What Was Stolen (and a poem).
A few reflections on my tools of trade being stolen on New Years Day. What sentence that on which the story once hung so sweet? Which words of love and truth now miss their true intent?
Read MoreProse & Poetry
How Death Will Come To You and Us.
I am fascinated by how relationships transform as people move in and out of one anothers lives. I came across an old photograph and was struck by this idea: the story of a woman contemplating the changes in her life and how she will live always anticipating the death of…
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Skin Songs
When my heart is racing, it is easier to match it to the beat of another until I find my breath . When I am crawling out of my skin, your skin helps stitch me up again.
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Hey, Momma.
I was walking down town in San Francisco earlier last month. It, like most major American cities, has a large number of people sleeping rough, living on the edge in the streets. Often they bounce between shelters, odd jobs and asking for change. Walked past one woman, short hair, rough…
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The Words That Bind You To Me.
Words seem infinitely powerful at that moment. When the silence becomes an ache, and the ache an emptiness, and the emptiness cannot be filled, then words have the infinite power to restore, to birth, to create, to offer. Until the final word is spoken, hope remains and life endures in the breath and intonation of the phrases we choose to define the life we mourn.
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Marriage: A Garden – Poem.
More and more, I think that marriage isn’t about finding someone who ticks the boxes, with whom your life fits and feels complete – but choosing someone who you can build a life with. So the image of a garden seems appropriate – we don’t marry because we’ve discovered something beautiful, but because we want to create something beautiful.
Read MoreGirl At The Well – Poem.
I like to write; in that freeform manner where poems might be songs or just lilting prose. Sometimes I start and don’t finish for months, like this little piece about seasons, resources and trust.
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Dear American Honeymooners.
Your newness radiates off you in waves. You’ve just flown some 21 hours to the other end of the world to celebrate and the air around you is punctuated with your achievement. She looks frazzled and tired, he looks frustrated but calm as he tries to maintain patience.
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A Secret Love Of Paper.
I used to dream of being a writer. This morning, I just sent off the final edit of an article for a journal in the States, I’m anxiously awaiting the arrival of the printed version of a project I worked on for months last year. I have two manuscripts of my own underway – but most of the time, I only ever review my work on a screen. Oh, how I long for paper.
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Fierce.
We forget that the seasons of life do not move as quickly as the seasons of spring, winter and fall. For some of us, we have never been known in summer; in full bloom. Some of us are re-emerging, seen for the first time.
Oh, the possibility that we could see ourselves new again, recognising our strength, our beauty, our wonder as if for the first time and without fear.
What The Hell Just Happened…
Some of us just lived but never woke up. Some of us divorced, divorcing or cheating in public, in private – all of us still lonely somehow, even as we find ourselves in the places we never expected to be. Good or bad, who knows, who cares – we’re still fifteen and holding on to ourselves. Trying to let go and leap, trying to hold on to someone else just enough to let them be loved and be loved ourselves but not enough to kill it, the love in our hearts, the love in our life.
Read MoreThe Art Of Moving Furniture.
Whenever I begin to feel cluttered in my head, I can see the telltale signs in my environment. It starts in my car – a piece of paper left in one place for too long. A plastic water bottle that never gets put in the recycling bin. Then it travels…
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