I stand and I stare at the twisted silver-barked branch, with its velvety buds already beginning to appear on fresh purple stems that are growing in profusion now that it is spring. It is half of my neighbour’s magnolia tree, carefully pruned and tended for years, then sawn off unceremoniously by busy builders because it was in the way. Roy died two years ago, and now his magnolia lies on our lawn, where I dragged it after asking the preoccupied men with tape measures and tools if I could take it. I am seeking something, as I scan the bends and curves. I have a new book by Jogge Sundkvist, the Swedish woodcarver, and on page thirty I saw that a simple hook for coats can be hewn from a bent branch. Somewhere, in this tangle, I am going to find my hook. It takes time to see it. I go out and linger on the lawn, seemingly idle and vacant, while I am meant to be cooking dinner. I pause again before I get on my bike to go to work, letting my eyes meander along the curves. Eventually I ...
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.