Isn’t it funny how, in the quest for the transformative, we forget what’s on our own doorstep?
It’s in my nature to wander. I am never at home, never truly myself, except when I’m on the road. Something in me requires change. To seek the thrill of new experiences, new views, and waking up on a new shore. I can never write in one place, and the feeling of stagnancy drives me to distraction. So it is that, for the last couple of months, I’ve chased the road until my body wept for rest.
But when I drew the curtains this morning, a cold mist rolled in over the rooftops and through the gate to lie across my garden. The leaves were golden on the birch tree across the street. The first breath of Autumn hung on the air. For once, I found myself craving stillness and simplicity. The texture of clay in my hands. Tying knots in string to dry my herbs. The feel of the paper of a good book and the crackling sound of the fire in the grate. The quiet companionship of my dog as we trudge through muddy fields, up and down the gentle Cheshire rises, and through the woods.
I want it all to stop, just for a moment. I want to breathe in the cool, woodsmoke-scented air. Get up early and go to bed late, writing words fuelled by mugs of hot, bitter cacao. Seeking magic in the mundane.
