Category: Personal

Reflections about my life.

When you step out of your comfort zone …
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"... 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 …
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"... 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 …
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"... 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
How to offset busy times with me-times …
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"... self-imposed exile 
from the day to day 
allows space to breathe 
experience gentle abundance 
of your choosing
take as long as you need ..." 
```
This month I’ve been doing some of the jobs I’ve put off for way too long. I could blame lack of time, but if I’m honest, lack of motivation is more of an issue. And once I make a start, it’s hard to maintain momentum because it usually takes twice as long as I anticipated. Such was my feeling last week when I decided to tackle the loft. But I persevered, and it was worth the effort. Three days later the loft was transformed and now I can find things because the boxes are labelled.

There are things you plan to sort out, which is bad enough, but when unexpected problems crop up, it’s even worse. I’ve lost count of the obstacles laid across my path over recent months, forcing me to change plans and lose days to dealing with an unexpected problem.

In times such as this, it’s vital to maintain some balance in your life; otherwise it can feel like the world is against you, lobbing endless problems in your direction. It’s generally accepted that you can’t control what happens in life; the only thing you can control is your response. I absolutely believe that. But I’ll also say that it helps to find balance; it’s within your power to counter the obstacles with alternatives. They could be openings, gateways or distractions. Call them what you will.

This past week, I took time out of sorting the latest crisis, to attend two events that I had pre-booked and was determined not to miss. The first was a pottery painting workshop. I spent two blissful hours messing about with paint, sponge shapes and brushes. I lost myself in the activity, not thinking once about the pesky issues life keeps delivering to my door. On another day, I went to what was titled a wild swimming retreat. I again met a wonderful bunch of women, each overcoming their own obstacles. We walked along sea cliffs, spotting puffins, and sharing a delicious picnic lunch, before finally swimming in the sea. During the day, we were invited to share our stories (only if we wanted to), using things on the beach to represent how we were feeling. A common theme in our sharing was searching for balance, voicing the need to have space to be ourselves.

I wrote this week’s poem back in April, after listening to a couple of radio programmes about people making religious pilgrimages. It’s fair to say, I think, that most people would in the past have associated the idea of pilgrimage with religion, but not so much these days. My idea of pilgrimage is of journey, and it doesn’t have to be physical. It’s associated in my mind with retreat, which for me is about taking time away from the rigours of daily life, to focus on you. It can take many forms.

I know someone who, this week, is taking part in the Montane Summer Spine Race, a gruelling 268 miles, which must be completed within 156 hours. I can’t think of anything worse but it’s her way of investing in herself, and I completely get that. For others, it might be devoting yourself to watching the Word Cup or Wimbledon, reading a book or walking the dog.

It’s the intention behind how we spend our time that matters. I could easily spend all my time on those jobs that I’ve put off. It would be satisfying and purposeful to some degree, but hugely frustrating. I’d end up feeling resentful. I need me-time to reconnect with myself. Without it, I would be lost.

I genuinely believe we’ll all have something we love to do, just for us. What is yours? When is the last time you did that thing? If you can’t remember, then now is the time!

pilgrimage Download
17/06/2026
Why gathered treasure is irresistible …
```
"... if I had to choose 
one thing to save 
I couldn’t decide 
I’d let it all go 
knowing what I need 
will find me ..." 
```
I’ve been listening to the podcast The Clearing, with Katherine May, which has recently returned for a second series. I love the idea of sanctuary; imagining where you’d go to find rest and recharge your batteries. Guests are invited to describe their ideal place, to talk about what they’d take with them, what they would do whilst there, and what they might bring back. Many guests chose to take a keepsake, and this is often a stone.

It got me thinking about all the things I’ve gathered from places where I’ve felt rested and restored; keen to hold onto that same feeling when returning to my busy life. Stones and sand both feature heavily in my collection. Sometimes I feel guilty, thinking they belong back where I found them. Then I tell myself that we are all in transit on this earth, and this detour is part of their journey but not the end. They will no doubt outlive me and find their way back to where they need to be.

When I pick up a stone, or a handful of sand, it doesn’t feel much, but it adds up to a lot in my modest home. Bookshelves play host to many a talisman, windowsills and mantelpieces also take the strain. Even the corner of the bath obliges, where Hebridean stones change colour whenever the bathroom is hot and steamy. They soak up moisture as we soak in the bath. It feels companionable.

I don’t think of myself as materialistic; I’m not a hoarder. But I can’t resist a smooth pebble, soft sand or pine cones. It’s the memories they evoke that I love so much. I glance at a jar of sand on my windowsill and remember walking along that beach, listening to the waves and feeling the wind in my hair. I recall how I felt and the promises I made to myself to pay more attention to nature, to allow time just for me. It’s easy to be so caught up in our daily commitments, that we lose focus. I suspect we all need reminding about prioritising what really matters, whatever that may be. I know I do.

I’ve always treasured small things in which I bestow meaning. I learnt young just how much can be invested in material things, especially in church, where objects were revered. In our house, my father’s record player took pride of place, and vinyl was precious, to be handled with great care. Playing a record was a ritual almost as sacred as the priest at church holding up the host. That may sound flippant, but such was my 7-year-old view of the world.

Rituals help us make sense of the world. They keep us grounded: when it feels like everything is changing around us, you can always revert to what you know and trust. And rituals need props right? What’s a birthday cake without candles, a Christmas tree without decorations? You might have a favourite piece of jewellery that you always wear for a special occasion. It may be as simple as the mug from which you drink your coffee, and woe betide anyone else who uses it!

This week’s poem is the result of my reflecting on some of the things in my house that, on the face of it, seem worthless, but which mean a lot to me. I’d much rather collect a stone from a beach than purchase a souvenir in a gift shop. I invest a lot of myself in the things I gather around me. They act as shorthand, the equivalent of bookmarks in the story of my life, helping me navigate to my favourite bits, to revisit and remember. You might turn down the corner of a page in a book so you can go back to it. It’s the same idea. I appreciate the things around me, reminders of all I hold precious; I know they are shortcuts, it’s the memory that’s the real treasure. What things in your home do you value most and for what reason?

treasure Download

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03/06/2026