Category: Personal

Reflections about my life.

When weather evokes memories …
```
"... who isn’t charmed 
by a wild flower meadow 
oxeye daisies stand tall 
battered poppies 
brave the wind
crane’s-bill and bindweed
line the lanes ..."
```
Well, what a summer it has been! The fields are parched, the hay is gathered early, and much of the country is in drought. But not yet in Yorkshire, although perhaps it’s just a matter of time.

We all have an opinion on the weather don’t we? But even the sun worshippers have to acknowledge, I think, that we need rain. I’m not about to get into a climate change debate, but I think it’s safe to say that the climate is changing. It makes me wonder where it will all end. The world continues to evolve and so, of course, do we.

I’ve been reflecting on how I’ve changed over the last few years, having reached some milestones in life. A year into retirement from my full time job, I’ve had the opportunity to do more of what I love and to spend more time with family and friends. I’ve found space to focus on creativity, to exercise and travel. I’ve thought a lot about how I am ageing. I can’t avoid it: I look in the mirror every day and see it looking back at me. And I welcome this older face, the grey curls, and the still bright eyes. If my social media algorithms are anything to go by, we are obsessed with ageing. So many of the podcasts I listen to tackle the subject of ageing, seeking to tell positive stories about how age can bring wisdom, freedom and fresh opportunities. So far, that’s been my experience.

It’s humbling to realise, as you age, that you are becoming the older generation. As what was the older generation die, you find you are filling the space they once filled. It’s a cycle as old as time. I have to pinch myself when I watch my nephew with his children, remembering the boy he was at their age. I watch my mother entering a decade that was once defined by my grandmother. I watch myself growing old, knowing it’s a privilege not everyone enjoys.

The summer of ’26 has taken me back to ’76, which was one of those defining summers in the UK. If you lived through it, you’ll remember it and can still talk about it. My friends and I had a habit of sitting on the pavement outside our houses to play. But we couldn’t that year because the tarmac was melting. I would’ve been in shorts and a t-shirt. There would, invariably, have been a plaster on my knee from some recent scrape. I was your typical tomboy; wouldn’t have been seen dead in a dress if I could help it. But I didn’t always get to choose. I occasionally wore a dress under duress and somehow lived to tell the tale. There was my First Holy Communion dress: white like a bride, complete with a ridiculous veil. All Catholic girls had to endure this torture and we bore it collectively, which took the edge off the humiliation. Then there was the bridesmaid dress, for a cousin’s wedding. My siblings both had new outfits, which they could and did wear afterwards. I had a pale green full length broderie anglaise affair that never again saw the light of day. Of course, the cousin later divorced, so it had all been for nothing.

My ten year old self would not recognise the woman I’ve become. I’ve evolved into a dress wearer. My collection is eclectic and plentiful: shirt dresses, maxi, floaty and fitted. This summer, dresses have been a life saver. You can’t beat a floaty number to keep you cool and feeling light. I will think of them fondly when, in winter, I am wrapped up against the cold and wet. The changing seasons will invite fresh insights and, of course, we’ll all have an opinion on the weather, whatever it brings. I hope that this very hot summer will have left you with memories to last a lifetime; that’s the best kind of summer in my book.

late summer Download
26/08/2026
When advice falls on deaf ears …
```
"... I now know 
I needn’t have worked 
so hard
to secure the spaces 
already mine to fill ..."
```
If you have lost someone you loved dearly, you’ll know that it doesn’t take much to bring them to the forefront of your mind. I’ve written previously about my best friend, who died of cancer when she was 49. (https://fiwynne.com/2025/09/24/how-life-is-never-the-same-following-bereavement-but-still-there-is-life/). Last week, she would have been 60, and I feel sure we would’ve done something special to celebrate. She fully embraced life, and wasn’t one to bemoan the passing of years.

It got me thinking of the many things she taught me. It’s no surprise, given my stubbornness, that her voice wasn’t the only one expressing concern about some of my choices. I’ve lost count of how many people, over the years, have told me to slow down, not work too hard, or take life too seriously. I knew they spoke from a place of love and yet still I didn’t listen.

I worked incredibly hard at my job because I felt I had to. It’s just what I did. It’s only now, with hindsight, that I recognise the self-doubt, always bubbling just below the surface. The fact is, I lacked faith in my natural ability. I know I’m not unique in that. There are studies that have shown women have to work twice as hard to be considered half as good as their male counterparts. But being as good as the men wasn’t my key driver; it was me. I was the hardest person to convince that I merited success. As a result, I spent years over-preparing, putting in the extra hours so that I felt capable and confident. It led to burn out more than once.

Why do we do this to ourselves? Why are we so often the last person to see what is obvious to everyone around us? Why, even when our most trusted people, give us advice, can’t we listen? I don’t know the answer, but for me anyway, I think it’s about needing to find our own way through life. That means making mistakes and picking up the pieces afterwards. I will always be grateful to my parents for allowing me the freedom to make mistakes and learn at my own pace. There must have been times when they despaired at my choices but they rarely said anything.

I wrote this week’s poem as I was approaching the end of my working life and the beginning of my retirement. It coincided with the near end of my 50’s. It was a packed decade of small triumphs, hard knocks, and many sleepless nights. A mixed bag, which is undoubtedly true for most of us.

The biggest lesson has been the hardest won. This year, I’ve reached that new decade, and realised that so much of what I fought for was already mine. I strove hard to achieve small wins that no longer feel important. But I’m not bitter. I look back at my younger, vulnerable self, with compassion. I can laugh at my mistakes and know they’ve shaped me.

I’ve finally reached the place of contentment that all those giving me advice knew was there for the taking; it just took me longer to get there. I’m grateful that they stuck with me, despite the fact I never listened! I feel sure that Karen would be proud, giving me that quizzical look that said, “what took you so long?”

towards sixty Download
29/07/2026
When you step out of your comfort zone …
```
"... how typical of my heavy thing 
not to be consumed 
even by fire 
persistent as always 
to go its own way ..."
```
I’ve recently been experimenting with my creativity, and pushing against the boundaries of my comfort zone. I think we all have our comfort zones, don’t we? I’ve never been a big fan of writing groups, preferring to retreat to a quiet, solo space. I say this even though I know that, when I do participate in group work, I nearly always gain some insight. However, I’m an introvert at heart.

This explains why I’ve taken to reading Beth Kempton’s book, The Way of the Fearless Writer, and trying out her writing exercises. It’s helpful I think, to explore alternative perspectives and ideas. But, as you will gather from this week’s poem, not all the exercises have gone quite the way I expected. When do they ever? That’s part of the joy of writing though isn’t it? As I explored in another post, you don’t always write what you think you will. (See: https://fiwynne.com/2026/04/29/when-what-you-create-surprises-you/). Deep buried thoughts have a habit of finding their way onto the page when you least expect. For me, that’s when the magic happens.

The instructions in the writing exercise seemed straight forward: focus on something negative in your life, find an object to represent it and then destroy the object, using fire. It’s supposed to bring a sense of release. Pretty standard stuff right? What could possibly go wrong? Read the poem to find out!

Despite the ensuing chaos, the lingering smell of smoke and the inevitable interruption from my husband, it wasn’t a complete disaster. It wasn’t a disaster because it inspired a poem. It did the job it was intended to do.

And, yes, I learnt something. It’s the same lesson on repeat: I need to stop taking myself so seriously, and learn to relax. I knew immediately where I’d gone wrong: I’d screwed up my piece of paper too tight. The fire couldn’t take hold because I gave it no room to breathe. That’s the story of my life right there! I’m the equivalent of that tight little ball of paper; I’m working on loosening the folds and allowing myself to breathe.

Of course, it’s not quite as simple as that, because I’m well aware that all the anxiety in my life is what also feeds my creativity. A songwriter I used to know once told me that he wrote much better songs when he was unhappy. Having met a partner and experienced happiness, he found it much harder to write. I can relate to that.

I acknowledge that anxiety is a great muse for poetry, but one of the reasons for experimenting with my writing practice is to discover and harness other sources of inspiration. I’m enjoying the process and happy to accept, as with any learning process, that some of it will work and some of it won’t. It’s all about balance at the end of the day. Anxiety isn’t about to disappear from my life, but that doesn’t mean it has to dominate or overshadow everything else.

The best thing of all about this exercise was that we laughed about it afterwards. That alone is worth the lingering smell of smoke that, admittedly, overstayed its welcome.

release Download
15/07/2026
How we reveal our true selves to the world …
```
"... I carry water 
in a side pocket 
but often forget it’s there 
I’m full of good intention 
but easily distracted 
by bookshops
cake and coffee ..."
```
The other day, whilst out road cycling, I stopped at a small cafe for tea and cake. I was off piste, and found myself trying a new-to-me place in a pretty market square east of York. It was a good choice: the tea was Yorkshire (of course!) and the fruit scone was delicious. But I felt out of place. There were four women on a table adjacent to me, two behind, and another two in the far corner. It was like one of those TV dramas, where everything, including the actors, are colour-matched. At each table, the women shared a particular palette, which once spotted, was hard to ignore. They were women of a similar age, beautifully groomed, chic outfits, expensive handbags. I stuck out like a sore thumb, clad in my lycra and bright cycling jersey. They ignored me, and I didn’t mind one bit.

Funny how we all have our tribes, our places to hang out, our choice of leisure interests and even pets. They say owners take on the look of their dogs, and perhaps there’s some truth in that; although it’s more likely that people choose pets that reflect their personalities. Of course, sometimes we might make very conscious choices to fit in and/or identify with a certain group, but I expect much of the time we do it without thinking. We make statements about ourselves all the time, purposefully or otherwise, in how we dress, where we eat, what we read etc.

I’ve been experimenting recently with some writing exercises, and was prompted to write about the contents of my handbag. This week’s poem is the result. I’ve always had trouble with handbags if I’m honest. I was very much a tom-boy growing up and didn’t possess a handbag until I was in my 20’s and working full time. When I joined a uniformed service, I was issued with an ugly, functional handbag of black leather. I was told in no uncertain terms, by colleagues, to banish said bag to the back of my locker, never to see the light of day again. I was happy to oblige.

Unlike our late queen and our first female PM, who made very firm statements with their handbags, I never knew what I was saying with mine. But when it comes to what’s inside my bag, well that’s less contentious. Before the invention of the smart phone, I would always carry paper and a pen of some kind. There were other stalwarts such as sanitary products (thankfully no more!), wallet and keys. Other items have changed over time. When living in London and travelling by pubic transport, there was always a book on the go. Nowadays, there’s usually water, my phone, yet more keys, and a stash of emergency medical supplies.

In writing this week’s poem, I’ve realised just how much my bag of choice and its contents, says about me. This revelation leaves me partly thinking, well, of course, that’s obvious, whilst also feeling incredulous that my bag and its contents give so much of me away. What about you? What kind of bag do you carry, and what’s inside it? How much does it say about you do you think? Write and ponder a list of what’s in there – you may or may not be surprised!

bags & baggage Download
01/07/2026
When something’s greater than the sum of its parts …
```
"... fountain pens 
are to be savoured 
like that first morning coffee 
freshly ground 
preparing for the day’s
thoughts to surface 
from within ..." 
```
I’ve been sorting through clutter, which is proving more of a challenge than it should be. If you live with someone who wants to keep everything, you’ll understand. That said, occasionally I find something in a box or drawer that I’d forgotten. I recently found the two fountain pens that were purchased as wedding gifts by me and my husband. Neither of us knew what the other had bought. We no doubt congratulated ourselves heartily for our supposed originality, only to laugh when we realised that we’d both bought the same thing.

I do still use a fountain pen, but had forgotten how beautiful my wedding pen was. It’s a Waterman with a tortoise shell casing, and a medium nib. It feels good in my hand, and the soft click as you return the cap is immensely satisfying. The pen I bought my husband is a Sheaffer, with a stainless steel barrel and cap, engraved with his name. He used it occasionally in the early years, but he prefers a ballpoint. It was thus consigned to a dresser drawer for the best part of 3 decades. Having rediscovered both pens, I determined to give them a new lease of life.

There are certain objects that command respect just for what they are; they amount to more than the sum of their parts. They carry a certain aura, that only deepens with age. Binoculars, for instance, fit into this category, as do musical instruments, manual typewriters and, of course, fountains pens. Perhaps everyone’s list of revered items is different, but I bet you can think of some. A brand new guitar may well be a thing of beauty, but an old classic has something more, don’t you think?

I love the way that the old and new can co-exist. I like to think, when using classic pieces in new ways, the past and present are uniquely connected. It’s just better, isn’t it, to use the binoculars that belonged to your dad, rather than the new pair you bought, even if the new pair are technically superior. Perhaps it’s just me.

Even though both wedding pens were completely dry, traces of old ink mingled with the new. It felt spooky; in my hand and on the page, they served as a bridge between my younger and present self. It took longer than I expected for the new ink to take hold and present true to colour. A lesson right there perhaps: we think we’ve let go of the past, but it lingers in our subconscious longer than we think. Okay, enough, I think I’ve stretched this metaphor as far as it will go!

Of course, it isn’t only old objects that can trigger memories and associations. I attended a family wedding in the spring, which was a joyous occasion. Inevitably, weddings always take me back to my own wedding day which, again, left me appreciating those pens and their rediscovery all the more. It also left me wondering what the modern day bride and groom had bought as gifts for each other. I hope those gifts, whatever they were, will be deeply appreciated for years to come. Then, even further down the line, when they rediscover them in a drawer or cupboard, they’ll bring renewed pleasure as they enjoy a new lease of life.

wedding pens Download
24/06/2026