Tag: 2026

When what you create surprises you …
```
"... there are seasons
in all our lives 
learning in any mistake 
feed more wood
to a failing fire 
if the flame still falters
that’s your sign  
to start over ..."
```
For the writers among you, I wonder do you ever set out to write a piece, only to find that what emerges is entirely different to what you had envisaged? This is not only true of writers, but of all creatives, I’m sure. This happens to me occasionally, but most often, the resulting poem is pretty much what I thought I’d write. There are rare times when what surfaces takes me by surprise. That’s what happened with this week’s poem. It just came out one early morning, as I set out to write something quite different.

Of course, when I think about it, I can identify the steps leading to this poem’s creation. I think we’re all influenced by things that we experience, big and small, on a daily basis. It might be a chance meeting on a bus; something you listen to purposefully, or quite by accident. A seemingly innocuous event might just grab you in ways you can’t explain, such as observing something in the street as you’re sat in a traffic jam. (Maybe that’s just me?). Here’s the thing: the closer the attention you pay to the world, the more it will inspire you.

The stars were aligned for this poem to show up, even though I didn’t know it was what I needed to write. For starters, I met my mum for lunch, which is something we do occasionally. Naturally, siblings were mentioned during our chat. I also had coffee with a friend who has some challenges in her own family (who doesn’t?). That got me thinking about how we all carefully navigate our way through family relationships. And, as always, I’ve been binging on my usual weekly diet of podcasts and radio programmes. It all seeps in at some level, along with the national news, the weather and the price of petrol. You name it, it’s all in the mix. Life happens and our responses are reflected in all we do, like it or not.

I’ve recently listened to a fantastic interview on Sam Baker’s podcast, The Shift, with the brilliant Abi Morgan, discussing her book, This is not a pity memoire. (A back-episode from 2022). I was so moved by her story, that it’s been added to my ever growing list of books to read. The advice, never dim your light, comes from her. She, in turn, quotes Nora Ephron’s advice to be the hero not the victim of your own story. I love that different women’s voices have turned up in my poem, serving as beacons of light when I might otherwise feel bereft of inspiration closer to home.

Truth is, I’d dearly love to be the person who both cherishes her siblings and is valued in return. I’d love to shop with; eat, gossip and reminisce with; swap clothes, books and music with siblings. But that’s not my story. Truth is, very few of us live the perfect life, if any. Does perfect even exist? It doesn’t mean I can’t celebrate the positive and nurturing relationships I do have. I am a proud daughter, cousin, aunt, and wife to a select few, grateful for the privilege. I am friend to many more.

Recently, I also met an ex-work colleague for lunch. We talked away the afternoon, and it was a sheer delight to observe how she’s thriving in a new role, in a different organisation. She’s one of my soul sisters; I’m lucky to have more than one.

Not everyone has a sibling, but I hope everyone can call at least one person friend. Whatever relationships you have, I hope you can cherish at least one or two. Be the hero in your lives and not the victim please!

This is my 40th post since the beginning of my blog, fiwynnewrites. It feels like the right time to take a short break as I enter into my 60th birthday month. I’m going to be travelling around Shetland, looking forward to slowing down, appreciating nature and giving my body and soul batteries an opportunity to recharge. I will return in June with more poems and prose x

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29/04/2026
When life takes an unexpected turn …
```
"... everything can change 
in a heartbeat
the paths we choose 
can take a turn 
at times we least expect ..."
```
I mentally split any given year into quarters, starting in January. With April upon us, we’ve just entered the second quarter. In January, I usually feel I’m on the threshold of something new but, like everyone else, I’d no idea quite what was in store this year. So much has already happened on the world stage in 2026, it’s hard to take it all in.

It feels like it’s been a bit of a political and emotional roller coaster in more ways than one. It reminds me not only of the impermanence of the world, but how bewildering it all feels. Life often doesn’t seem to make sense, not to me anyway.. We are complicated and stubborn beings aren’t we? We’ll often stick to opinions long ingrained even when we can’t explain our logic. We draw up our map of the world and navigate by it, despite its obvious flaws. I know I have, over the years, developed my own belief system, which shapes how I feel and respond to most of what life throws at me. It leaves some room for flexibility, and is fairly transparent People who know me best will probably be able to accurately predict what I think about certain things, and how I’d react in most situations. My belief system rarely lets me down. But I’ll own up to the fact that it’s quirky and not necessarily failsafe.

Perhaps we all have such a system, a sort of shorthand to help us steer a course through life without having to think everything through from scratch. It will work for us most of the time. But occasionally, something happens that does force a change in perspective, be that on a world-wide stage, such as the current war in the middle east, or something personal, such as a death in the family. It doesn’t even have to be something tangible. I’ve written in an earlier blog how exposure to art, such as music and film, can be the catalyst to bring about change. (See the blog relating to my poem seal woman, https://fiwynne.com/2025/09/10/how-fictional-characters-can-feel-just-as-relevant-as-real-people/)

Since the beginning of this year, it feels like the political landscape has turned upside down. In that same period, I’ve been dealing with a family bereavement and preparing for a family wedding. I’ve spent time with my cousin, which brought back lots of childhood memories. I’ve also seen two films, both of which deal with grief, that have touched me deeply, namely Hamnet and H is for Hawk.

It was whilst watching one of these films that the seeds for this week’s poem were sown. I suddenly felt swamped by both the complexities of life going on around me and the intimacy of my relationships with those I love most deeply. Perhaps it’s just me, but it sometimes feels hard to balance the public and the intimate. I struggle with it and writing poetry is a way to make sense of it for me. Do you ever feel like things happen that force you to see the world differently? If so, I think this week’s blog will resonate. I hope so.

It’s tempting to keep our thoughts to ourselves; keep our heads down when life feels too much. Easy to put our heads in the sand and pretend nothing has changed. I’m guilty of this sometimes; I turn the news off because I can’t bear to listen. It doesn’t work, of course, the news just keeps on happening. In the cinema that day, I felt an overwhelming need to connect with the one I love most. I reached out and took his hand, just briefly, because I could. No matter how doomed the world feels on some days, it’s still true that the small intimate connections we make matter hugely. L is indeed for loss but it is also for love.

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22/04/2026
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.

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08/04/2026
When old traditions take on new meaning …
```
"... 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.

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01/04/2026
Why I’m not ready to let go of winter …
```
"... 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.

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04/03/2026