Riffing in Writing

  ‘It looks like Mordor’, says D, my son, as he divests himself of coat and boots after a solo winter walk. ‘What’s going on?’ So I look online. One entry tells me that our Large Wood is ‘ classified as ‘ancient semi-natural woodland’, and hugely appreciated by local walkers ’. I know this. Every spring the wood anemones and then the bluebells bring swathes of light and beauty and colour after the long muted winter, and my path often diverges from its well trodden river route to go up the hill and through the forest where I stand and stare and drink in life.  Another website reads: ‘We are proud custodians of (the) Large Wood, a place rich in history and natural beauty.’ (It was.)   ‘Our commitment to this woodland goes beyond preservation—we aim to enhance its biodiversity and ensure it thrives for future generations. To achieve this, we have developed a woodland management plan….. approved by the Forestry Commission… One of our key goals is to protect the historic charm...

I have discovered that I am actually a squirrel. Not as energetic, or grey (yet), but definitely a squirrel. I first notice this in autumn, when the creatures can be seen forgetting their safety, lingering on roads, digging in the hedgerows, foraging and storing for winter. At the same time, every landowner for miles begins to take down unwanted trees and create huge piles of wood. I carve spoons and, working with green wood, I have developed a radar for potential utensils hidden in felled branches. I scan back and forth across my path for anything that could come in handy once submitted to axe and knife. This is, surely, a Good Thing. It is good to plan, to collect, to forage. To see potential everywhere. I forget that I already have wood ready to be carved at home, that carting home yet another log will then become a job to be done that weighs on me and needs my attention. As I stand at the foot of a huge pile of brushwood and branches, many of them tantalisingly bent in just the ri...

1st December. My Dear Wormwood,  This is a dangerous time of year for us, so I write with urgent haste to advise you on strategies to keep your patient’s eyes and thoughts away from our enemy and his so-called promises. There is much else to occupy her at the moment, and we have made great strides in recent years - don’t be the one to let down our Father below and allow your patient to slip through your grasp and into that despicable state they call ‘faith’ or ‘hope’. If you do that, she might start to create ripples around her which will keep you out, she may even begin to ‘rejoice’, and, what with all our forward movement in spreading despair and turmoil recently, that will attract attention and you will find yourself in deep trouble.  So, a reminder of the strategies that are proving most effective in attacking our enemy’s 'children', which he professes to want to be friends with, of all things. Ready? Firstly, distraction. Make sure your patient is never far from their d...

As I am waking up on Sunday morning, in the muddle of thoughts about the day, one thought stands out. ‘Go for a walk in the lower part of the village with J’. I have experienced thoughts like these before. They tend to be specific. There is a certain clarity about them that I think is God. When I have listened in the past, good things have happened. But they are easy to let drift, especially when they don’t fit with plans for the day. J sits up on his side of the bed. I know he is going to go downstairs to get ready for church. I could go for a walk by myself. I could stay home and cook Sunday lunch..…Before I can think myself out of it, I say ‘do you want to go for a walk in the lower village this morning?’. I can sense his mental adjustment - he is tangibly tackling this potential change of plan - cogs are clicking into different positions. ‘Yes, let’s’, he says. Down at the crossroads we are both enjoying the walk - we take the longer route. We cross the field with the pylons and wa...

 What if I lie down in a green pasture? N ot a sward of tended grass, but a scruffy field of clover and wildflowers, past its early summer glory. I am on my own. Only me and the distant sounds of traffic and occasional aeroplanes, and the pylon with the kite string cables anchoring it to earth.  I turn away from the metal and wires, so all I can see is wide field rimmed by forest. I am strangely reluctant to sit down. I will get wet. Some dog walker might see me. When I do, cross legged like a child, I feel at home. This is a place I belong. I want to lie down. Again it takes an effort of will to hook up my hood and lay back on the earth. An action out of the ordinary does not come easily. The ground is hard under my head, so solid beneath my back. I find I belong here, breathing in smells of crushed grass and soil. A wind begins on the other side of the field; the sound of leaves is rushing, flickering, like a river. It moves across to the forest behind me. I am surrounded by...

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...