For Those Who Bloom In The Dark
This was going to be a post about snow - prompted by a couple of lines from Sylvia Plath that snagged my flighty attention on Instagram. Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person. - Sylvia Plath But it quickly dawned… Continue reading The Crushing Weight Of January
The other day, I woke up almost excited to finally be able to make a doctor's appointment online. Anxiety, chiefly triggered by the diabolical receptionists at the local surgery*, has been putting me off calling at 8.30 am for weeks. To be able to make an appointment without needing to call had me thinking perhaps… Continue reading Toadstool Therapy
Through a simple Etsy search for 'perfume testers,' I invited Wendigo Magick into my life, without realising that a 1ml vial of perfume oil would profoundly alter my relationship with fragrances. But first, a little background. Please, make yourself comfortable - this might take a while. Following a childhood of blasting myself with Impulse Body… Continue reading Wendigo Magick
It is my birthday today. I'm thirty-nine. It's an uncomfortable age, an age I've been feeling embarrassed about turning, which is, I know, utterly ludicrous and tragic. On Facebook, I made it so that only I can see my birthdate. It wasn't because of my age, though, but because of messages that come through from… Continue reading An Uncomfortable Age
Around 10 this morning, I decided to go hiking and photoshooting, so I booked a ticket for a train leaving for 'the hills' at 12:46. I had spent the first half of this week in 'barely functioning' mode after an unusually social Saturday, and I was desperate to restore some 'lust for life' in the… Continue reading The Hills Will Be There Tomorrow
Well hi. It's been a little while. I was going to skulk back in here with a quirky (?) post about self-anthropology, having lifted the idea from the book Tiny Experiments by Anne-Laure Le Cnuff. In an attempt to 'self-renew,' the reader is invited to 'play a game of self-anthropology', which essentially means making 'field… Continue reading The Neurodivergent Creative
For a long time, I wrote a poem every day. It was my way of grounding myself; breathing was easier after writing a poem. When, for whatever reason, a day passes when I haven't written a poem, the distress is palpable; I'm a wolf pacing a boundary fence. No matter what's been going on in… Continue reading Going Home To Poetry
On the 1st of February, I woke up feeling like I was coming down with flu. Frustrated, I took to my bed for the best part of a week. I slept and wrote when I had the energy. In one of my journal entries, I noted: It's been a relief to slow down, to know… Continue reading Burnout
I'm not doing excellently, but I won't write at length about it because I'm in a neurodivergent burnout and limiting my screen time. Even as I type this, my eyes are doing strange things, and I keep wanting to look away from my laptop. Last night, I booked a train ticket so I could get… Continue reading My Neighbour Put A Plastic Bird Of Prey On The Wall
I'm starting February with some mysterious bug which infected me hours after I was boasting to my mum that I rarely get sick. It may be the gods having a laugh, or it might have something to do with the months out of date margarine I slathered on my rye bread. I've been moving into… Continue reading And That Was January 2025
A Wyrd Of Her Own 