Tag: 2026

Why space exploration has me gripped …
```
"... our beautiful world 
feels anything but stable 
thin are the spaces
where reason can thrive 
wide are the chasms 
peacemakers must cross ..."
```
Have you, like me, been captivated by the Artemis II mission? I have a feeling that you’ll be in one of two camps: half the world have caught space-fever and the other half think it’s a complete waste of money, time and effort. Space exploration is a bit like marmite: you either love or hate it. Not many sit on the fence when it comes to space.

I’ll admit, I wasn’t always so enthusiastic. The first time I visited Florida, I went to the Kennedy Space Centre, because my husband wanted to go. I’m not sure I would’ve gone unprompted. I found it interesting, yes, but I wasn’t entirely won over; I held it at arms length. As it turned out, our visit was somewhat cut short because we happened to be there in September 2001. Half the exhibits were closed due to security concerns following 9/11. That suited my attention span just fine.

My second visit was entirely different. We went again in 2014, and spent the best part of the day seeing everything we could. I was blown away by the size of the Saturn V rocket and the opportunity to stand closer to Space Shuttle Atlantis than I could ever have imagined. I was awe-struck by the vision of the engineers, the bravery and skill of the astronauts and the technological advances that have benefitted us here on earth. Did you know, for example, that laser surgery is just one of the medical advances that has the space programme to thank?

So, this week, I’ve been listening to updates about Artemis II with keen interest. I’ve gasped at the photographs of earth and recall the photos taken during previous missions. Back in the 1960’s, it must have been incredible to see an image of our entire earth for the first time. Still, in the 21st century, it’s hard not to be moved by such a sight.

I was only 3 years old when Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin landed on the moon. I don’t remember it at all. It was the same year that my brother was born and I don’t remember that either! So much has happened in the world since 1969 and yet, at first glance, the photos sent back from Artemis II don’t look all that different from the ones taken by the Apollo astronauts. But things do look and feel different in countless ways. No doubt the ice caps and the coral reefs look smaller; the world population is larger; and we don’t appear to have learnt anything from history. War, sadly, is alive and well.

This week’s poem is very hot off the press and is the result of my pondering about the current world situation. The difference between my excitement at the space mission and my despair regarding the war in the Middle East could not be more pronounced. Of course, I know it’s simplistic and naive, but am I the only one thinking, how come the human race can be so innovative and destructive at the same time? This is just one of many questions. I’m also wondering: How can humans demonstrate compassion towards one other and yet demonise one other at the same time? How can we claim to care about preserving our planet and yet deny or minimise climate change?

It doesn’t make sense to me. Of course, I know that I’m considering opposing ends of the spectrum here, and there’s a whole range of nuanced viewpoints in between Nothing is ever straight forward and I can’t begin to truly understand what’s going on. I can only know how it feels from where I’m standing. The space programme makes me feel small, but in a good way; the situation in the Middle East makes me feel helpless, in a bad way. Finding the middle ground between those two feelings is not easy but it’s what I’m grappling with right now. And it feels important to keep trying to make sense of things. To paraphrase JFK’s famous quote, it’s worth doing, not because it is easy, but because it is hard.

earth Download
08/04/2026
When old traditions take on new meaning …
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"... I think I understand 
why wild animals hesitate 
when they are released
back into the wild 
what has been is known 
and what is known feels safe ..."
```
This week’s poem is a complicated one to categorise by year. It was first written in 2016, soon after the death of my best friend, but I’ve recently reworked it. Funny how a poem that once felt finished can be reborn. I suppose it’s a fitting reflection on how grief works. It is never still and never truly leaves you. It evolves.

The title of the earlier version of this poem was Easter Saturday. I was later advised by a good friend, that I was mistaking Easter Saturday, (which is the first Saturday after Easter), with Holy Saturday, (which is the last day of Holy Week). It was on Holy Saturday 2016 when the earlier poem was written, on that mourning day between the death and resurrection of Jesus. It was always a quiet, meditative day in the Catholic world of my childhood. Holy has become an uncomfortable word for me, although it does appear in the poem. According to Wikipedia, another name for Holy Saturday is Easter Eve. I prefer that; like Christmas Eve, it feels anticipatory.

It’s safe to say, I think, that we’ve all experienced significant endings in our lives. Be that the death of someone you loved, or perhaps a bereavement or closure of another kind. You might have felt a sense of loss when a job has come to an end, a study course or a great holiday. Perhaps you’ve experienced an empty nest when your child has gone off to university or on a gap year (don’t worry … they’ll probably be back!). I’m told that many people feel an aching loss when they retire (not my own experience!). Whatever it is or has been, it’s often hard to let go and move on. Depending on the nature of your loss, you may feel you never can. Life doesn’t return to normal following a bereavement, for example, but it eventually shifts, continuing in a different way.

It’s sometimes tempting to stay in your version of Easter Eve, whatever it may be. Queen Victoria famously never stopped mourning the death of Prince Albert, withdrawing from public life for over a decade. There’s that poignant scene in the film Hamnet, when Agnes lingers in the home she must vacate for a new house in Stratford. It is the place, of course, where her young son died. It’s a silent scene because words are unnecessary. Everyone can surely sense and understand her reluctance to leave.

There are moments in life when we wish time would stop. It most often happens to me when I’m experiencing something joyous, such as hiking recently with my cousin. I didn’t want the day to end; instead I wanted to cling onto that sense of being on top of a mountain with someone who had known me all my life. But it can also happen when experiencing a huge sadness; the feelings are so raw and deeply personal, you need time to sit with them. You want to feel the full force of that sadness, because it’s where you feel deeply connected to your loved one (or other experience). It somehow feels trivial to deal with everything else. Suddenly, your daily routines feel mundane and perhaps even meaningless.

That’s how I felt after that loss in 2016. Eventually, I gave myself a talking to, using language I’d never adopt with a friend. I told myself to pull myself together and stop wallowing in self pity. Harsh words. I wouldn’t talk to myself that way now.

Looking back, I can empathise with both sides of how I was feeling. I wanted to stay in my place of sadness, where I still felt connected to Karen, but at the same time, I knew I had to reconnect to the present, and to my life. It’s not an easy path to navigate and, on reflection, I appreciate the idea of Easter Eve. It creates a bridge between loss and new life, in whatever forms they take. I respect and value that.

It’s important to recognise when we need that time to wallow, but also to know we don’t have to stay there forever. We can cross the bridge and live life to the full whenever we’re ready. I wish you a Happy Easter, whatever side of that bridge you’re on right now.

easter eveDownload
01/04/2026
Why I’m not ready to let go of winter …
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"... waking gentle 
to slow mornings 
finding comfort in calm 
relishing winter’s 
precious pause 
delighting in nights 
dark and long ..."
```
Can you believe it’s March already? I used to welcome March like an old friend. If you asked me to pick a favourite month, I’m not sure I could choose between May and September. My least favourites have always been January and February, mostly due to the short days and miserable weather. The dirt track leading to our house truly lives up to its name at this time of year. It’s a challenge to get into the house without bringing in a ton of mud on your shoes.

As part of my job, I was expected to be in the office most days; in winter that involved weeks of going back and forth in the dark, with rain often lashing down for good measure. For years, I was relieved to make it through January and February, grateful for March when it arrived.

But this year has felt entirely different; I’m sure it’s because I’m no longer going out to work. This winter, free of work schedules, I’ve found my own rhythm, changed the pace of my days, settled into my skin. It has shifted my outlook on so many levels: physically, mentally and spiritually. My working year was an endless cycle of quarterly performance meetings, inspection timetables and looming deadlines. It was exciting but also exhausting. I was expected to interpret data, find solutions to problems, produce and constantly update plans; I had to know stuff to the point that my brain felt permanently full.

The first 6 months of retirement didn’t feel quite real because I wasn’t at home much of the time. I went travelling for a while. As I arrived back in the UK, autumn was giving way to winter. It’s in winter that I’ve come home, in more ways than one.

I listened to an interview with Fatima Bhutto this week by Sam Baker on her excellent podcast, The Shift. They discussed the sense of freedom they felt when they could admit to not knowing something. Instead of shame, they sensed opportunity. They didn’t feel the pressure to find a solution, simply because they felt, as they aged, they no longer had anything to prove. I can relate absolutely.

It has been such a release to let go of the burden of knowing stuff, free from the expectation of having the answer to someone else’s problem. It’s opened up space in my head just for me. Rather than follow my old work-schedule, I’ve been dipping into the Celtic Year, which is this year’s main theme for an online women’s group, of which I’m a member. February marks Imbolc, a festival closely associated with the goddess Brigid and/or St Brigid (or Brigit) who may be one and the same person, real or otherwise. Imbolc also marks the start of the lambing season and, in old Irish, means in the belly. In early February, it feels like a promise of things to come, but not quite yet.

It’s hard not to notice the emergence of spring because it’s literally everywhere! First the snowdrops appear, closely followed by crocuses and then daffodils. The days gradually grow longer. It all sounds joyous, and I know it will be, but I want to say: not yet. This year, I’ve matched winter’s pace. My days have felt gentle and muted. I’ve relished the opportunity to think and write by the fire, as short days gave way to dark nights. I’ve appreciated nature around me: the way trees preserve their energy; how slowly and surely old growth gives way to new; the resilience of birds who winter among us.

All this is reason enough to feel differently this year. I feel more in tune with my own body, more aware of the natural world of which I’m a part. Perhaps I’ve been out of sync in previous years, always too ready to throw off winter’s coat at the first hint of spring. Actually, Imbolc marks the halfway point between winter solstice and the spring equinox. Spring is not quite here, but around the corner. This year I’m willing to wait. Content to stay hunkered down in winter, ready at the threshold, to welcome in spring.

thresholds Download
04/03/2026
Why ghosts don’t scare me …
```
"... it’s other ghosts
that haunt me 
disquieting my days 
loss lingers 
in dark corners 
seldom visited 
but always present ..."
```
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about transition. I believe most people go through a number of transitions in their lives. Such periods are often represented by something significant, a talisman of sorts, that will forever remind you of that time. It might be a wedding ring, a piece of furniture, a house or car key, a favourite item of clothing. These objects come to represent something beyond how they began; they signify not only an event in time, but all the growth that led up to and followed it.

Such objects are usually tangible, and we often carry them with us, long after the event they signify. I still wear a ring that a friend gave me on my 21st, during what was a significant turning point in my life. I look at it now and think about how far we’ve both come, the journeys we’ve made, the decisions taken, the experiences shared. She lives in Australia, and we haven’t seen each other for decades, but our bond remains strong.

A couple of experiences recently have reminded me that much of what captures our imagination is intangible. I’ve just read Hilary Mantel’s memoir, Giving Up the Ghost, written before she took the world by storm with her incredible Wolf Hall trilogy. Her story prompted me to reflect on ghosts from my past. At the same time, I went to see the film adaptation of Maggie O’Farrell’s beautiful book, Hamnet, which explores the loss of a child and the different ways we grieve.

To many, they may appear completely unrelated, but to me they explored similar themes and I could certainly relate to both. I love that art, in all its forms, can do this: fire up our imagination and ignite memories long buried. It’s why I chose my by-line connection through creativity. It’s why I write: to connect to self and to others.

There’s a moment when I finish a book, or a film, when it feels appropriate to sit in silence. I need a minute or two, having reached the end of the story, to weigh up its impact. If it’s a particularly good book or film, the impact will linger for days, if not weeks. I carry it with me, an intangible talisman, to help navigate and articulate my own experience.

Sadly, at the end of Hamnet, people around me stirred within seconds of the credits starting, which almost broke the spell, but not quite. Both experiences prompted this week’s poem. When I showed it to my husband, he observed that perhaps I’m too preoccupied with death. But I don’t think this is a poem about death at all. I completely accept that each person will interpret a poem in their own way; that’s the joy of poetry don’t you think? What I took from both the book and the film was the thought that we all carry ghosts of some kind within us. It’s how we learn to live with those ghosts that shapes much of our lives. That might be the memory of a loved one who has died, but as outlined above, I believe ghosts may derive from many sources.

It prompted me to think about my choices, leading me down one path rather than another. All choices have consequences, good, bad or indifferent. I could spend a lot of time and energy reviewing those choices, perhaps regretting the fact that I missed out on the roads not taken. Regrets could literally haunt me. I’m sure we’ve all met people who have lived their lives in regret; people who never seem happy and who resent the happiness of others.

I don’t want to live my life that way. People may feel a certain loyalty to the ghosts they carry. But letting go doesn’t have to mean abandonment, it’s simply readjustment. The love you feel for a lost loved one will always remain. That’s healthy. The regret you feel for a choice not made is perhaps not so healthy. It can be liberating to give up the ghost; if it weighs you down perhaps it’s time to let it go.

ghosts Download
28/01/2026
How you can you love and loathe winter in equal measure …
```
"... the joy of all life
is its ability to respond
to changing weather 
and mood

wintering is a safe space 
for those who cannot 
predict or know 
how to feel ..."
```
How’s everyone doing now Christmas is out of the way? A new year’s upon us and, for many, it’s back to work. Not only that, the UK has been experiencing a particularly cold spell. Even the milk on my doorstep was frozen one morning. I imagine the weather is proving challenging for many: children may have to stay home because schools are closed, and the commute to work could be more difficult than usual. Just what you don’t need.

There are people who love winter and those who dread it. People who celebrate the coming of snow, and others who hate it. Some folk will happily grab their winter coat and get out there, whilst others just want to huddle under a blanket, drink hot chocolate, and wait for spring. But that all sounds a bit too black and white and, as we all know, that’s rarely the whole story. Our feelings and attitudes to most things, winter included, are complex, often contradictory and interchangeable. At least mine are, and I don’t think I’m alone in that.

I’ve been trying to get out every day for a short walk and I’ve noticed how massively different the landscape appears, depending on the light. On some days, the landscape seems impenetrable. It feels closed to me; the familiar smells are buried; sounds are muffled and distant. Yet other days, when the sun is out, the ground begins to soften and the landscape comes alive. Walking down my lane on a cold but sunny afternoon, I am filled with hope. The sun on my face feels like a random act of kindness. Of course, acts of kindness can make all the difference to people, especially when they may be going through a hard time and are feeling low.

I can definitely see parallels in how the land responds to sunlight and how our moods can change depending on circumstance. It prompted this week’s poem, which is about the feelings we may encounter at this time of year. I mentioned Katherine May in a recent blog, and have been re-reading her fantastic book, Wintering. Wintering is not limited to a particular time of year, but more reflects an inner season we may be experiencing, which can happen at any time. But I suppose that outside influences, such as the weather, can prompt an inner wintering experience, which might feel like a double whammy, if you’re not a fan of winter in any case.

It was, of course, the winter solstice just before Christmas. We’ve already made it through the longest night and now the light is returning; I promise! I get that when you’re both going to work and coming home in the dark, it’s hard to believe that the days are lengthening. It may not feel like it right now, but have faith!

Despite the cold, frozen and seemingly lifeless landscape, things are happening. I learnt the other day that not animals who choose to hibernate through winter, remain asleep throughout. Many waken for brief periods, subject to changes in temperature and weather conditions. Whilst only a small number of mammals in the UK truly hibernate (such as hedgehogs), many others enter states of torpor. Entering torpor allows mammals to survive throughout the winter, shutting down all but essential organs during the particularly cold spells, but remaining active for the majority of the time. Squirrels do this – who knew?

On reflection, perhaps we are not all that different to many other warm-blooded mammals. We are amazingly flexible and can adapt to changing circumstances, often unconsciously. Isn’t that incredible? Just as life continues below the frozen surface, and on the seemingly naked tree branches, life continues within us even when we think we’re standing still. I, for one, think that’s remarkable.

My wish for you today, is to spend some time paying attention to what’s going on outside, it can serve as an act of kindness and may gift you something you didn’t realise you needed. Why not try it!

wintering Download
14/01/2026