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Scriptorium

What We Carry

I’m loaded down with a rucksack that is far too heavy, realising that my Everyday Carry game is, probably, way out of whack. The things I’m carrying about my body, probably, would also look ridiculous to the hardened nomad.

1. A suit jacket, black (wearing).

2. Handmade patchwork trousers, themselves the rebirth of a dozen grunge-era jeans.

3. A not-by-me handmade Indian shirt. Bright orange.

4. A deep purple shirt and purple tie.

5. A pirate-buckled waistcoat.

6. Assorted toiletries and a sleeping bag.

7. A laptop. Solar charger. Phone bank. Notebook and coloured pens.

8. Frankinsence cones. Lighter.

9. An antique rosary, dedicated Stella Maris.

10. A Mary Oliver book.

All this is far too much and indeed ridiculous, but I hope it fits the pilgrimage I’m undertaking; to the remembrances of two friends. I’m hoping that I’m only taking what I need – even if, right now, my needs feel very heavy, and my shoulders sometimes ache.

On Sorrow, Mary Oliver.

Landscape, Mary Oliver

 

Wayfinding Advisory Council

Way-finding (verb) cultural and personal practice; 1. To plot a course between two points of departure and destination…

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I’m in the middle of leaving a house of nine years and perhaps a country that has been a home for twenty – and so I shouldn’t be surprised to find myself stressed-out, disjointed, twitchy-limbed and generally disassociative. Manically ordering things into Keep, Kill, and Give Away boxes, before a memory in a bare kitchen forces you to resort said boxes. Moving is, I have realized, doing the Shell Game thing with your entire life.

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Remembering Trees: A Self-Care Ritual for World-Lovers

Weeell, as you may know, I have been hammering away at the Next Shiny Thing, another novel (CODENAME: Not-so-cozy) and have had to set it down to have a long think and reorder. In the meantime though, the Cityverse has some iiinteresting things in development, and for my own projects I appear to be writing Ecology/Joanna Macy inspired spoken-word/slam poetry.

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Breathe, I remind myself.

I’m standing on the uncompromising concrete of some western town, surrounded by glass and stop lights and hurried, tight faces. The world feels cold, and cruel, and small.

No, REALLY breathe, I have to say. Right down to the gut and back. Let it out slowly.

There. It feels better, don’t it?

I have to do this. I have to give these little moments to myself, to sprinkle them through the day like wildflowers. I like to think that there’s a thing that happens when we remember the gifts we carry: that the world feels more open somehow, more comforting, more exciting.

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