There is a robin in our garden this autumn. Most often, he seems rather tense and stressed. Can a robin be tense and stressed? He perches hidden within the mountain rowan tree, which is covered in orange berries and dying leaves, and I hear his staccato series of high pitched cheeps, as if he is urgently warning his world of impending threat and doom. To be honest, I feel much the same at the moment. The news is heart-rending and threatening. Friends are suffering, with bereavement, illness and turmoil. I feel tension in my core, and my own staccato awareness of stress comes out in snippy, impatient responses and criticisms. My way of retreating to cover is to look for entertainment, advice, anything at all, in the consuming world wide web. I hope this will make me feel better, less tired, but it never does. It drains. And the evening evaporates. But once in a while, the robin perches up high, on a small curved branch that he knows is the first part of the garden to catch th...
Most days, stories, images and ideas run through my mind. I find myself forming narratives as I walk, or cycle, or simply pause in stillness and imbibe the wonder of the world. I want to learn to capture the words, to riff on the themes I ponder. So now, instead of thinking about writing, I will write. Excuse the errors, the detours, the rookie mistakes. This is Riffing in Writing.