Tag: 2026

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
Why there’s no place like home …
```
"... here I am 
where I ought to be
the space 
where I am me
in ways I cannot be 
elsewhere ..."
```
Do you ever re-read books? I’ve read several books more than once and, right now, I’m revisiting a book I first read in my 20’s. I usually read a book before watching any film adaptation, but with Karen Blixen’s Out of Africa, it was the other way round. It was thanks to Sydney Pollack that I discovered Karen Blixen’s writing at all. I visited her family home in Denmark last year and, later this year, will visit her coffee farm in Kenya. Both places were incredibly important to her and it got me thinking about my own relationship to what I think of as home.

I’ve lived in many locations, but the place I feel most at home, is where I am now. I’ve lived in this house longer than any other, in a county that’s adopted me as one of its own. Being home is something we often take for granted and it’s only when circumstances remove you from it that you realise how complacent you’ve grown. That’s certainly been my experience.

For some months now, I’ve been crossing the Pennines to Lancashire, where I grew up, to support family through a difficult time. It feels weird to live as a guest in a place you might once have called home. In actual fact, I never lived in the house I’ve been visiting, but it still stirs up memories. When I sit and have lunch in the town where I went to school, I look across at women of a similar age and wonder if they were classmates. I doubt I’d recognise most of them because I left at 18 and never returned.

To my generation, there’s something unsettling about staying overnight in the parental home. For later generations, who may still be living in their childhood home as adults, it will be completely different. It may just be me, but I find it difficult not to take control in the kitchen, for example. At the same time, I’ll ask permission to eat things in the fridge. I can’t get used to the single bed or the house rules, and stick to my own routines if I can. It feels awkward though I sense shouldn’t be; I wonder if this is normal.

In truth, whenever I’m away from home, I miss it. I never expected to be such a home-bird. In my 20’s, I considered myself much more of a free spirit but, in reality, I was uprooted. I just didn’t recognise it at the time. When I finally found my place, I thrived. This week’s poem is a celebration of home although, in truth, it only tells half the story. It’s a celebration of place, yet we all know that home isn’t the bricks and mortar, but the people you share it with.

When circumstances change, it may lead to a house move, which is a big thing at any stage of life, but huge when you are widowed. Helping my mum to downsize, moving from a home she shared with her husband for 40 years, has been a humbling experience. It has made me value my home all the more and resolve not to take it (or anything else for that matter) for granted. I feel so utterly grateful for my life, my husband and my home.

None of us can escape change. Karen Blixen had to give up her farm and move back to the family home in Denmark. She famously said, in her book Out of Africa, that she would not let go of life until it had blessed her. In her final summer, at home in Denmark, she told a friend that that her life had indeed been blessed.

My wish for my mum is for her new flat to feel like home. May she be happy there.

coming home Download
22/07/2026
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 I fell in love with language …
```
"... a love of language 
is the gift that keeps giving 
it doesn’t need me 
to push boundaries 
that feel boundless ..."
```
I’ve been experimenting with writing exercises recently, working my way through Beth Kempton’s The Way of the Fearless Writer. It’s prompted new poems about subjects I would’ve been unlikely to write about previously. It amazes me that the smallest thing can inspire you to take a different path.

I’ve written poems about things I’ve heard on the radio; people’s stories are endlessly fascinating and I cannot help but be moved to write a response, if only for myself. Other people’s experiences often resonate because they remind you of something in your own life. You find a connection, no matter how tenuous. Of course, it isn’t only people who can do this. There’s been a lot of coverage this year of David Attenborough’s amazing career, as the world celebrates his milestone birthday. Who hasn’t been touched by the footage of his encounter with gorillas?

Nature can be a huge source of inspiration too. Is it just me, or does your heart miss a beat when you see a rainbow? I love rainbows; they feel like a sign that things will work out.

I don’t always find it easy to find the right word when I’m writing. When I’ve written a poem, I have to live with it for a while, keep going back to it, often tweaking a word or two. Like bread straight out of the oven, it needs time to settle. I’m ever conscious that my command of the English language is not as good as I’d like it to be. My school days spanned the 70’s and 80’s. We weren’t taught English grammar quite so rigorously as previous generations. I was never encouraged, at school, to learn poems by heart (although I did have to learn the entire Gospel of Luke, which is another story).

But I fell in love with words. I devoured books because I loved to discover other people’s stories and experiences. One particular year at Secondary School, we had a double English lesson on a Friday afternoon, when we had to write “A Composition”. Most of my school mates bemoaned this lesson, struggling to know what to write. But I was in my element and never struggled to think up a story.

I’ve been writing ever since and yet it’s still true that I can’t always find the right word. One of my prized possessions is a battered Roget’s Thesaurus, bought for me when I was at university by a dear friend. It’d be the book I’d take to the Desert Island, along with my 12 discs (I simply can’t narrow it down to 8, sorry Radio 4).

That said, I’m not the type to adopt an unusual word just for the sake of it. I do think people sometimes use language as a form of showing off. That’s not my style. I’d rather keep it simple and accessible. I want to connect with others, not intimidate them.

One of the writing exercises in Beth Kempton’s book encouraged the reader to experiment with inventing words. It was just a bit of fun, but I found it both difficult and uncomfortable. There are already so many neglected words, why should I need to invent more to describe emotions and experiences that’ve been with us for time immemorial? Yes, of course, sometimes there’s a need to create words for new things that simply didn’t exist before, such as the internet. But given my writing is mostly about feelings, then I think the English Dictionary and my battered Thesaurus will do just fine.

language Download
08/07/2026
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