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Trails of Tiny Bones

A small tin coffin rests in my pocket
as I drag a frail cart of baggage to the car
we don't have much time remaining here
in this curious copse of growth and grind

Shall I do it like in The Shawshank Redemption
surreptitious sprinkling of dust with each step
but an amount equivalent to only one foot
or an ear perhaps, or maybe half a tail

Should I promptly plop it into the soggy fire pit
how long do I have to cradle it in my palm first
without this ritual being disturbed, interrupted,
and what on earth is the right way to do this anyway

I could ask the weary wood pigeons
who awoke so early, helplessly moaning, 
or I might just empty the tin into a badger set
endless options, like the duties of parenthood

How is it that the choices and tasks, which follow
our pivotal 'big bang' events of life and death
can become quite so separating and hollow
these chores, chiseling away at our castle walls

I try to grab gravity by the hand and it recoils
thus, if I slowly dip my parted fingers 
into the fluvial flow and flux of existence 
would that nourish the watery portals within

Travelling inward can sometimes get us lost in the Universe
without the creatures and roots and relics to guide us
this might be a winding path to nowhere, except
to return to the echoing cave where we started 

We are no longer at an end, or in a new beginning
instead we find ourselves amidst a meandering middle
so why not walk awhile, with the fond memories of those
black-white-speckled paws, pattering along the forest floor

Earlier I glimpsed, in the fleeting sunshine
the shadowy shapes of hooded tweenagers
heavily laden with the adults' requests for 'help'
oblivious to the rainbow arching over their heads 

and I heard the voices of the medium children
whimsically wittering to the trees behind the cabin
where, I know, a sloth-like pyjama'd boy remains under
a blanket, consuming yesterday's leftover burnt sausages

All there is left to do now then
and for no particular known reason 
is to take out the tiny tin travel case
pause to carefully open the lid...

start to pinch the grey gravel pieces
bit by bit, releasing them from their 
bed of ash, and onto the carpeted trails
which wander and weave around the pines

A ten minute interval from the trials of the day
the dreary dramas of family life and strife
at the end of a wet, windy weekend away
in the middle of the Easter holidays

May 2, 2026

‘Throw Your Phones in the Sea!’ (said Mr G.)

'Throw your phones in the sea!'
said Mr G.
Look up, at the sky
But why? Because its here!

Look out, across the ocean
Search along the horizon
Gaze in any direction
Because, it can heal

'Throw your phones in the sea!'
said Mr G.
Look at me, into my eyes
Lets eat pies together

No more low bowed heads
Hunched shoulders in bed
Nor 'text neck' creaking 
Lets grow wise together

No more glances averted
Time passing, bodies hurting
There goes another weekend
Another year

I want to see your face
Ask what you're thinking
Sit with you, see what you do
Not swiping, but blinking at me
Not liking, but smiling with me

'Throw your phones in the sea!'
said Mr G. 
Stare at all the stars
Smell flowers, talk to plants
Watch a dog sleeping, trust me!

Lean on a tree
Are you hearing me?
It is not going anywhere
It's there for you, here for free.

The posting, the comparing
The judging or the trolling
The waiting...... in a void 
that resembles rejection

Throw it ALL in the sea!
Why not take a stroll with me?

Let's wrap up in a blanket, go outside with a candle
Listen to creatures hum, as the traffic rumbles, 
Watch colours merge and shadows meander 
Ponder the day and the bygone era

Are you sure, Mr G? In the sea?
Won't that hurt the fish?

No, because it's a fantasy

Come, shall we walk towards the sunset, hand in hand?
Take a break on warm sand, have a rest on a cliff edge 
All the phones bobbing around in the waves below us
Catching licks of light as the sun rises again
It's a new day, with no phones
Thanks Mr G.

September 6, 2025

Love International

Birds, tea 
Horses, and the sea
You liked cars, we saw stars
These are the things I remember

You travelled, to unravel
She was walking alone
We never got very far
Talking about home

But most of the time
We got on just fine
Wittering under 
the willow tree

What's in the wheelbarrow?

You sailed away...
The 'wrong' way around the world 
What's the right way to unfurl
like a fern?

We waited for you
Back at the farm
Watching The Simpsons 
The glimpses of family

Walls of water in your way
Dreaming machines everyday
Followed by a whale
Around Cape Horn

You gave me a stone frog
And my first sip of cider 
You got lost in Rotorua
I met a penguin and a koala

Finally, severed by the Atlantic,
and by that fateful night.
While you searched for me,
it was already too late.

Then we fell off the mountain.

'This ain't my first rodeo',
you said, playing Roulette 
at the cruise ship casino.
I preferred you in the Rockies,
being a real cowboy

From Yorkshire to Boston
(via Midlands & the ocean)
From scrum-half to a golfer
Cricket bats to baseball caps
Barn owls to red cardinals
From cigar smoke in
the 'Gentleman's Lounge'
To dressing in Drag
at the P-Town carnival
Always full of surprises

Radiation, Cryoablation, Radicalisation

World's End, Massachusetts
You still couldn't bend 
your titanium spine 
A terminator, but mine

You stopped climbing the stairs
To your walk-in closet, while...
the 'far right' were marching
We turned left to Marylou's

CNN blaring, 
how could you bear it? 
The morphine was caring.
The dogs at your feet, lying still

You looked like a ghost 
at the kids' pool party,
Relegated to the shadows
My heart sobbing in the shallows

Or was it the deep end?

Now I can wear your coat
And board a boat, only
to visit you by the lighthouse
But of course you are everywhere

The dust of you settles 
on the ocean floor,
merging with earth, 
and travelling to your tree.

Cup o' tea?
Come see yer Dad
But where was the chat?
(only in tea labels and board games)
In between the flickers of the candle flame

The flicker of a candle flame
A candle flame
And blow
Now Go

(Inspired by spring… finished for Father’s Day)

June 14, 2025

The Owl in the Picture
What is the golden rule of storytelling?

I’m hoping to find out when I see Clare Murphy perform in Bristol soon, thanks to Blindboy bringing my attention to her work; https://shows.acast.com/blindboy/episodes/the-art-of-storytelling

As a child I wrote a lot of stories. I don’t know where they are now – I think they got lost in the mess of parental divorce and multiple house moves. I think I got lost too.

In therapy and on dog walks and with writing (hour by hour, week by week, walk by walk, page by page) I have been finding the pieces of myself and inviting them to come back together again. Digging out the old stories… not physically finding the originals written on paper, inscribed into primary school exercise books… but locating the ones in my memories, the ones etched into my body and senses; liberated, a little more, every time I plod the perimeter of a field or meadow, pause to pay attention to birdsong, breathe in the dewy moss. Stop – sit – close my eyes and welcome in the images of the past… and ask what they’re trying to tell me…

One story in particular sticks out in my memory, it probably went a little something like this:
```
Once upon a time...  there was an old painting of a farmhouse and a barn owl.  This painting was in a cottage, where a little girl lived.  She would walk past the painting, which was hung in the hallway, and would stop to gaze at it every day.  She began to notice that each year, as she grew older, the owl would also look older and would move to different positions in the painting. At first, the owl was in a cherry tree next to the farmhouse, then the next year it had moved to the gatepost, then it sat on the stable door, then perched on the edge of the wheelbarrow. The girl grew bigger, and older, each year, moving through her childhood, and the owl moved with her.  In her eleventh year, the girl became gravely ill.  She insisted on struggling down the stairs each day to see the painting, her mother and grandmother either side of her, holding each arm. The owl moved from the roof of the farmhouse, to inside, peering out through an upstairs window, looking extremely old.  Eventually, the girl was no longer able to leave her bedroom.  Her family were very worried, and feared the worst.  They sat by her bedside every day.  After she turned twelve, the girl became fretful and strained to speak.  Her mother could only just make out the words, "The owl, where is the owl?" With her last breath, she murmured, "The owl in the picture". In her grief, her mother forgot all about the painting and the owl, until they were moving house and packing up the belongings.  She stood in the hallway in front of the painting, about to take it down, but paused and stared into it.  The owl had vanished completely.
```
‘We trust the page as a source of authority’, Clare Murphy says. While I tried to tell the owl story, I realised, with regret, that I couldn’t remember it very well at all. I am sure, therefore, that I have omitted and elaborated, rather a lot. I don’t remember, really, if the girl died, but I imagine there was a death of some kind, in this one of my many ‘morbid’ stories. There usually was. Stories help us to know ourselves and where we have come from; historically, personally and spiritually. We can grow through stories – telling and listening and sharing – and it helps me to not stick rigidly to the script, as I once did.

I wonder if anyone would want to listen to me tell my stories from the farm, what I remember of them, and what has been embellished. I have been stubbornly, guardedly, dependent on pen and page for as long as I can remember – keeping it all to myself, for the most part (except for the odd teacher, oh and letters to childhood ‘pen pals’ – I nearly forgot). Secret or not, writing has been a lifeline for me. Then I discovered relational risk-taking. The existence of an academic term for this, somehow gives me permission to take those vulnerable, exposing risks in relationships. Some, relationships.

Thanks to my ever present and trusting therapist, in recent years I have gained the confidence to read my writing out loud, to another, live, human person! I have a voice, and now I share it. Healing and healing and healing… from experiences that rendered me voiceless, powerless. I feel I am learning to talk, all over again, and learning to really, truly, listen. Learning to speak the truth about loss, and love. Learning to listen to those who I feel have taken up too much space in my mind, and tentatively trying to speak truthfully, to them. Learning to share experiences of living in Wales, and in the borderlands between Wales and England, with those I feel judged by; bridging generational and cultural gaps. I have important stories to tell, and so do they.

Vocal steps are being taken, small vociferous risks, gaining in strength and volume, pacing steadily up a mountain with each exhale, with every story, with every stride. To one day SHOUT from the top. A primal scream. Echoing through the valleys and caves. Meanwhile, recognising the safe and gentle places, spaces, people… when they appear – offer sanctuary – and learning to meet them in kind.

In some cultures, the stories tend to remain largely unchanged by the master storytellers and their apprentices, for example, in the ancient art of Rakugo in Japan, although apparently this is changing. Native American culture is also known for its rich oral tradition. ‘Each time a story is told, it breathes life into the culture… Their symbiotic connection to the earth and intimate relationships with the animals they depended on is also depicted through storytelling… often forcibly relocated to land that was not their own. Their customs, language and religion were ways for them to remain connected to each other and their homeland’; https://allgoodtales.com/storytelling-traditions-across-the-world-native-american/

I imagine families and communities from long ago, huddled around a fire telling stories. This is coming back, so I’m told, and plays a crucial part in the attempts to protect our natural world and our relationships with it and within it. I’m familiar with the Celtic storytelling traditions, although only just consciously recognising their value. I am also very drawn to Icelandic storytelling, with its ‘hidden people’ (do I actually remember ‘talking to fairies’ under the willow tree as a young child?). I visited Iceland towards the end of the pandemic, and experienced a profound connectedness there, as well as a powerful release of grief.

It is the end of winter in the UK, and finally it’s not so dark or cold! Though I’m sure the Icelanders would have something to say about me moaning over a ‘long’ winter.

Picture Icelanders living in turf longhouses sitting around smoky fire pits sharing stories and reading aloud to one another. Ancient myths, heroic quests, tragedies, comedies and lessons in life were all depicted in their traditional stories to keep spirits high… The stories of antiquity are allegorical accounts that teach their audience to respect both the spirits of the land, and the natural environment in which they reside…

Storytelling Traditions Across the World: Iceland

A picture of course, can say a thousand words. But I’m no artist, so I’m sticking with the writing, and working on the speaking, and changing the script. And what if I change the owl story again, or write different versions of it? Alternative endings? I can do that, if I want to, it’s my story. What if the girl lives? A new, miracle, treatment is discovered! Nevertheless, the girl would have gone through a metamorphic experience – survived a terrible illness – been ‘at the edge of the everyday world’ (https://arnolfini.org.uk/whatson/previewrinkokawauchi/) and come back, changed, a tacit transformation, like the start of spring (which always takes me by surprise).

Maybe she would want to leave the farmhouse, perhaps live in a tall townhouse on the edge of a cosmopolitan city. She wouldn’t see barn owls anymore… or perhaps would – she could visit Granny in the countryside, even go to an owl sanctuary together! And what of the owl in the picture… would it disappear anyway?

© 2025 Psychodography Blog

REFERENCES (owl images):

https://www.saatchiart.com/en-gb/art/Painting-broken-glass/23108/1186108/view

https://www.illustrationx.com/artists/AndrewHutchinson/56437
March 1, 2025
Badger
Dig deep, linger longer, tell stories, make alliances.

Sometimes small things seem like big things and big things disguise themselves as small things, and we become obsessed with badgers (maybe that’s just me!)

My aim this autumn was to write something that’s light and quirky, with no particular agenda (other than badgers), and see what happens… and ideally, not focus on death. Then I saw a dead badger at the side of the road. The irony is, I haven’t seen a real live badger since 2008. It was waddling/scurrying quickly up a road near Alexandra Park in Bath, UK. What’s a waddle scurry? A wurry? It did seem worried. It also seemed to be struggling with the weight of it’s own body (I felt like that trying to get out of bed early this morning).

‘Badgers appear rather plump, but this is not fat. Rather, it’s muscle mass, and the creature is formidable if need be.’ This year I’ve taken long overdue steps to try to increase my muscle mass (advised by my therapist nearly 10 years ago). ‘Combine this with a powerful jaw, and you have a creature that can stand its ground when necessary.’ However, ‘…would rather find safety than fight, but if they’re cornered, they know their assets and use them effectively; this makes Badger a powerful ally when you are developing new attributes and endeavouring to increase self-sufficiency.’ (1)

Is this why I’ve been noticing badgers everywhere since deciding to become self-employed?

‘We’ve all heard the phrase, “Stop badgering me!”'(2). Badgers are considered tenacious, diligent and hard-working. They don’t give up easily! My mother often told me as a child that I wasn’t a ‘quitter’. I was also shy, so my not quitting was generally attributed to activities which I could hide behind; a musical instrument, a costume, a written story (busted!). Therefore, leaving my National Health Service job after 15+ years and putting myself out there as a sole trader, felt entirely unnatural to me. My inner badger has thankfully stepped up – giving me the confidence to work for myself; ‘naturally thrifty and somewhat of a loner’, ‘Badger offers strong grounding’ and ‘is “business first” regarding approaching a project’. (1) What a perfect combination!

‘Badger comes across gruffly. The energy here is not angry, however, but rather one of high expectations.’ (1) Not only does the badger keep me motivated to work (when I don’t have a boss to answer to), it also reminds me to carve out time for my personal pursuits. Badger is a storyteller (and wants to get really good at it!). Badgers dig for roots and herbs; revealing treasure in the earth. Very much in the here-and-now and ‘a creature of patience and fortitude’; my inner badger keeps me trudging along, snuffling amongst the mushrooms (like Mr Mushy, below), burrowing for inspiration in woodlands and forests and beaches and countryside near the sea. Searching for gold, or fossils. Alongside my ageing, ambling hound – who is on a very different search (for tennis balls), but checks in with me periodically as if to say, ‘how’s it going for you? Have you found what you’re looking for?’

‘Because of their rare ability to create cross-species relationships, badgers are also symbols of friendship.’ (2)

I had a friend at secondary school who was also slightly obsessed with badgers. She often exclaimed, ‘That’s the badger!’ – meaning she’d found something she was looking for, or I had clarified something she’d said, or as an acknowledgement of a friend expressing something very genuine. Badger’s are adaptable to various terrains and environments, and known for eating rotting fruit, which causes them to become intoxicated; a badger-like friend is a great drinking buddy. They can also bring attention to imbalance; in nature, in relationships, in work or sense of security. An important lesson I’m learning – with the help of the persistent presence of the badger – is that if I dig (into work, into trauma, into grief) too much, too far, for too long – I lose my friends… and my family relationships suffer too. As do my inner relationships; the balance of my inner system.

This year I discovered that in Al-Anon (3), one of the popular mantras is, ‘Look, but don’t stare’. This, I understand, relates to ones own distressing past experiences. Or, I suppose, those that other people are telling you about from their own pasts. I have a very visual mind (and a very vivid imagination): When somebody tells me something they have experienced, if I don’t catch myself, I immediately imagine it. I would like to extend the Al-Anon mantra to; ‘witness, don’t imagine’. Sometimes empathy can go too far, and be misguided. The jazz badgers (below) remind me to be alongside people without disappearing into their traumas, or my imagined versions of them.

Adventuring around my own imagined stories though, those are the journeys the badger really wants to get its teeth into. It wants to jump on a bus with no particular destination. There is so much more to experience, so much more to say, so much more to write…

Mr Mushy

Jazz Badgers

Bus Badger

Billy Badger

Hiding Badger

Beach Badger

‘If you have been laying low for a while, Badger’s appearance tells you it’s ok to come out now. Take your place in the spotlight. Don’t be shy – just go for it.’ (1)

© 2024 Psychodography Blog

REFERENCES
(please accept my apologies for the cultural appropriation re: spirit animals, if this causes any offence)
October 22, 2024
The Past is a Lighthouse

Not a Port
```
(Russian Proverb)
```
September 7, 2024
“The end is where we start from”
(2)

My Dad once wanted to conquer the waves. He was very strong, possibly the strongest person I’ve ever known. Perhaps this was his burden to carry… until he couldn’t any longer. He fought cancer for over 10 years. He’s not coming back to life this time. I’m sure that’s hard for us all (his family and friends) to accept, in many ways, even though we wouldn’t wish his pain to continue any longer. I hope he was finally ready to go, and I wonder if he was waiting for us to be ready to let him go, although how could we really be ready for that?

At this point when I was jotting down these thoughts last week, a bird shat on my phone, from the tree I was standing under. And I swore at the bird… but then I thought, yeah, maybe you’re right and I am just talking shit! Anyhow. My Dad loved birds and I know that watching them on the bird feeders was one of his comforts during his long illness. My daughter made a hummingbird sun-catcher on St. Patrick’s Day, with her birthday craft set from her ‘Papi’. We’ll hang it in the window when we get home, for the sun to shine through and send colours around the room, reminding us of all the happy times we’ve shared together (with family), in Hull (Massachusetts), Hingham, Vermont, Colorado, Italy, Province-Town… and the multiple Thanksgiving-Christmasses with family and friends in the UK. And before that, my brother and I had many memorable and cherished times with our Dad in the Herefordshire countryside, at our childhood farm.

So, he was a farmer before he was a businessman, sailor, cowboy, cactus enthusiast, cigar collector, wine connoisseur… (what am I forgetting?). The memory of him being a farmer is kind of hazy and mystical – I just about remember him in his wellies, taking me out to the barn, on a snowy Christmas morning, to see a new born calf. (My Mum was the farmer really though!). I heard that as a child, he wanted to be a vet, often finding injured animals to nurse back to health. He was a lot of things, wore a lot of different hats. What I loved most though, was when he was just being Dad – hanging out, sharing a meal, watching movies together. The only thing I’m grateful for about his long illness, is that we got to hang out and watch a lot of movies!

Over the last few, more difficult years, my wonderful sister-in-law has been a huge support to me, and I know to my brother too. Thank you. And thank you (to my Stepmother) for being by his side, for so many years, so many long nights. I am so grateful too, for my father’s generosity, and his open, non-pressurising encouragement, of whatever I wanted to do. Both of which have opened many doors for me, literally and figuratively.

But what I was getting at before, was, that I need to let him go now. I’ve missed him all my life, as he’s often been away… or there has been an ocean in the way. And although I want him to feel powerful and free again – on the open ocean, or galloping on a horse over the Rocky Mountains – I also like to imagine that he’s crossing the water to come and see us, one last time, to enjoy the British spring with us, before passing through to go off on some new, wild adventure.

So I’ve chosen this short poem to finish, by Billy Collins (3);
```
Walking Across the Atlantic
```
```
I wait for the holiday crowd to clear the beach
before stepping onto the first wave.

Soon I am walking across the Atlantic
thinking about Spain,
checking for whales, waterspouts.

I feel the water holding up my shifting weight.
Tonight I will sleep on its rocking surface.

But for now I try to imagine what
this must look like to the fish below,
the bottoms of my feet appearing, disappearing.
```
© 2024 Psychodography Blog

REFERENCES
1. Free Image: jacob-buller-eCBJTzipq5A-unsplash.jpg, taken from, https://unsplash.com/photos/body-of-water-during-golden-hour-eCBJTzipq5A
2. T.S. Eliot, from “Little Gidding,” Four Quartets (Gardners Books; Main edition, April 30, 2001) Originally published 1943.
3. Collins, B. (2002) ‘Walking Across the Atlantic’, from The Apple That Astonished Paris (1988), in Sailing Alone Around the Room: New and Selected Poems, Random House Trade Paperback, New York.
April 7, 2024
Following the Shafts of Light
This could have been called ‘Following the Shards of Light’. I deliberated over this for a long time. Shard implies sharp, a fragment, brittle, broken, dangerous (maybe), a weapon. Remnants of demolition – or war – or a bar fight. It is also a building in London of course. Not really the angle I was going for, but in the background nonetheless. How fortunate to have violence or war in the background rather than on the doorstep. Yet it affects us deeply, whether we want it to or not.

And what does shaft mean anyway? An NYPD detective from 1989? (Bear with me). It depends in what context, I realise.

The shaft of a feather, for example; ‘The long, slender central part of the feather that holds the vanes. It’s like the mast that holds the sails.’ (1)

Or, ‘a long, narrow, typically vertical hole that gives access to a mine, accommodates a lift in a building, or provides ventilation.’ (2) This reminds me of my brother doing a very convincing imitation of “What’s that Skip, the kids have fallen down the old mine shaft?” (3)

Quite a jumpy and haltering start to this season’s post. Fleetingly this came to mind – shaft, as in, male genitals. Again, not the direction I was intending to take. Finally, I resisted the distractions and focused in on this; a ‘beam’ or ‘ray’ of light, which is more what I was getting at. So in this case, shaft has to accompany sunshine for its meaning to work in the context of what I am writing about – attempting to anyway.

Now the procrastination is out the way…

In early January, I enjoyed walking in the sunshine, with my dog of course. It didn’t take long for the options of sun on the ground to diminish and become sparse – much to my disappointment after our predominantly grey and rainy December in the UK. Stripy shards of light appeared between the trees and I was compelled to walk along as many of them as I could, to stay in the sun (and out of the shadow) for as long as possible, even if it meant clambering through a holly bush. Ouch! Nomar was oblivious to my quest, effortlessly weaving around the trees and bushes, in and out of light and shadow; his tail taking on a rapid figure of eight motion, as if it might propel him into the sky.

This Christmas just passed, relationships with relations felt fractured beyond my imagining. Shards of family. Or have we all simply stopped trying so hard to patch up the cracks? A façade of togetherness on both sides of my divorced childhood ‘family’, has existed for longer, further back, than I was able to acknowledge until mid-adulthood. Yet the attempts at unity persisted. Two separate togethernesses (I know, it’s not even a word!). Year after year after year.

Now that these attempts feel sluggishly irresolute, due to protracted terminal illness, infidelity, mental illness, neurodiversity and other barriers to effective communication – the threads wearing thinner and thinner and more frayed – I wonder what purpose and value they had before, and why they felt so important. I am in new territory, new tracks to be trodden – attempting to find my own way. I am an adult, have been for a while now, with my own small family unit; desperate for this to feel enough. And for me to feel ‘good enough’ (e.g. Winnicott; 4) for it.

I wrote about making new tracks many years ago when I first started ‘Psychodography’. An analogy to consciously working on new neural pathways in the brain… new habits, new conversations with Self and others, uncovering and acknowledging. I was referring to clients I worked with as a trainee Counsellor; people who were deep into major transitions in their lives – finally getting support for addiction, and by default, for the traumas which had led to the addictions and the further traumas caused by them. This struck me as immensely brave and worthy of the utmost respect. Digging into and exposing their hidden traumas and losses without the soothing, masking substance(s) or compulsion which had kept them going, and harmed them and their relationships of course, for most of their lives thus far.

‘We can hardly bear to look. The shadow may carry the best of the life we have not lived. Go into the basement, the attic, the refuse bin. Find gold there. Find an animal who has not been fed or watered. It is you!! This neglected, exiled animal, hungry for attention, is a part of your self.’
(Marion Woodman; 5)

There have been big endings and losses for me this month – the old painter I mentioned last time – and others. New beginnings and transitions too… and the usual things remaining the same; piles of laundry, running late for the school run, not knowing what to make for dinner. The combinations of usual and unusual, predictable and surprising; bringing both comfort and trepidation; mundanity and solace; nostalgia and giddy excitement.

These esoteric contrasts reflect in the magical qualities of winter, which are always there if you look for them. The long nights speckled with flurries of soft snow. Shimmering… in the moonlight. Frost and moss. A pair of pigeons snuggling into the ivy clad tree, while pale clouds race overhead. Eerie bright light framed by a moody grey sky, the very tips of the budding trees almost glowing luminescently.

The mystery feather which appears in the most unlikely place.

A single golden leaf yet to depart from its familiar branch.

Procrastination, as mentioned earlier, can be considered a reaction to grief and trauma. There’s so much on the internet about this, I managed to go down several worm holes and crawl out having not been able to make decision about which one to include here. It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to find what I need there. What I need is in the woods, the meadows, the streets, the friendly hellos with fellow dog walkers, sensations in my body, images in the mind’s eye, the childrens’ laughs, the people I meet through my work whom I would otherwise never meet, the space between us in the therapy room, the candle before bed.

I keep searching and keep finding the gold.

“You follow this caper, of finding lost souls

and trying to bring them back”
(RC, 2023 – Rest In Peace)

© 2024 Psychodography Blog

REFERENCES
1. https://www.birdsoutsidemywindow.org/2010/07/02/anatomy-parts-of-a-feather/
2. https://wordle.guide/dictionary/SHAFT
3. https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0060025/
4. Winnicott, D. (1960). The theory of the parent-child relationship, Int. J. Psychoanal., 41:585-595.
5. Van der Kolk, B. (2014). The Body Keeps The Score: Mind, Brain and Body in the Transformation of Trauma. Penguin. Random House UK.
January 30, 2024
A Little Bit of Wild
```
(a touch of love)
```
Here is a hotchpotch collection of autumnal musings and playing around with ideas, images and words, no doubt quite clumsily. This is inspired by a nearly 90 year old artist I know, who has dementia. Over the past year, he has transformed in painting style; from striving for perfection most of his life, to whimsically experimenting with the abstract and semi-surreal. ‘Why not?’ He says. ‘I’m enjoying myself!’

Meanwhile, my father settles into a hospice far away. The beginning of the end. He was once a young man with obsessions, and a thirst for head-spinning, wild adventures. New versions of himself emerging and retreating, almost with the tides. He can’t run from himself anymore, he has to stay in one place now, and I’m not there. I wasn’t going to write about him this time, but I can’t help it. I wish I could pop in to see him, give him a hug, have a cup of tea.

To love means to embrace and at the same time to withstand many endings, and many many beginnings – all in the same relationship.
Women Who Run With the Wolves (1)

My autumn began back at Callington Road Nature Reserve, with the Michaelmas daisies, ferns and firethorn bushes. My dog leads the way – winding footpaths, snags on brambles, a hum of traffic with not a car in sight; on account of the dense musky-sweet foliage packed into this small, secret patch of wilderness. It is here that last year my daughter said, “I feel like Tarzan! To be honest I always feel like Tarzan. Tree world is my home”. This year she is already starting to act like a teenager; surly and stubborn. Next, she’ll stop climbing trees, start surfing the web, dodging disembodied predators. In my day, they had faces and bodies, would get you drunk or drugged in bars and pubs. At least there was something physical, somewhat known; albeit beguiling, and then out of control in an instant, but still with the slim possibility of escape. Like a flame in the night, a blazing furnace, and then if you’re lucky – bare feet on snow, running, like a wolf. But how does one escape from the ether? How do I prepare her for what trickery there is to come?

Back to the comfort of familiar local parks. Ponderings and wonderment under the autumn tree – each leaf fluttering in emancipation from the branch and afforded one wild dance, as it spirals and loops its way down to its neighbours, who are resting on the yellow, orange, gold and peach circular rug around the base of the tree – a select few giving my head and shoulders a gentle pat as they pass over my still body sitting on my favourite bench.

A few brief encounters over the past few months, got me thinking about how we hide our wildness, and whether some of us express it via our dogs. Noticing ironical dog-owner pairings and their paradoxical behaviours: The silent, shy goth with a dissonant Dachshund. The aloof, angular teen with a snuffling, roly-poly Pug. The wide-eyed, wiry, timid recluse with a half-blind, bellicose, bulbous Bassett-hound. And me, reserved and polite while my dog plays the fool with a puppy in the park, despite his arthritis. I took my dog to a few sessions with my previous therapist and he tried to sit on her lap. I was both amused and embarrassed. I wonder now though, what he was communicating that I couldn’t. I’d love to hear if people have other examples of this. There’s plenty of research about similarities between dogs and their owners and both expressing similar emotions, but I can’t find anything yet about the opposite.

I welcome autumn this year, with it’s fresh energy to spur on the little bit of acumen I need for new ventures and transitions. And this week, the shining full moon seems to spark something to life in my psyche. Though as I anticipate the last leaves falling and the enthusiasm waning, and make preparations for the long, cold, dark nights ahead; the year thus far reverberates around the recesses of my mind. The meaning of love, and what happens to tarnish love. Love and rage, love and shame, love and refrain. Love and loss, love and blocks.

Love has many faces. And if you love, you have to be strong enough to look upon all of them.
The Philosopher and The Wolf (2)

© 2023 Psychodography Blog

REFERENCES
1. Rowlands, M. (2017) The Philosopher and the Wolf: Lessons From the Wild on Love, Death and Happiness. Granta Books.
2. Pinkola Estés, C. (1992) Women Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype. Ballantine Books.
November 29, 2023
Parts & Plants
‘When we do our work together and parts that clients have been afraid of most of their life–parts that feel like actual monsters or demons–suddenly can’t do anything to them’
(IFS Institute; 1)

Last summer I took this photo (above) whilst drinking a cocktail in a bar. I went on to drink several more before dinner. I then drank wine during dinner. Then after dinner, I had a few pints of beer in a pub, in between swaying in front of a classic jukebox, before engaging in several intense emotion-fueled conversations with strangers, which at the time felt life-changing and are now barely memorable. In the early hours of the morning, I puked all over my brand new trousers and was carried to bed. I don’t do this very often (buy new trousers or puke on them), anymore.

This summer I’ve been experimenting with IFS (Internal Family Systems). I am learning more about my ‘parts’ with the help of my plants. Three plants in particular have caught my attention:
- Monstera Adansonii – Swiss Cheese Plant; ‘Monstera leaf holes are a by product of originating in the rainforest, where vegetation above blocks sunlight. So the holes are to allow sunlight to get to the bottom leaves as well as the top.’ (A Beautiful Mess; 2)
- Tradescantia Zebrina – Silver Inch Plant; ‘Wandering dude plants can handle a very wide range of temps, making it perfect for those chillier windowsills that your other plants may not appreciate’ (Garden Betty; 3)
- Ceropegia Woodii – String of Hearts; ‘…the Rapunzel of houseplants…your string of hearts will remain as charming as any fairy tale protagonist,’ (Gardeners Path; 4)
In the middle of spring I left an emotionally taxing job as a grief counsellor – ‘it’s taking it’s toll on your heart’, I was told by my partner. I started buying small house plants. Easier to care for plants than people’s hearts. They can’t say what they need though… (can we?). For most of my adolescent and adult life, I have attempted to look after plants by means of trial and error and guesswork. Giving them the bare minimum of care and hoping they don’t die – then compensating by over-watering for a while. This time I’m attempting to properly research what each individual plant needs, as well as to generally be attentive to them and tune into my instincts; with the little bit of extra time and head space I now have in my week. I still have my NHS job and two young children, so luckily the plants I chose are not very fussy and are tolerant of some neglect (a bit like me!).

Setting aside some time to find out the bespoke personalities of my plants, has proved to be rewarding and intriguing; as I attempt to care for them, deliberately and tenderly. As usual, my garden plants have become somewhat wild and unruly, growing and changing so fast in the summer months and taking over the small garden (a bit like my children!) I’ve given up trying to tame them. Meanwhile, I’m developing a more deliberate, delicate and tender approach to attending to the ‘parts’ of my own personality. “Through IFS we can learn to trust ourselves, and trust our own inner guidance.” – Richard Schwartz, founder of IFS. I hope this is true. Nevertheless, I don’t think I would be trying this without my established relationship with my wonderful therapist, and we’re starting to incorporate these methods into our sessions together, which is exciting. Perhaps it could work to have a supervisor who speaks a similar ‘parts’ language, or another trusted person, to talk it through with; for clients and/or therapists alike.

I’ve often noticed I go through phases of getting bored and compulsively buying new things. I know I’m not alone in this, but my partner’s frugal upbringing in a large family rings through in his disapproval. I try to keep this part of me in check. Furthermore, I have a lot less money now, than my parents had when I was growing up. So when I saw that the local charity shop was having a plant sale – I was there in a flash! I used to have just a few houseplants and mostly focused on growing fruits and vegetables outdoors; this was pre-children of course, and slugs and snails have sabotaged my efforts more times than I care to remember. This year I have turned my attentions indoors – a bit of a U-turn from where this blog started, out walking with my dog, and a surprise to be focusing more inside; I spent most of the pandemic wishing I was anywhere but home. It is a new experience for me to be so attentive to plants purely for the enjoyment of them, not for any other purpose. It’s not so new to be exploring my inner world, although I haven’t approached it in quite this way before.

The three plants described above are the only plants I have in hanging pots, on display, as it were. One is in the front room window; my ‘mini monster’. I used to have a much bigger monster – a huge cheese plant which nearly took over my small flat. This was at a time in my life when I felt the most scared; adjusting to living alone having just turned 18, and sometimes making dubious choices about who I invited into my home. The ‘mini monster’ seems less imposing than my old big one, although it is expanding at quite a rate. I find myself worrying that it might get too big. What is too big? Will it respond well to being pruned, I wonder. It is thriving in that spot and I’m reticent to move it – I imagine that it watches over the street for us. I bought the plant during the depths of January when I was embarking on more trauma work; ‘take your monsters with you’ I was advised in supervision. I took this to mean, embrace your own past traumas and inner demons, harnessing them into compassionate courage. Let the light shine through to the darker places. No easy task… regular cultivation required. I have strange feelings in relation to this plant – the sense of fiercely guarding a raging, righteous fury and simultaneously containing, tempering… an exuberant spirit which knows no bounds. Both – either – would be too much if released. That is the fear. What is less clear is whether this entity is the pot or the plant. I suppose the guard is the pot, trying to contain the plant’s daunting encroachment into the world.

As I write this, I feel uncomfortable, unnerved. A great effort and a strain. Heavy fog seeps down through my forehead and settles stubbornly behind my eyes. I don’t even need to drink anymore to get this hungover feeling: According to the IFS model, this could be a ‘protective part’, a type of dissociation which makes my feelings inaccessible when it is deemed necessary. Ok, so I see how the foggy feeling might come in handy at times, but a hangover usually succeeds a freeing gregariousness which is rarely achievable for me whilst sober – unless singing to 90s tunes, alone, in my car.

Plant number two: My ‘wandering zebra’, as I’m calling it, started off in the kitchen/diner area – the central hub of the house. Zebras remind me of my daughter for some reason – maybe because she is strong, bold and fast. I moved the plant to the upstairs bathroom window and soon after, into a corner of my bedroom because the leaves were wilting. I wish I hadn’t moved it in the first place, it seemed fine where it was, but the ‘String of Hearts’ has now taken it’s original place. Studying the zebra stripes stimulates a sense of opposing forces – a paradox, or perhaps two ends of a spectrum. Is it fear and desire? Needing to withdraw and desperate to be close to another. Are these polarities or two parts? The plant seems dormant in the corner of my bedroom, languid perhaps. I just looked up the word;

‘a few languid dancers swayed about on the dance floor without much enthusiasm’
Merriam-Webster

I feel guilty. This pops into my head; “Nobody puts Baby in a corner”. Ha! A part of me who enjoys cheesy 80s films perhaps. I smile. I’m tempted to take the plant for a walk, or a dance, sort of parade it around the house. I lied earlier, I can sometimes be gregarious in front of others; I dance around the kitchen in front of my children, occasionally when my husband is there too, without caring too much what I look like. The moment I feel like I’m showing off though… I shut myself down. And if I let slip even the hint of a flirt with a friend or stranger… forget about it – fun over! This is feeling increasingly like two parts; one who wants to break free, be confident to express myself/itself and connect with others. Another who fears this part becoming promiscuous, dangerous, taking it too far and making a fool of myself, or herself – I’m learning new IFS vocabulary. There’s still a fear of vulnerability to exploitation or humiliation (understandable given my teenage traumas; please see ‘Stepping Out’), and so this part of me lays on the criticism and shaming tactics to revert back to being shy and reserved – safe.

Then a third element comes in; I worry that I come across as aloof, even rude. I worry that I’m a loner, that people don’t like me and think I’m awkward or weird. The criticism descends either way, and I worry about the weirdness either way too – whether I’m being expressive or not. I can’t win! An exhausting balancing act. It’s not safe to be alone anyway of course, we’re social beings, safety in numbers. I often feel most at ease in a crowded place where the atmosphere is light and fun, like an outdoor music event; this is especially enjoyable if people are fooling around, being silly – in a harmless way – and I feel it’s ok, appropriate, to do the same. I like being around others, and as Adriene (from Yoga with Adriene) says, “keep it weird”, so I have permission.

In some cultures, the zebra’s stripes are a symbol of harmony and balance such as in Native American shamanism (5). What’s more, the stripes are totally unique to each individual zebra, like fingerprints for humans. Maybe I’ll try another position for the plant – near the bedroom window perhaps. That way it’ll get more light and the striking silvery/green and purple leaves will be seen when I walk into my bedroom or lie on my bed. My association with the plant feels familiar and at the same time quite cryptic. I don’t know if this makes any sense.

There is another quality associated with this plant – if I focus less on how it looks and more on how it behaves; the wandering part… this reminds me of my ability to easily root and thrive in different environments. I moved house every year for nearly ten years in my late teens and twenties. During summer breaks from University, I sofa surfed or stayed in cheap pubs, basically living out of my car. My friends were always impressed by my skill and speed at making a room cosy and homely. At the moment though, it feels like I’m nesting – but with no intention of having any more children, just more plants. During my thirties I’ve become so deeply rooted where I live, that I fear becoming ripped apart if I were to move. Even so, that tingly, itchy feet feeling crops up from time to time, and a yearning for something bigger than my Bristol bubble. Passion is perhaps a more accurate description than promiscuity. The zebra waits to wander the grasslands again.

Finally, String of Hearts – I can’t seem to work out what it needs! The leaves feel paper thin, pale and wan looking. At times I feel concerned that it’s dying. It’s supposed to not be fussy; tolerant of neglect, but I sense that it needs attention – needs to be seen, admired for it’s adorable leaves. Moved into the hub of the house and it seems to have had a personality transplant. It’s loving life! Numerous tiny new bright green leaves are sprouting through. Cute, miniature flowers are forming. It is flourishing. Looking increasingly like a small green Rapunzel. I find the plant enchanting and want to spend time with it. Part of my reason for leaving one of my part-time jobs was to spend more time with my young son before he starts school. This has led to what feels like an extra loving and affectionate response from him – lots of cuddles and frequently saying things like, ‘Mum, you’re so lovely and adorable’. I feel my heart swelling in these moments. Interestingly, I was with my son when I bought this plant.

What I am tentatively learning to do, I think, is experience those heart swell moments for myself… for the young, vulnerable or adorable parts of myself. When I was three, apparently I went through a phase of ‘insisting’ on solely wearing pink frilly dresses. I found this hard to believe when I first heard about it, so unlike me and dissimilar to anything I remember about myself. I couldn’t connect with it. But yes, at some point, I wanted to be a Princess! Part of me cringes at this. I recall a popular girl at school who I thought of as ‘girly’. I was mean about her to my friends; I said her laugh sounded like a guinea-pig. This was unusual for me – other girls often commended me for not being “bitchy”, that I didn’t “slag people off”. So this girl must have really triggered something in me. I couldn’t understand why everyone liked her so much! I would ponder this on the school bus home, listening to ‘Alice In Chains’ on my Walkman. Lately though, I’ve been rediscovering the colour pink and I’ve noticed myself adding hearts to text messages (as people often do these days). I didn’t even add kisses to any messages until this was pointed out to me at University, when my housemates called me ‘the Ice Queen’.

My son has been suggesting that we put slices of cucumbers on our eyes and relax together – he has seen this on ‘Gabby’s Dollhouse’ – so the other day, we did it! He relaxed with the cucumbers for all of 30 seconds and then wanted to move onto the next thing. I was reluctant to end the pampering session. To be fair, it’s hotter than ever, even though the summer is over. The cucumber was so cool and refreshing. These heat waves before and after the summer. Disconcerting. On the other hand, it’s given me a bit more time to get this finished – an Indian summer post – and at least it’s taken my mind off the devastation occurring in the wider world due to extreme weather. It seems a luxury to have procrastination as an option – there has been a lot of it with this post, especially the zebra plant bit.

This IFS experimentation is puzzling and at times feels emotionally precarious. Yet it seems to have aroused a new-fangled self-discipline, as well as self-love. Is this courage? I’m on a bit of a health kick in general. I often focus so much on trying to care for my mind that I sporadically forget to care for my body – and it’s a whole package right? I’m discovering that the IFS approach is a lot to do with tuning into the body, as well as to those internal conversations – the chatter – which we so often try to distract ourselves from. 8 days into 30 days yoga (with Adriene, the ‘home’ series) and also 8 days into a sober September, and a long way to go. Wish me luck! I’ve never done the dry January thing (apart from when I was pregnant and I don’t think that counts), it always seems a terrible choice of month to stop drinking and get healthy; is it a coincidence that January tends to have the highest suicide rate in the West? Why add more pressure to an already challenging time of year? (When I wrote this I’d completely forgotten about Sober October!)

It’s not like I’m a heavy drinker these days, not often. However, the frequency crept up again during the pandemic and a psychological dependence began to regain its grip. It was always my drug of choice, along with sex, (from an alarmingly young age) – both of which have been enjoyable and harming, in varying degrees, at various times of my life. My father is nearing the end of his ten year battle with cancer, and it is only now that he has stopped drinking alcohol, because his body literally can’t stomach it anymore. I’d like to try it sooner than that. Does getting shit-faced make Mama happy? I think not. Time for a different approach.

I didn’t actually mind the bulk of the summer being wet and windy… more time indoors with my plants. Although I did enjoy local, small-scale traipsing around in wellies with kids and dog, paddling through streams, and blackberry picking together.

‘May the breeze blow new strength into your being, and may you believe in the courage of yourself…‘
Apache grief blessing (by unknown author)

© 2023 Psychodography Blog

REFERENCES
September 9, 2023