Some years ago I ran a session at Liverpool Diocese’s Changing Posts retreat, for clergy in the process of.. well… changing posts. I was speaking about how we experience different seasons in our lives: the Spring of new things coming into being; Summer’s abundance; Autumn’s process of letting go, and the quiet challenge of Winter, when much lies out of our sight, lost or gestating underground. Being aware of which season is currently dominant in our own lives helps us attune to its particular phase. Sensitivity to season helps us to embrace where we are, to live fruitfully rather than push ourselves to be relentlessly productive.

During the feedback one participant spoke of living in her Springtime - enjoying the fresh beginnings of being in a new post. She felt energised and alive. Yet she went home to a husband living with the impact of long Covid. For him it was very much Winter, with energy at a lull. How could these two seasons live together under the same roof? It’s often workshop participants that raise the most interesting issues.

What happens when the season itself does not align with our expectations?

Seasons offer great journal-writing prompts. Summer’s typically follow a pattern along the lines of:

• What is blooming in your life right now?

• What aspect of your life feels ready for greater visibility and sharing?

• Like a summer garden, how can you balance expressing what is flourishing alongside the necessary sustenance of rest?

But what if the Summer around us does not fit its once-familiar pattern? A splash of recent rainfall notwithstanding, this year’s unusually hot, dry days have parched our gardens and left us sweltering in the shade.

Such disruption may be a sign of things to come. The environmental philosopher Glenn Albrecht coined the term solastalgia for the distress caused by environmental change. He describes solastalgia as ‘the pain experienced when there is recognition that the place where one resides and that one loves is under immediate assault… a form of homesickness one gets when one is still at home.’

Perhaps journallng prompts for Summer 2026 could include:

• What do images of wildfires evoke for me? Is uncontrolled fire a source of energy, anger, destruction, purging?

• Where arid places in my life are tinder-dry and flame-vulnerable? What and where is the restorative water I need ?

• To what extent do I experience solastalgia in the wake of climate change?

Weather apart, I am also having an atypical summer - home-based and in preparation for some upcoming events and adventures.

Some of the things I’m engaged in are below - and maybe you can join me in the Autumn at some point.

Write for Life Conference

Stockholm 18th - 20th September

I’m privileged to be presenting my workshop Between Starshine and Clay - on writing into hope at Sweden’s second international therapeutic writing conference, after its inaugural year in 2025.

You can find out more about it here . And those in my network can receive 500 SEK off the ticket price by using the discount code: WFL26

And OK, you know who I am if you’re reading this but here is my brief video promo anyway…

3rd European Biblio/Poetry Therapy Conference

Canterbury 1st-2nd October

I’m also looking forward to contributing to the Life’s Journey Workshop session with Mapping the Landscape of Challenging Journeys alongside fellow contributors Eyal Ivnitsky and Efrat Havusha Feldman with For Adults Only: The Hidden Mystery in Children’s Books.

Take a look here to find out all that is going at this exciting conference in the beautiful city of Canterbury.

Journalling Our Journeys - Online

Oct 12th Monday 7-9pm UK time

A workshop to encourage journalling through life’s challenging seasons.

Journalling can help us treasure our experiences; order our thoughts; express and manage our feelings; gain insight and support us through tough times.

We will explore creative, reflective and practical journaling approaches to help us navigate the challenges life brings us.

This workshop session is free. Participants will be offered the option of joining three further fortnightly sessions (Oct 26th, Nov 9th and 23rd). Cost: £20 per session

Register here

Journalling our Faith - Online

Oct 19th online. 7-9pm UK time

A workshop to explore the potential of journalling on the journey of Christian faith.

The spiritual discipline of journalling can help us slow down and enter a space that is prayerful, expressive and reflective; that enables us to listen more deeply to the Holy Spirit and ourselves.

We’ll use guided prompts and different approaches as we explore how using the written word can strengthen our connection to the Living Word.

This workshop session is free. Participants will be offered the option of joining three further fortnightly sessions (November 2nd, 16th and 30th) Cost: £20 per session.

Register here

These were a few warm-up writing questions for our journaling group. Somewhat off the wall maybe, but surprisingly revealing in the discussion they generated: the wannabe bathrooms, ready to offer cleansing, restorative space versus the kitchen activists eager to feed, meet and greet anyone coming through the door.

Journaling prompts are generally phrased as questions and in our need-to-be-seen-to-know culture of quickfire quizzes and combative political debate, we may feel pressured to produce immediate, definitive answers.

But it’s the language of poetry, not politics, that better reflects the interrogative tone for the journaller. Poetry is willing to voice the open-ended questions that can yield fruitful insights as we attend to them with patience in our pen. Nick Ripatrazone, writing at TheMillions.com , notes that ‘to end a poem with a question is to offer an invitation.’ He encourages us to ‘Seek poems that end with those open, vulnerable moments.’

Mary Oliver’s The Summer Day is one such poem, daring to open with the ultimate Big Question: ‘Who made the world?’ before narrowing it down to ‘Who made the grasshopper?’, and finally turning from personal musings to ask the reader directly: ’Tell me, what is it you plan to do/with your one wild and precious life?’ - a corker of a journalling prompt in itself.

Poetry’s attitude to questions is that of invitation not inquisition. It comprises the courage to be curious; to explore the uncertain; inhabit the uncomfortable and discover what may unfold. As the poet Rainer Maria Rilke advised: ‘Be patient towards all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves.’

Paying more attention to questions may lead us to work on them as well as with them. Where we feel stuck in journalling an issue, we may need to adjust the question, to change the angle and ask something different to help our writing open out and deepen down.

Questions may be turned upside down, or even inside out. For example, if you’re struggling with motivation, instead of asking ‘How can I make myself do this?’ try ‘What if I don’t do it? What then?’ and see what that brings up. ( For a beautiful succession of ‘if… what then?’ reflections, see Rumi’s poem what do you think will happen ).

We know we’ve found a good question when it opens new doors; frees us to explore fresh approaches and enables us to locate the root of something. Learning how to ask richer questions can be transformational.

Always the beautiful answer who asks a more beautiful question.

The above words by poet e e cummings’ inspired Warren Berger’s research into clarifying what makes a beautiful question. He has defined this as ‘An ambitious yet actionable question that can shift the way we perceive or think about something—and that might serve as a catalyst to bring about change.’ Berger highlights three different types of beautiful questions:

• A question that starts with ‘why?’ can help us start to understand our more complex issues, to unearth the assumptions that are locking us into our situation.

• A question that starts with ‘What if?’ can help us to break out of habitual thinking patterns, to explore new ideas and make fresh connections.

• A question that starts with ‘How?’ is the most challenging. It invites us into some expression of action and change, to put flesh on the bones of new choices.

I’d personally precede each of these with ‘I wonder… why.. what if… how?’ This shifts the tone from interrogation to a gentler welcome.

All of this encourages us to become ‘beautiful question-ers’ - adventurous enquirers rather than assured answerers, who embrace curiosity, willingly let go of what we think we know to raise questions with no immediate solution, allow ourselves to slow down and consider.

It’s not always a case of having to be inventive. Life itself is always asking us questions: How will we respond to this dilemma, that person? What choices will we make and what will inform or inspire them?

To become a beautiful questioner is fundamentally to become a beautiful listener. Instead of picking up book of journal prompts, we may just need to pause to hear what questions are coming to us without or within, drifting on the breeze or rising up through the body.

Writing Suggestions:

3-Part Freewrite

Warren Berger suggests using the three beautiful question starters: why, what if and how, in sequence.

Take an issue you currently face that does not yield easy answers.

Listen for an ‘I wonder why…?’ question that your issue suggests and write for a few minutes in response. Are there some assumptions that need naming? What is really going on ?

Now create an ‘I wonder, what if?’ question, or maybe several that your first free-write suggests. Write for a few minutes exploring some possibilities. Where might a previously unconsidered option lead?

Finally, devise an ‘I wonder how…?’ question to pick up on and ground an option identified above. Write a few sentences to explore some practical steps you could take in your chosen direction.

Listening to Life

Take some moments to consider what questions Life has brought across your path today: An invitation to action? Challenge to values? A call for a particular quality? A question about what you really desire? Listen for what comes up and write a few sentences exploring your response.

Finally, if all else fails, here are a few more playful prompts to enjoy, for which I am, as ever, indebted to Padgett Powell’s The Interrogative Mood :

Are you less likely to pay for a manicure or a pedicure? If you were to participate in a spice war, what spice would you fight for? Would it be feasible to go to India and never he heard of again? Do you talk to squirrels?

The Workman’s Empty Assurance is a not uncommon trigger of impatience. You wait in, as hope that you’re on the way to getting something sorted withers hour by hour. And then nothing, not even an explanatory text. It’s not always the case, of course. The plumber who recently cured our malfunctioning toilet was equally faultless in keeping us informed of any delays.

Meanwhile, I was left steaming amid increasingly lush greenery. I cooled my frustration with a deep breath and WhatsApped my horticultural Lord Lucan, simply noting that I’d understood he’d be calling round this week. Was he still available or able to help ? Quickly a text came back: ‘Hi, really sorry. It will be next Tuesday. We had a family bereavement.’ I was glad I’d taken that deep breath.

Last month we explored the theme of Patience in my Way With Words journalling group. Without straying too far into garden metaphor, writing into our theme helped us dig deep into what it means beneath the vague generalisation of ‘I guess I ought to put up with stuff, but…‘

Looking at Patience from all angles, from dictionary definition to its poetic personification in Edith Wharton’s Patience , helped us ground this quality with some substance. Already insights were surfacing: the exercise of patience as more active choice than helpless passivity, and the pertinent question of Where does impatience cross over into intolerance?

We explored what triggered our own impatience, seeking to discern any personal patterns. Are we most impatient with other people, with circumstances or with ourselves? What is fuelling our reaction - Loss of control? Anxiety? Past experience?

We wrote too about times and situations when we had been patient, about what that felt and looked like, and what had enabled us to exercise this quality. Patience could be empowered, we found, through attachment to other qualities: compassion, perseverance and perspective.

But our most engaging and fruitful writing was using the dialogue journalling approach to bring our patient and impatient selves into conversation with each other, either about a particular issue or in a more wide-ranging encounter.

A journaling dialogue is set out on the page like a play, as each side speaks in turn. Each can ask the other whatever they wish, and the other needs to answer honestly, even if the response is ‘I don’t know.’ Each asks non-judgmental questions of the other. These tend to be along the lines of What do you want to tell me? What do you need from me? How can we work better together? And each has something to offer. After all, as we noted, there are situations where it’s not appropriate to be patient.

This dialogue writing requires a little patience in itself. We wait, pen poised, for the next response or question to emerge. Our writing is reflective, slow, and may not produce an immediate conclusion. What does tend to happen, though, is a sense of release as we allow different parts of ourselves to have a voice. We may gain insight into how they might align within rather than clash. There can be a fresh peace, and insights about new ways through old problems. If you haven’t explored this approach, it’s well worth trying with any conflicting voices you are aware off within yourself. You could even try it with patience/impatience as we did.

I was reminded afresh in this workshop of how patience involves letting go expectations of quick results and turning back into the present moment. It’s something I had to do when I planted some Portuguese Laurels in our front garden last year. In those early weeks, I watered and watched them like a hawk, anxious to see them grow. But they were in no rush, and I had to leave them be, content that they at least seemed to be surviving.

But this Spring, they have come into their own, growing like topsy - like the rest of the garden. It’s Monday. I’m exercising patience, aligned with hope for Tuesday, and the promised visit of the garden maintenance man.

And talking of patience… The Threads through the Bible Exhibition currently at Chester Cathedral is a display of 44 textile panels created by one artist, Jacqui Parkinson over a period of 10 years, with 25 million stitches.
There are still spaces at our Poetry Day: Weaving with Words, as we write, edit and read poems inspired by this Exhibition, on June 27th. Find out more and book at Threads Poetry Reading

Coming at things from a different angle opens up new possibilities. I began my current journal - a green book, fronted with a lightly-tooled flowery design - by carefully writing my year’s hopes and intentions on the first page. After a week or so of daily entries, I realised I’d had gone on to write from the other end - filling in the book upside down! Now I can’t pick up this journal without being reminded that one aspect of journal writing is to be able to see things from a different angle - maybe even upside down or back to front.

Moving ourselves to a different physical space to write can also re-energise our words, and is one way of enabling a creative nudge. Changing location for a period is a step away from routine that can re-charge our energies and enable us to see our everyday life with new eyes.

We’ve recently enjoyed the privilege of a cruise through the stunning landscape of Portugal’s River Douro. Held in the unique space of a boat, we were carried through valleys of dramatic rocky outcrops and terraced vineyards. Beyond the confines of my small, familiar world, I felt both invigorated and exposed. I found myself reflecting afresh on the spaces I would return to back home, and how I might want to re-connect.

Making Space:

Like many of you, I face the issue of having space/time to write in a day. I’m challenged by the assertion that as writers, ‘We don’t find time to write. We make time.’ If I wait for the perfect, uninterrupted moment to write to appear, I’ll be disappointed. I need to be intentional. But this is not the only priority I need to make time for.

For business mentor Astrid Bracke , who champions the effectiveness of taking a slow, gentle approach to running a business, rest is also a vital component. In her course on planning one’s week, her opening question is: When will you rest? This turned my assumed starting point upside down, and I found the question disconcerting. I can still grapple with concept of rest as a preparation for work rather than a reward at its completion.

Holding Space:

Once upon a time I made to-do lists so idealistic that completing them was Mission Impossible. Nowadays I’m less punitive. I write a more aspirational and reminder list at the start of the week, using this as a resource from which to select some priorities for each day.

My aim is not get through everything but to focus fully; to set some boundaries that stake out times/spaces around what I choose to pay attention to. At the week’s end, I can look at the inevitable undone remainder with compassionate curiosity. Which of my undone things actually needed doing? Did I want to do them, really? Do I add them onto next week’s list, adjust them - or just let them go?

This is still a work in progress, but seeking to hold space for what is most important feels better than powering through an action list. It helps me stay with what I’m doing now rather than becoming fragmented by trying to cover all bases at once.

I’ve been helped here by Alex Pang’s book Rest , where he notes that ‘“One thing at a time” will always perform a better day’s work than doing two or three things at a time. By following this rule, one person will do more in a day than another does in a week.’

Breathing Space:

Holding space for what matters most includes choosing not to cram every nook and cranny of time available. But cultivating contentment in emptiness is inimical to a culture that only cries ‘Enough’ when every space is full to bursting.

It can feel counter-intuitive to fully inhabit space not immediately productive for the sake of being ultimately fruitful; to resist the consuming activities that over-stuff every gap with distractions. How much do I fall prey to the attention-stealers of internet click bait and social media? (what a former counselling client termed ‘mental carbohydrate.’ ) What deeper rest, clearer mind, creative insight, might emerge if I sat more with less?

Poetry is uniquely suited to slower, spacious reading, its distilled words islanded on the page’s white ocean. So on holiday I took The Wilderness that Bears Your Name, James A Pearson ’s debut poetry collection. As a Nature-resonant poet in the spirit of Mary Oliver, Pearson encourages us to align our lives to the seasons unfolding around us. In his poem Wintering, he notes how the trees have let go their leaves, suggesting that

The time will come
when you, too, have to drop
all the ways you’ve made yourself
worth loving,
and finally learn how
to sit quietly
right in the center
of your own small life.

If you’re similarly drawn by this invitation to stillness, you can read the rest of the poem here . Or maybe you want to pick up on some of the questions I’ve been asking myself (highlighted in italics above) and use them as your own journaling prompts.

And if you have the space to join me for some upcoming poetic activity or journalling inspiration, please do see below….

WEAVING WITH WORDS: A POETRY DAY AT CHESTER CATHEDRAL

On Saturday, June 27th, from 10am - 4pm, I’m joined by Andrew Rudd, as we lead a Poetry Day inspired by the Threads Exhibition being hosted at Chester Cathedral. Andrew is a local poet and author, and a fellow former Cathedral poet-in-residence at Manchester Cathedral.

The day comprises a two-hour shared poetry writing workshop in the morning, an editing workshop led by Andrew in the afternoon, and a reading with contributions from the two of us, plus a showcasing of poems written by participants over the day.

To find out more and to book, visit Threads Poetry Day or to attend the reading only, visit Threads Poetry Reading .

And finally, my WRITING WITH PURPOSE PODCAST INTERVIEW

Just a quick bit of advance notice about my interview with Anna Woolliscroft as a guest on her Writing with Purpose podcast. This will appear on 23rd May, before when I’ll no doubt inflict some further publicity on you. But as I am guest 72, you may want to have a listen to some of her previous guest episodes in the meantime…

If you read this far, thank-you for making it to the end! I’m always happy to receive your comments on anything above and how you are faring on your own journey with words. In the meantime, best wishes and talk soon.

As usual, the question generates a lively discussion. For some it’s not a problem: ‘I’m writing a journal to hand down to my children. I want them to read it.’ For others, it’s a deal-breaker: ‘I don’t want to write down stuff that others might read, so I’m reluctant to write anything personal at all.’ Our journal, or course, is what we choose to make it ,whether we approach journaling as legacy or journaling as therapy. What is a journal to you - a tool for living richly or a record for loved ones to read? Or something else again?

For me, privacy is vital if we’re going feel able to be honest on the page. But what if others read our journal after we’re gone? Will they discover things we’ve written about them that they’d find hurtful? Or find out things about us that would shatter their view of who we’ve been to them? As the practice of journalling grows (and I’m one of its encouragers), such questions become increasingly pertinent.

It’s something I started to address a while back, but I didn’t get very far. The workshop has given me a timely nudge. Back home, I pull out all my old journals from the various drawers in which they’ve sat since the last time I had the bright idea of sorting through them.

There’s one less than before. I’ve already dealt with an early volume from late teen and student days, a veritable treasure-trove of introspection and emotional angst. As I re-read it I alternated between compassion for the trials of my younger self and an unwelcome taste of some old emotions. But the main thing that struck me was the sheer repetitiveness of it all. Honestly, rather than worry about someone else reading this, I should leave a book token for anyone robust enough to make it to the end. Was it writing worth keeping? No. I tore out a page or two where I’d had some marginally more interesting insights and ditched the rest.

I’m conflicted. I want to choose what happens to the words I’ve written. I feel a sense of responsibility for these journals, and the need at least to remind myself of what they contain as I decide their fate. But I’m reluctant to start ploughing through them. To delay getting into the nitty-gritty I start by labelling them up, according to year. Do I need to re-read them all, I wonder?

I decide to scan my entries just for March across different journals. As I skim down the years I see with relief how my journalling has grown beyond an emotional dumping ground. I’ve observed more of the world around me; tracked my time, particularly on creative projects; included quotes and reflections on books read, plus occasional poems - both others and my own. Yes, there are recurring themes and familiar pre-occupations, like a re-setting of the compass, but there’s more of a sense of a journey. There are aspirations met as well as set - not least as I have learned to be more realistic.

Where do I go from here? Researching my options reveals a few possibilities:

• I could head for the shredder and destroy my journals - as I did with that earlier one. Where the writing has helped me express and process feelings at the time, the words have done their work. There’s no need to keep them. One of my regular journaling group makes ritual bonfires of her past journals. The good they have done is in the person she embodies now.

• I could keep my journals, leaving strict instructions for their destruction after my death. Of course, there’s a risk that my wishes may not be honoured. One way of addressing this to insert a ‘Reader Beware’ disclaimer that tells anyone reading to bear in mind that they may find thoughts and feelings within that are emotional, raw, and of the moment.

• I could donate journal material to an archive. Even what we consider ordinary life may be of interest to those who come after us. But honestly, I’m no Samuel Pepys. I doubt I have material an archive would seize on for posterity, unlike one journaller’s online hope that their journals are read because ‘I had a very detailed account of the BLM protests and the beginning of COVID in one of them.’

• I could review and extract material that I wish to leave as an intentional legacy. This would enable me to pass on what I am happy to release to other eyes. I might choose to re-work my writing too, perhaps in a more creative way. Curating or creating is an option, though it would take some work…

  ---

  I’ve decided to read my journals through fully one last time; to extract what I want to keep and to summarise key events, themes and insights in a separate book. And then to let go the originals. This distillation will go into a box along with my two or three most recent journals (which still feel too close to sign off). There will be instructions to destroy said box when I am no longer here to read its contents.

  I’m also thinking of putting in a disclaimer to warn any wayward reader that they open the pages at their own peril. A reader might well be disappointed, however. There are no deep dark secrets, just the ordinary, sometimes shabby, human pre-occupations, of interest to myself and maybe my immediate circle - but hardly enthralling for the wider world.

  It may take quite a few rainy Sunday afternoons to see this process through, but making a decision and setting an intention has brought some momentum. I could even track progress in my current journal! Meanwhile, I’d love to hear what you intend to do with yours…

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We listened to poetry with a capacity to evoke both the sorrow of Aberdeen and the aliveness of his native landscape in Anatomy. We also heard poems about family and especially the poet’s father.

Jon has previously commented that; ’When I write about my father, there’s a sense in which I’m writing about all fathers.’ Poetry has a unique capacity to open the door into another or another’s world, yet at the same time make a connection that resonates with our own. One of Jon’s father poems is below, from his collection My Family and Other Superheroes .To what extent does it make links to your experience of your own father?

	How to Renovate a Morris Minor

That’s him, in the camouflage green overalls,
hiding under the car all day from my mother. 
What is he but a pair of feet, my father, 

muttering prayers to God and the sump gasket,
wearing oil drips, enough zips for all 
his secrets? On his back, he pokes a spanner

up at a nut, as if unscrewing heaven;
grease-fingers make a crime scene of the kitchen.
He gives the stars in his bucket to the bonnet

and when he sees his face in it then it 
is smiling. His foot on the accelerator
makes the world go, his right arm at the auction 

can’t say  No and when the day is over,
that’s him, that’s him - he’s snoring on the sofa,
Practical Classics open on his lap - 

his eyes dart under their lids as he sleeps,
like Jaguars he’s racing in his dreams. 

								Jonathan Edwards 
							

Here is a poem that highlights one scene, but distills the characteristics of many more. We’re not given a back-story of Dad’s life with cars or the details of his acquiring this particular Morris Minor. What this memory captures is the immediacy of hands-on action that expresses this father’s love-relationship with cars generally and this one in particular.

‘That’s him,’ declares the poet, both pointing Dad out and also expressing the warmth of recognition. Yes, that is absolutely my Dad. What he’s doing is typical of who he is. We’re given no physical description. In fact, Dad is rather an elusive presence at home. We’re shown his feet; his hands and raised arm; his reflected smile. We hear his mutterings and snores. There’s no family interaction. Dad’s attentiveness is reserved for whatever has four wheels.

The poem is informal and accessible. But the language is not careless. It deftly hints at household relationships. Dad is ‘hiding’ from Mum. His eyes gaze up at heavenly mechanics, but his hands make a mucky ‘crime-scene’ of the kitchen. We’re left to imagine what later marital conversations take place.

The poem ends by nudging us out of the ordinary towards Dad’s dreams. Waking life may face Dad with the frustrations of an aging sump gasket, but subsequent sleep can bring the joyful dreams of speed in a fantasy car. We’re left with an affectionate smile at the snoring figure on the sofa.

‘That’s just like my Dad,’ said a participant at the Cynefin poetry workshop I ran in the run-up to Jonathan Edwards’ visit. ‘My Dad was nothing like that,’ said another. ‘But it still makes me think of him. The poem says something about Dads securing their own space to escape to in the midst of family life.’

We used this prompt to write about our own loved ones. Some wrote about fathers: Mine found his space at the piano after a day’s work, hands at the keyboard, losing himself in his own world of music. There were a couple of pieces about grandmothers, and one about watching her daughter running on the fells, that concluded with the one-word line ‘Unmistakeable’ There are those we know so well that we recognise them even from a distance, just by the way they move.

Writing Suggestion

Think about someone you know well, who does something in a way that is unmistakably them. It could be your father, or another family member or close friend. Reflect on this characteristic activity and be open to a memory of them engaged in it.

Write about this as an observer. Whether you choose to write in poetry or prose, use the present tense to grasp that sense of immediacy. You may want to start with an informal phrase, such as : ‘That’s him!’ There she is’ etc, to help you step right into the scene.

Write what you notice and then go further. How does our subject relate to what they are doing, their environment and people around them? You may need to draw on some intuition and imagination.

As you re-read, look at the words you have used. Could you be more specific, and make your words work harder to convey what this scene means to you - and them?

You might want to write a few follow-up sentences to explore what is important to you about this memory and any emotions it stirs in you.

Upcoming Events

I have a couple of events upcoming this month and next:

Journalling our Journeys Workshop at Books on the Walls

A practical journal-writing workshop
12th March 6-7.3pm Cost £5
More details at books on the walls

Praying with my Pen : Writing and Prayer Day Retreat

Foxhill House and Woodlands , Tarvin Road, Frodsham WA6 6XB
15th April 9.30am -3.30pm Cost £36 ( includes 2-course lunch)
See https://www.foxhillchester.co.uk/event-details/praying-with-my-pen

Forever drawn to how people fare on journeys they never wanted to make, I come home with my copy. The author’s sons Ian and Martin died at 30 and 33 respectively, of Mitrochondrial Disease. This memoir reflects his decade-long walk through the landscape of loss. It touches on issues from fatherhood to funerals; healthcare to healing; grieving and finding purpose, all in the voice of a companionable fellow-traveller who has found that ‘The path has been overgrown, but as I have walked it, the way has somehow unfolded in front of me.’

Steve Dilworth notes that losing a child so defies the norm that we lack a single English word for one who has suffered it (equivalent, say, to orphan). Curious about whether this is true of other languages, I discover Vilomah, a Sanskrit word meaning ‘against the natural order’, used for a bereaved parent. I also find the Arabic Thakia, referring specifically to a bereaved mother, and the poignant Greek Xarokammenos, apparently used solely for bereaved parents, but literally meaning ‘burnt by grief.’

These are other examples of other languages stepping in where English falls short. The Welsh word hiraeth describes that mix of a deep sense of connection to place alongside a yearning, suspenseful sense that it might be lost - comfort and vulnerability rolled into one. You can find it listed here amongst other fascinating words from various languages.

Tiffany Watt Smith’s The Book of Human Emotions - a lively informative tour of 154 words describing emotions - includes other languages that distill feelings with no English label. The Inuit word iktsuarpok, for example, is for that fidgety, anticipatory feeling as we wait for something or someone to arrive: that visitor, bus or e-mail. It’s the anxious scanning of frozen landscape for an approaching sled. I wonder how much iktsuarpok is currently being felt in Arctic circles.

To be fair, we English can muster a few untranslatables of our own - serendipity, spam, flabbergasted, facepalm and outro among them. Mourning Walk introduced me to another new word (on the Internet but not my Shorter Oxford English Dictionary): innerstanding - understanding at a more profound level of knowing, especially in personal or spiritual contexts.

Having a word for something means we can identify it and communicate it to others. The capacity to name it gives our experience both validity and substance. It’s part of what makes journaling so effective as we listen to ourselves and seek to write what we hear.

But what happens when we cannot find the words to convey how we feel? At such times, many turn instinctively to poetry, as language that seeks to express and distill what lies beyond the reach of available words . One of my Cathedral poetry discussion group told us how she read poetry when she was grieving. She needed to find someone who could put words to what she was feeling, to know she was not alone.

A Writing Suggestion: Do you have a feeling or experience that does not quite fit any words you know? It might be an offshoot of a more recognised emotion - a particular angle of happiness, a specific flavour of anxiety or a unique experience.

Write to explore it. Can you give it a dictionary definition? What images spring to mind that connect with it? Could you invent a word for it? You may even find yourself writing a poem….

And finally, two upcoming events I’m running:

Cynefin - A Poetry Event at Chester Cathedral

St Davids’ Day Eve, 28th February. 6-7.15pm in the Refectory

Award-winning poet Jonathan Edwards joins us for a reading on the theme of Cynefin - the Welsh word encompassing a sense of rootedness. Jonathan’s roots are in South Wales, but he’ll be supported by local poets who have been exploring the concept of Cynefin in a Cathedral poetry workshop.

Tickets £5. You can find out more and book here

Journalling our Journeys - A Practical Writing Workshop

16th March, 6-70.pm at books on the walls bookshop, Chester

For journallers both experienced and new.

Tickets are £5 You can find out more and book at booksonthewalls

As we pass through New Year’s doorway and head into the landscape of 2026, we start to make plans, set intentions and determine resolutions. As a recovering perfectionist, I can all too easily aspire to an overkill of ambitious and wide-ranging goals and schemes. So this year I’m taking Mrs Gren as my guide. Using her letters as headings for journal prompts, I write a few sentences underneath each one as I seek simply to journey through 2026 as a more fully living being. Perhaps you would like to join me…

M is for Movement.

All living things move, including plants, so I write about how I want to move in 2026. I reflect on moving my body, and on aspects of physically moving location - the different spaces and places I hope to visit or want to frequent. I reflect on where I may need to shift position - over an issue or in a relationship. I particularly look at where I may be stuck in a rut and need to move out of my comfort zone, to risk something new.

R is for Respiration.

All living things breathe, so I write about my breath. Do I give myself enough breathing space in a day, a week? Where do I want to breathe fully? What do I want to breathe in deeply? Perhaps I never slow down enough even to catch my breath. Do I want to re-engage with meditative practice? I wonder if there are any toxic atmospheres it would be good to avoid.

S is for Sensitivity.

All living things are responsive to their environment, adapting accordingly, so I write about awareness of my surroundings. Are there areas where I need to be more attentive? Am I attuned to those around me or wrapped up in my own world? I reflect on how being firmly grounded can become stubbornly rigid; and how being creatively adaptable can become passively pliable. Where do I sit on this spectrum? And how do I want to balance being open and receptive alongside protecting myself from being over-vulnerable?

G is for growth .

Growth is evident in all living things, so I write about where, what and how I choose to grow in this next season. I often reflect on my life’s activity as a walled garden: There is opportunity to cultivate much that is beautiful and fruitful. But there are limits. What do I most want to tend and encourage to flourish in this particular season? I need to make some choices.

R is for Reproduction.

All living things reproduce their own, so I write about what this might mean to me. What am I bringing to life ? Am I nurturing people - mentoring an individual, encouraging a group, or parenting a creative project? Perhaps my focus needs to incorporate an awareness of legacy. What gifts, skills or resources am I passing on to help others? What do people learn from me? What would I like them to learn?

E is for Excretion.

All living things get rid of waste products, so I write about what I need to let go of this year. I reflect on any what no longer belongs in my body, either because it has served its season, or because it has never been helpful. Where it is time to expel an activity, habit, practice or an attitude that is.. ahem.. clogging up life’s flow? Is some toxic distraction contaminating my creativity?

N is for Nurture.

Nurture enables growth for all living things, so I write about how I will nurture myself this year. I reflect on the physical nurture of healthy eating and of rest; nurturing the mind with what I read and watch; balancing time in company with space in solitude. I write about what brings me joy, about paying due attention to what I am taking in as well as what I am giving out.

Finally, I read over what I’ve written, and make one or two Notes to Self about some practical, do-able small steps I can take in just this next week, to walk into 2026 more fully alive.

It’s the third Sunday of Advent and the occasion is the Carol Service led by the Nave Choir - the country’s longest-running Cathedral voluntary choir. As a Lay Reader at Chester Cathedral, I’m privileged to contribute to this service of words and music by reading Thomas Hardy’s poem, The Oxen.

Any poetry by Hardy evokes memories of school-days and my English teacher, the indomitable Mrs Huggett, so absolutely devoted to Thomas Hardy and everything he ever wrote. I recall her with affection and wish she could know about this reading today.

Hardy the poet is also taking a wistful look at the past. He remembers the fireside comfort of a gathered community, united in their shared belief in an ancient West Country legend: On Christmas Eve, farm animals instinctively kneel at the midnight moment of Christ’s birth.

The Oxen

Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.
“Now they are all on their knees,”
An elder said as we sat in a flock
By the embers in hearthside ease.

We pictured the meek mild creatures where
They dwelt in their strawy pen,
Nor did it occur to one of us there
To doubt they were kneeling then.

So fair a fancy few would weave
In these years! Yet, I feel,
If someone said on Christmas Eve,
“Come; see the oxen kneel,

In the lonely barton by yonder coomb
Our childhood used to know,”
I should go with him in the gloom,
Hoping it might be so.

Straightforward yet profound, this is a poem lyrically suspended between doubt and belief. The flow of its first two verses around past faith is broken as the poet shifts into present uncertainties and the halting mid-line shift of ‘Yet, I feel.’

Times have changed. The ‘we’ of community is now an isolated ‘I.’ Simplicity of faith has faltered - not least in the poet. And yet, and yet… if invited to the ‘lonely barton’ of childhood memory where the oxen knelt, he would set out, ‘Hoping it might be so.’ There’s a quiet ache for the recovery of what has been lost, with the poet willing to navigate a gloom that feels both external and internal, sustained by hope’s flicker. But no-one is asking, and he has yet to set out.

The poem’s ambivalence leads some to see it as ultimately piece. Others are drawn to the hope that is somehow surviving the odds. The presence of hope at all is remarkable: The Oxen was first published in The Times in 1915 - in the midst of a war that was supposed to have been over before the previous Christmas, and at the end of year in which the 75 year-old Hardy’s second cousin had been killed in action in Gallipoli.

Of course, there is no way back. Childhood faith gets stretched and battered along the way as we face life’s adult challenges. It is vulnerable to being lost but has the potential to be honed and deepened, to become more nuanced, less brittle.

Advent is characterised by expectation, a season of darkness that looks towards the coming of the light; an invitation to keep travelling, gloom notwithstanding, to find the faith that does not slap doubt down, but that lies beyond it.

There are beliefs I have left behind on my faith journey, but hope continues to lead me on towards places of discovery rather than recovery. I find myself becoming both more grounded the essentials and less certain about the peripherals - as I seek to discern which is which.

Writing Suggestion

Take two parts of you that are contradictory e.g. faith and doubt; fear and courage; hope and disappointment; peace and anxiety; lamentation and celebration; solitary and social.

Write a dialogue between your chosen inner pair. What questions does one quality have for the other ? What might each need to say to the other? What does each one need to hear? Where/what is the focus of each one’s attention? Can they find a creative counter-balance between them?

Afterwards, write a few sentences reflecting on what has emerged for you.

( It’s helpful to set out dialogue writing as if you are writing a play. Listen for what each character wants to say as you put words on the page. Each side needs to be honest, even if responding to a question with ‘I don’t know the answer to that’)

Chester Cathedral Carols at Christmas

Chester Cathedral’s Festival of Lessons and Carols for Christmas takes place on Sunday 21st December and again on Christmas Eve , both at 6pm.

All are welcome. If you are unable to book a (free) place online, there will be some seats set aside for those who arrive on the day.

For those too far away, there is the opportunity to join us online, as the occasion is livestreamed

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I bite my lip and go through a door headed Information. It’s basically a staffed ticket-sale facility, but there’s nowhere else to go. The man behind the glass listens courteously, but across his impassive features I see a flicker of scepticism about my odds of ever being re-united with my bank cards. ‘There’s no Lost Property Office here,’ he explains. No shit, Sherlock. But he offers to put in a call.

I wait, unable to follow this one-sided phone conversation in high- velocity Swedish. But then, amidst the hurtle of sentences, I catch a momentary surprised uplift in tone. I dare to hope for some positive news as he comes off the phone.

‘Well they have it,’ he says, ‘but it’s at the Police Station. You have to collect it and it’s too far to walk. So you’ll take the bus. It’s a number 7 and it stops just across the road.’ He points through the station to an exit door onto a busy main highway. ‘The next bus is in 5 minutes.’

My remaining Swedish krona cover the ticket and I catch the bus. No matter that I cannot pronounce where I’m going. The whole route is electronically displayed for passengers. I count down the 7 minutes it will take to reach Alvsborgsgatan, where I’m told the police station is located.

I’m not sure what I expected, but as we pull up, there’s no Scandi Dixon of Dock Green ready to meet and greet, no neon-lit Polisstation sign in sight. I’m looking at a few buildings dotted across the landscape here and there around this wide dual-carriageway at the city’s edge.

I ask the bus driver for directions. She points out where the pavement slopes down towards an underpass. ‘Go through that,’ she says. ‘The Police Station is on the other side.’ She waves vaguely towards isolated clusters of variously high multi-storeys.

Navigating the underpass is straightforward. But then the path forks. One way leads to one set of tall buildings; the other dips under a road towards a further set. Offices or apartments? At this distance it’s hard to tell.

There’s hardly anyone around. A random, windswept man approaches apace on a scooter. I try to hail him but he scoots on. Then down the path comes a teenage girl, immaculately neat in Muslim dress.

’The Police Station? Yes. You go under that road over there. It is up on the other side.’

‘So, through that underpass and then I’ll see the Police Station?’ I want to be sure.

‘Yes. Exactly. Have a nice day.’

I wish her the same and follow her instructions, emerging from the second underpass to see a police car parked by the building ahead. At last!

As my card tin is retrieved, I reflect that earlier today I’d assumed that by now I’d be sitting in Copenhagen savouring a smorrebrod, not checking in with the Swedish police. But hey-ho, it’s just a different adventure.

The tin is shell-smooth in my hands. And not a single card missing. I’d imagined that this moment would have me dancing in jubilation. As it is I’m worn out. I just want to get back to Denmark.

As I walk up the slope towards the main road, I spot a bus-stop. Great! I scan the board. Clearly every passing bus is bound for Helsingborg Central. Yes! Within minutes, an orange and purple bus appears. Hooray! I present my credit card with a flourish. Off we go!

The bus-driver is unimpressed. ‘You can’t buy a ticket like this. That’s for the green bus. You have to get your ticket over there.’ He points across the road to a bland-windowed office building back on the other side. Perhaps I look as crest-fallen as I feel, as he adds, ‘But it’s OK. You can ride now.’

This is just about the kindest act of the day. As I leave the bus I tell him,’Bless you. You don’t know how much this has meant to me today.’

Soon I’m through to the railway station and onto the Copenhagen train. The journey feels long and is wearily familiar: the flat landscape; sere of arable fields giving way to industrial parks on town outskirts; graffiti decorating the bridges; a glimpse of the pretty, historic city of Lund.

I look at my watch. It’ll be 3pm by the time I arrive in Denmark. It’s been non-stop since 10. Yet I’ve been nourished by so many incidental kindnesses on my way. Most of all, by the Unseen Deliverer of my card tin into safe hands and police custody.

We approach Copenhagen Central and a reprise of the graffiti here, which includes a very prominent FEAR NOTHING. That’s certainly gained some traction for me these last few hours. I see again Copenhagen’s Kaktus Towers and am struck by how my day resembles them - somewhat awry but oddly beautiful.

Back at the hotel’s Reception Desk I ask, ‘ Shall we start check in again? I have my driving licence.’ The Receptionist is amazed. She’s been concerned. She’s even talked to her boss about getting cash out for me if I did a bank transfer to her account.

A wonderful offer, but all I want now is to unwind with a coffee and a crossword, eat in the hotel’s restaurant and enjoy a cosy night in. It’s getting dark and drizzly outside.

‘Could I book a table for an evening meal?’ I ask the Receptionist.

‘Sorry,’ she replies. ‘Our restaurant’s closed on Mondays.’

If you’ve made it to the end of tale, well done and thank-you. My journey aside, I’m interested in supporting you in wrting through your unwanted journeys, and the heartfelt and creative words that might emerge on your way. Your situation may well be far more challenging than a few missing bank cards.

Rather than read more, you may prefer to listen to my recent podcast conversation about my book Writing the Journeys We Never Wanted to Make. You can track it down here. And I’d love to hear how you’ve tackled your own unplanned adventures.

I’ve just travelled by train from Helsingborg in Sweden after a wonderful - but challenging - Write for Life conference. I’ve been looking forward to a change of gear, a couple of days exploring the city before flying home. Now, my body stiffens. I feel like a cartoon character turned into ice, freezing stock-still head to toe and then shattering as parts crack and break off. My longed-for Copenhagen dream is dropping to the ground, piece by piece.

I hear myself mumbling to the Receptionist, ‘I have nothing. I have nothing. ‘

Except suddenly I do: A flash of memory, of navigating the Swedish train ticket machine; unsuccessfully swiping my credit card to access the ladies’ toilet; a young girl nodding me through the disabled toilet’s open door; putting down my card tin; rushing, anxious about being able to get out as I had not paid to enter. I realise I’ve left my cards on the baby change surface in a Helsingborg Central Station toilet.

‘You’re talking about Helsingborg, Sweden?’ says the Receptionist. She makes a quick phone call. ‘There doesn’t seem to be a Lost Property Office there,’ she tells me. ‘You need to go back to where you think you left it, because if it’s not there you’ll have to talk to the Police.’

She lets me check in. I can see Copenhagen Station from my hotel room window. Soon I’m heading back over there, light on luggage, heavy in heart. I have enough Danish krone to purchase a return ticket for the one-and-a-quarter hour journey on the Oresund line, across the bridge from Denmark back to Sweden and up the coast to Helsingborg Central.

I feel numb and powerless. I’m the praying sort, and that’s pretty well all I’ve got going for me just now. But I could do with some back-up. I think of Jo, a long-time Christian friend of such deep faith she often seems more in tune with heaven than earth. If I’m looking for the biggest prayer gun in town, she’s the one.

I chance a text : ‘Hi Jo. If you’re around, I need prayer urgently right now.’

Within a minute, a reply: ‘I’m on it.’ It occurs to me it might help to fill her in a bit. I text: ‘I am safe but am in Denmark. And my bank cards are in Sweden. About to get on the train to track them down.’

She replies: ‘He will lead u 2 them. I’ve prayed protection on them. Keep trust in the Lord. Focus on his power. You are not alone.’

As the train heads north I sit quiet, breathe deep, and focus on trusting. I feel held in pocket of calm in this carriage. Other ‘carriages’ race around inside my head. In one, a figure shivers with anxiety. In another, Self-Recrimination and Self-Justification are having a stand-up fight. But I can’t afford to waste energy there. And somewhere else, there’s a table piled high with papers as a team devises contingency plans for endless What If? scenarios. I need to stay put and stay calm.

Gradually I settle. I remind myself that I’ve not been taken ill or injured. I have two nights bed and breakfast, plane flight home all paid for, plus enough cash to get to the airport. It won’t exactly be a gold star break, but there’ll be a way through. I could call the travel agent. There’s friends from the conference not too far away. And it’s not as if I’ve left my cards on a cafe table. They’re in a locked room, well away from the mainstream.

We approach Helsingborg Central and my heart-rate rises a notch. I’ve been carried along so far. Now it’s time to act. Not knowing where to start, I wander aimlessly back to the incident site and try the toilet door. Rather foolish - I couldn’t unlock it even when I had my cards.

There’s a shop close by. The assistant says she has just come on shift, so does not know if anything has been handed in. ‘But people sometimes do bring over things left in the toilets, because there’s no Lost Property Office here.’ Yes, I know. She’ll check. As she opens the counter drawer I see a wallet and a driving licence. Sadly not mine. She suggests I try the snack shop opposite.

I explain my predicament to the man behind the counter, grateful for how everyone I speak to understands English and responds in kind.

He tells me nothing has been handed in, and that the station does not have a Lost Property Office. Oh really? He makes a quick phone call to what I assume is Head Office, but to no avail. He says, ‘The only thing you can do is pay to get back into the toilet and see if your cards are there.’ And just how will I do that?

’Will someone be coming over to help?’ I ask. I think he has said yes so I head back to the disabled toilet and wait. No-one comes. Someone asks me if I’m in the queue for the nearby cashpoint. If only.

After ten minutes or so I stop a well-dressed woman emerging from the ladies’ toilet and ask if she would use her card to unlock the disabled toilet for me. She waves away my proffered Swedish krona and sticks her card into the door mechanism to open it Aaah, so that’s how it works - slot not swipe!

I stride into the cubicle. The cards are not there.

To be continued tomorrow…. meanwhile

Whilst this journey does not feature in my book, writing it up here linked me back to the processes I describe in Writing the Journeys We Never Wanted to Make. I went through some Reacting and Re-orientating for sure. There was no Resisting of this journey, however, as there was absolutely no pay-off whatsoever from avoiding what I needed to face!

Writing about significant experiences after the event can help us put the pieces together. Do you have a journey that you need to make peace with/about? How would it be to track it through in words?

Sixty or so of us have gathered here at Sundsgarden Conference Centre, on the outskirts of Helsingborg. We’re taking part in Write for Life, Sweden’s first expressive writing conference, the culmination of the pioneering vision of therapeutic writing educator and author Emelie Hill Dittmer . This Saturday afternoon she is leading us in a practical writing session. We’re being drawn to write into deep places. But we are taking our time.

Emilie’s own journey of writing for healing has particularly attuned her to the trauma-sensitive aspect of this practice. She emphasises that when exploring ourselves through the pen, it’s important to care for and protect ourselves alongside the courage and trust we need to enter vulnerable territory. We’re also encouraged to cultivate a spirit of curiosity and openness, and avoid being too quick to judge what we find.

Our writing moves through three stages: Preparation; Breakthrough and Integration. We begin by warming up. We breathe deeply and fully, and start to write some sentences between each breath.

Emilie quotes author Michele Weldon’s words comparing the writing process to ‘walking into a dark house,’ that our words will illuminate. There is no compulsion to push to an extreme. ‘You don’t have to go down into the darkest basement room...You can open the doors and peek in at your own pace.’

So we write our way into the home of our inner life, wandering through its premises till we reach the door to our innermost room. Emilie leads us gently. To head straight for that door risks going too raw too soon. We need to peel back the layers sheltering whatever may emerge into the light for healing.

In the second, deepest phase of the writing, we are asked to imagine a door standing before us. ‘What am I going to write about?’ I wonder on the page. My thoughts seize first on a real door - the outside door to our garage room. The lock’s faulty, but the locksmith won’t touch it as the hinges are out of kilter. It still needs sorting… but that’s a distraction. I’m also becoming aware of a quiet inner door. It looks stuck shut, yet it is inviting me closer, albeit reluctantly. I write, ‘ Somewhere there is a faulty door I cannot lock. Here there is a door I need to open. One door is on my mind. One door is in my mind.’

The writing I do next remains between myself and the page. Suffice it to say that it was around the area of trust and faith ( something that was to be tested very soon - but that’s the next post…) As we write, the room pulses with a profound, absorbed hush.

We come into the Integration phase by sharing what we wish with our neighbour. We’re asked to reflect on where we have made a discovery or re-connection. For me this is never an either/or. Time and again I’ve had that extraordinary experience that deep writing can bring: As I re-read my words I feel both surprise at what has emerged and a sense of recognition. I am re-connected to what I realise I’ve known all along, but that had dropped out of my conscious line of vision.

As we complete the session, Emelie quotes the words of author Louise de Salvo,’ Slow writing is a way to find, or to return to our authentic souls.’ We feel their resonance.

Attending to Tempo

The process of writing slow was a central feature across the whole two-day conference. Whilst our keynote presenters, Mark Matousek and Jackee Holder brought their own distinctive take, both encouraged expressive writing that was slow, focussed and reflective.

Jackee Holder described journalling as a skills-based practice that becomes more effective as we hone it: ‘It’s not just dumping and ruminating.’ Her workshop began with a a short meditation exercise, followed by some moments of attentive gazing at our surroundings. We picked up our pens only when we were slowed and settled - less a dive-bombing into deep water, more a walk down through the shallows, allowing the water-level to rise gently.

Mark Matousek encouraged us to focus our writing on a question, advising us to ’take time with it. Dig deep and resist the temptation to include everything. This is not free-writing.’

This call to write slow has made me re-appraise the tempo of journal-writing. Often I’ve started a workshop with some faster-paced free-flow work, with the emphasis on putting down words continuously. The mantra of this approach is simply ‘Keep Writing.’ Keep writing without thinking about where it is going, or the accuracy of spelling or punctuation. If you don’t know what to write next, then write ‘I don’t know what to write next,’ until something occurs.

These initial, timed free-flow writes aim both to face down the blank page’s stare and to outpace the inner critic that can so limit and inhibit what we write. The urgency of the exercise bypasses the luxury of filtering our words, and opens up the possibility of some deep and honest material breaking through to land on the page.

Such writing can offer flashes of insight that can then be explored in more detail. To harvest this writing’s potential, it’s vital that we re-read it, noticing what may have emerged and concluding with a note to self about what we wish to take away. This can be very valuable. After an initial free-flow write in one workshop, one participant tossed down her pen and said, ‘Well, that’s it! If nothing else comes up for me today, the rest of the morning will still have been worthwhile.’

Writing Smorgasbord

I personally find some swift free-writing a valuable practice in getting my own process started. It creates momentum and and allows me to write freely as I tell myself ‘it’s only a draft.’ Sometimes the ideas it generates are surprisingly fruitful, suggesting a direction or helping me discover I know more than I realised. It gives me some substance to work with on the page. It’s how I’ve started this piece.

But my time in Sweden re-connected me with the beauty and joy of slow writing: Writing that does not elbow the inner critic out of the way, but rather slips politely past, quietly insistent on paying attention to what lies beyond and below; writing that consciously involves the whole being, with mind, body and spirit breathed into a place of calmness; writing that is fundamentally interwoven with listening, ever more deeply.

I’d arrived at Helsingborg after a busy week, flying to Copenhagen in a plane travelling at hundreds of miles an hour, then straight on to train and taxi to complete the journey. And then I stopped, staying in one place with like-minded people, with space to become grounded. To breathe. And write.

Slow writing brought me fresh insight, re-connection, and enjoyment too. But perhaps just as important, it gave me a renewed appreciation of the rich flexibility of expressive writing as a whole. The practice is not confined to one tempo. It’s there for us whether our pens can hardly keep up with the flow of feelings, thoughts and ideas streaming through them, or whether they are slowly forming the words whispering from the depths of our being.

Like the variety of foods presented at a Sundsgarden Conference breakfast, we have a tasty array of writing options open to us, as we choose the appropriate approach for each occasion.

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Writing Suggestion

Explore and experiment with tempo in your writing.

Think about an issue on your mind and ask yourself a question about it. Or, if nothing suggests itself, take the question; ‘What is really going on for me right now?’ Free-flow write about this for five minutes, along the ‘keep writing, keep writing ‘ lines.

Afterwards, take a few deep breaths, and re-read your writing , asking yourself what you notice. Highlight, circle or underline any words/phrases/sentences that feel significant to you . Select one of these and write it at the top of your next page..

Now begin to write again, exploring why this word/these words have stood out for you. Come gently into this writing. Take time to pause, to breathe, to listen for any deeper material that might be seeking to surface. Write for 10 minutes.

Re-read your writing and identify anything that feels significant. Write some sentences reflecting on what has emerged from your experience of fast, and then slow, writing. In what circumstances would you use each approach?

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This was grief, presented flawlessly through interpretative dance, all the more stunning as its performer introduced it by saying, ’It’s the first time I’ve ever done anything like this.’

The occasion of this moving debut was the open mic at a creative workshop in the Garret Theatre in Storyhouse, Chester, the city’s independent arts centre. The workshop was part of the September’s Storyhouse Childless, a unique annual week-end festival specifically for those childless for whatever reason. It’s been going since 2015, attracting participants from all over the UK and beyond.

This was my first visit to an event on my doorstep that I’d never actually attended, despite being childless myself. I guess there were reasons why not. Involuntary infertility has become integrated into my life - an element, but not a definition, of my identity. I am ‘parenting’ other creative projects these days. One such is my Writing the Journeys We Never Wanted to Make, which includes aspects of my own infertility journey. In writing it I’ve revisited this journey, and it felt like a good time to re-connect with some fellow travellers.

I stepped into Storyhouse’s foyer to find an atmosphere alive with the rise and fall of animated voices; warm smiles of recognition and bodies leaning forward in greeting. Clusters of people - mostly women - many wearing brightly-coloured, green-ribboned lanyards, milled around tables, drinking coffee till the tannoy’s summons to the main auditorium.

As a week-end pass holder I was also sporting this eye-catching lanyard. I felt immediately both marked out and included in my tribe. As I stood amidst re-unions between Childless regulars, my own lanyard was a discreet invitation to start a conversation and make a new friend.

Soon I was part of the buzz, talking with those with whom I felt an underlying understanding of something held in common alongside the many differences between us. Those who inhabit the landscape of living without children are there for various reasons - involuntarily, through infliction, circumstance or the choice to live child-free. Each one’s pathway is unique, and we are at different stages along the way.

It was a week-end of creativity, colour and energy. Events ranged from a keynote presentation on Pronatalism and societal assumptions around child-bearing to panels and discussion groups on childlessness as experienced from the perspective of being single, gay, in chronic illness and ageing. The range of emotions was palpable too, from tears to defiance, anxiety to settledness and joy in purposeful living beyond biological parenthood.

Both speakers and participants were open in sharing their own stories. We knew we were in a safe space, encouraged not just to talk, but to listen to each one’s unique experience, holding it to ourselves unless we had express permission to disclose it. A recurring thread over the week-end was the assumptions and expectations placed upon those without children - something the creative workshops helped us reflect on and respond to.

Of course, the diverse and complex world of any particular group can easily go unseen by those outside it. The week-end also made wonder what assumptions and expectations I might be placing on groups other to me. And what creativity could be unlocked, on page, stage or in life generally, as a safe space enables us to dance in a new way for the very first time.

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Some Journalling Suggestions

What assumptions do you feel others make about you ? Write your response. What do you want them to know?

How do expectations (internal or external) impact your life? Write about what it would be like to live without them.

Is there something in your locality - an event, a place - that you have know about but have never been to? Make time to go and write about what you find.

When we felt around his shoulder, it was oddly squelchy. Merlin had been in a cat fight, suffered a bite and developed an impressively large abscess. I will spare you the details of its initial treatment by the Vet. But just these last few days, Merlin is yet again staying put under the furniture for hours, and his shoulder-blades have become puffy to the touch. Another fight lost. Another abscess gained. Some cats never learn.

Doing what you’ve done before and getting the same smelly and painful results gives repetition a bad name. It can also be associated with becoming stale and stuck in a rut. In Virginia Woolf’s novel To the Lighthouse, William Bankes makes his annual visit to his friend Mr Ramsay. Yet he reflects that ‘the pulp had gone out of their friendship.’ For Bankes, ‘repetition had taken the place of newness… It was to repeat that they met.’

Yet intentional repetition can also be part of the process of building good habits with positive consequences. Repetitions’s superpowers can be cumulative. I repeat physical exercises to grow my body’s strength or flexibility. They also include sustainability. I need to repeat the process of eating as my digestive system cannot process a week’s meals at one sitting.

When it comes to the arts, I may see more in a painting, film or play on a re-viewing; I may be discover more layers, previously un-noticed details, fresh insights, a deeper resonance. in a poem or work of fiction. In fact, for me, one of the tests of a quality test is whether more emerges in a repeat reading. (Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird, a school text I taught several times, passed with flying colours)

And what if that text is our own writing? I’m currently re-reading a book of meditations that I first worked through a year ago. Alongside each day’s material there is a blank page for some personal journalling. So I am now also re-reading my own writing.

This faces me with what has changed. My life-situation has changed and in some ways I have too, seeing things a little differently from a year ago. I notice too the concerns and values that have not changed. This may not be a negative thing. As I write again about values and priorities, putting words on the page becomes a way of reminding myself of what matters to me, re-setting my compass to the things I want to keep front and centre.

There are some challenges: I’ve expressed intentions that I’ve not managed to take forward, and I need to look at what that’s about. But I’ve also found things to celebrate: issues that were a problem a year ago have been resolved; intentions I’d set myself I’ve finally followed through and done.. including this first substack post.

Some questions to ponder….

What response does the word repetition stir in you? Where are the positive and/or negative repetitions in your own life?

What do you find yourself re-visiting, re-watching, re-reading ? And why? Is to re-experience a familiar pleasure or enhance it?

Choose a piece of your own journaling to re-read. Write about what you notice.

I’d love to hear how you get on.