Tag: connection

Why frost warms my heart …
```
"... if we were kind 
and wise like trees 
what thaws might we unleash 
imagine the power 
of a stranger’s smile 
the touch of a hand 
warm on weary skin ..." 
```
There are a whole range of reasons why this poem felt like the right one to share this week. Is it just me, or does it feel like the world is imploding right now? I have to brace myself every time I listen to the news and, equally, have to brace myself against the storms every time I venture outside. In some ways, the weather offers up a sense of perspective. As is so often the way with nature, it reminds me that we’re not in charge. The world will keep on turning despite all our efforts to seemingly press the self-destruct button. I think it’s a good metaphor; we do seem hell bent sometimes on destruction, but mostly we are damaging ourselves. The world is stronger than we think; nature is resilient. Despite the damage we’ve done to the planet, (let’s be honest, climate change is happening), nature has an amazing way of bouncing back. Rewilding projects are demonstrating, the world over, that nature can and will recover if we can just learn to let it.

The podcast phenomenon, Mel Robbins, has coined the phrase let them, in an effort to encourage people to let go and let be. It’s so obvious when you think about it, but then it’s often the simplest things that we forget.

I’m trying to adopt the practice of letting go of the 24 hour news culture. I try, within reason, to keep abreast of current affairs, but frankly, it changes so fast, I can’t keep up. Questions such as: who is switching political parties, who wants to take over what country, what tariffs are threatened today … it’s exhausting and debilitating. Much of it feels like wasted effort when, within hours, the situation changes and the news frenzy starts all over again.

What I need to stay sane is balance. Having listened to the Monday morning offerings of chaos and carnage on Radio 4’s Today programme, it’s refreshing to listen to 15 minutes of Cafe Hope. This weekly programme focuses on good news stories from across Britain, which does what it says on the tin. For me anyway, it offers up hope. Whilst, again, it may seem obvious, it’s good to be reminded that the majority of people are decent, honest and kind hearted. People genuinely do care and will go to incredible lengths to help others; I love that and feel grateful for it.

I wrote this poem during a cold spell of winter a few years ago. It felt joyous to be outside in the crisp, cold air, wrapped up in winter woollies. Whilst it was tempting to walk at pace, in an effort to stay warm, the calming effect of the white, frosty landscape, slowed me down. There’s something about snow and frost that settles me; I want to stop and honour the serenity of the scene, soak up the silence and bask in the wonder of how everything looks so fresh and new. It prompts me to review my own sense of self, to allow a shift of perspective, to believe that I too can respond to changing circumstance. I don’t have to stay stuck in whatever mood, decision or state I find myself in. I can adapt.

What’s more, I don’t have to do it alone. On the day this poem was born, I was scrabbling around in the woods, trying to capture images of the hoar frost with my phone. It was then I noticed under the shelter of the trees, that the ground was softer, and frost free. Plants were emerging despite the cold spell. It seemed such a small thing but it made me smile.

It only takes small things to make a huge difference doesn’t it? None of us have to do this alone, we have each other; an encouraging word might be all you need to keep going on days it is particularly tough. I’m sure we can all think of examples of when a small kindness has meant the world. In the current climate, when so much feels bleak, it’s good to remember that there are pockets of real and virtual shelter everywhere, where we can all find hope and the means to thrive.

hoar frost Download
04/02/2026
How you can you love and loathe winter in equal measure …
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"... 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
Why I’m not a hoarder …
```
"... you can’t always choose 
what you inherit 
don’t always recognise 
the legacies 
planted in you 
germinating 
when you least expect ..."
```
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about de-cluttering, which to be fair, is a recurring theme in my life. I’m not one of those people who feels the need to hang onto things that belonged to the people I’ve loved. If my bookcases are full of books, it’s because they hold personal memories, or they are books I want to re-read. I don’t hold onto something just because it was gifted or inherited from a loved one. I won’t keep things I no longer use just in case it comes in handy sometime in the future. I’ll recycle, donate or bin it, depending on its condition.

It’s suddenly become quite trendy to de-clutter. The latest word for it is death-cleaning and having had to clear out rooms and whole houses belonging to loved ones who have died, that resonates. But this is a not a new thing. It was William Morris who said, “Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful”. Not a bad starting point.

Don’t get me wrong: I still do have lots of things in my house that are neither useful nor beautiful. It’s a work in progress and, given my husband is my polar opposite when it comes to stuff, it’s a battle of wills! That’s a whole other story, which I won’t get into here.

I suspect that one of the reasons we hold onto stuff is that it belonged to someone we loved and we feel obliged to keep it. Perhaps we think we have a duty to pass it on to the next generation. But mostly I think we hold onto something because we believe we’re holding onto a part of the person we’ve lost. It is a memento, that when we look at it and pick it up, makes us feel closer to our loved one. I do understand that. But what I’ve learnt over time is that I don’t need the object to bring the person closer. The memory of them is already stored inside my head and heart, and I can bring it to the fore whenever I need or want to.

This week’s poem came from a couple of recent experiences, which on the face of it are completely unconnected. I love how a poem can channel a range of thoughts, experiences, and events through a single conduit. I took part in a group exercise last month marking All Souls’ Day, the traditional day when we remember the dead. We were invited to make a bracelet using old buttons, the idea being that each button would represent a loved one that you had lost. I had this romantic notion of pulling out an old button box that might have belonged to my grandmother, which I have treasured since her death. But that’s not the reality at all and it made me wonder about that yearning for connection I sometimes feel. A tin of old buttons won’t make memories of my grannie any more real than the memories I already treasure and that’s the truth of it.

Similarly, I spoke to a woman in Iceland who was so proud of the fact that her family had lived on the same farm in the east fjords for generations. Her sense of place was so defined; she was firmly rooted in her family legacy. That clearly works for her and, for a moment, it made me yearn again for that same sense of connection to land and to family. But what works for one person may not work for another. In reality, I think the thing I most value about my upbringing was the sense of freedom my parents gave me to spread my wings and find my own flight path, and I absolutely have.

I sense I’ve barely touched the surface of this theme of legacy as it’s made up of several layers, but I hope, by scratching the surface, it’s prompted you to ponder what kind of button box, real or virtual, you have hidden in a cupboard and what it represents.

the button box Download
17/12/2025