I saw a post recently advertising a mindful nature writing walk, it felt like the ideal opportunity. Our walk was led by Miriam Ricci PhD, who left academia in 2023 to focus on creative facilitation projects. We spent the first hour walking in silence, Miriam giving us gentle prompts at various points to focus on using each of our senses, and then sat in the community garden for a period of free writing. I decided to use these notes to make a poem. The cemetery is a beautiful place, grand Victorian architecture combined with absolutely wild areas. Definitely a place I would like to revisit. Arnos Vale Fingers outstretched, bumping along a lumpy stone wall The soft breeze in the trees overhead A large black cat, curled up on a headstone Too early for Hall...