Clear View

20 11 2021

Every day is an opportunity to view things differently. Every day we can choose another lens through which to view the world and all that lives within. I wonder why it is that we cling so fiercely to our narrow perspectives?

My feeling is that it feels safe to travel along the same familiar route. It feels comforting to always know what you think, to have a readymade opinion on everything. How refreshing it could be to live without having to remember to have an opinion on anything at all! To simply consider every situation as it occurs with fresh, clear eyes. This is how birds live.

Yesterday I tested a robin’s nerve by placing a small cube of cheese on the wooden picnic table where the bird could see it. The robin assessed the situation for a few moments and saw that it was not without danger. There were two hungry hounds on either side of the picnic table. The robin timed his flight, swept in and carried off the cheese so swiftly and beautifully it made everyone present smile. Here was a moment of simple decision making that required little effort.

Contrast the slow and awkward way we get around to doing things. Using our opinions as crutches when we really don’t know what to do. It’s hard, though, to realise opinions do not matter when you have spent years carefully curating a point of view. Opinions feel like life and death. The most opinionated often win, not because their opinions are superior, but because the very act of holding onto an opinion takes tenacity. The opinionated are terriers with a juicy idea between their teeth. Try to take it away and they snap.

All conflict is rooted in differences of opinion, in blind stubbornness in some form. Try tackling it head on and it digs in deeper. No side can win. It means years of deadlock. I’m thinking of the situation between Russia and Ukraine, Israel and Palestine, government and business policy makers and climate change campaigners. The differences between France and the UK, all defined by opinion masquerading as truth.

In all situations of conflict there is a place where both sides recognise each other, where they see the other in themselves. The ability to pause and consider the consequences of our strong points of view is not admired as much as a powerful argument. But in pausing, in taking a moment to think of the way our words or actions might land on another, we take a radical step away from our sheltered opinions and into something much deeper and wider.

In stepping away from certainty and into the big unknown, we encounter all the limitless alternatives we need to create a world that is not defined by those who push hardest. We don’t need stronger opinions. We need a robin’s piercing clarity of vision.





Full Circle

31 10 2021

I have just completed a series of circle recovery retreats and I am in awe at the beauty of the human spirit. The ability to bear witness to our own pain and suffering and to offer this without fear of judgement or shame is one of the bravest steps we can take as human beings.

Every compassion circle I have facilitated over the past year has offered fresh insights into what makes us die as human beings and what makes us live. Being seen for who we are, being heard, being in the presence of horses who accept us without reservation. Being under the safe wing of a bell tent, laughing and crying under an ever changing sky with birds acknowledging our presence with their freedom. Mostly, though, what has helped is being with others who understand.

The work of compassion is not easy and not always predictable. Circles create their own identity and this is one of the most thrilling edges of the work. The container is simple. People are invited to speak from the heart and to witness others speaking from the heart. Be brief, share only what feels safe and resist the temptation to rehearse. Resist also the temptation to comment as people speak. Instead invite witnessing.

People have been telling stories around camp fires ever since they could communicate and the circle is an ancient practice that is still central to many native cultures. In Britain if you sit people in a circle of chairs and ask them to start sharing from the heart, most people would prefer to run screaming from the room.

In truth, I don’t truly know why compassion circles are different. I know only that I was educated extremely well by one of the masters of the art. Thank you Joe Provisor who has pioneered this work in the United States. I know also that this work of the heart is utterly compelling and asks me to look deeply at my own heart. In putting this work into my own community, I have been moved, humbled and inspired by the stories I have witnessed.

Speaking our truth to others requires courage, but also requires a willingness to let go of our usual stories about ourselves. These standard stories are old stereotypes that follow narrow scripts. They usually start with limited ideas and safe roles that we have either assigned to ourselves or have assigned to us by others. The role of the care-giver, the responsible one, the one who puts others first without thinking: is this a role I truly want to inhabit right now? The work of compassion teaches us to listen deeply to our own sorrow, to understand our own pain and suffering so that we might become equal to others. In contrast, a caretaker merely gives out.

My journey to compassion facilitation first began with Socratic Circles which invite deep philosophical enquiry into the nature of human identity. While I loved these circles, and learned so much from my students, both young and senior, I always longed for a more personal way to work with the raw material of life. I longed for a more open and creative container.

The beauty of the Compassion Circle is that it is flexible enough to hold any story offered to it. It is, I have come to see, also robust and strong enough to initiate the work of deep cleaning the wounds we all bear. In speaking we are healing what needs to come out into the clean air. In our last circle, we talked about the sludge and debris that collects around our hearts when we have suffered extreme pain and how the work of cleaning is so hard to do when we must live normal lives.

Thanks to the courage of the circle participants I see how normal, standardised life actually prevents healing because of the ways we are often educated by society. We are taught that our stories of suffering do not matter. We are taught that being successful, wealthy and normal matter more. We are taught to numb and bury our pain. Meanwhile our hearts are breaking. Our hearts are searching for the health they have been denied.

Being with horses has taught me that we can find health in natural, simple places. In poet and philosopher Mark Nepo’s words we can find solace in the great net of things that surrounds us in the living, breathing world. Once we take the exquisite risk to leap into authentic living, the world enfolds us in ways we would not expect. As we talked of celebration, I shall never forget the sound of hooves flying past the tent and the sight of Dragonfly, tail high, cantering up the field. I also shall not forget the deep sense of companionship and comradeship that can happen when people arrive with their true selves, unmasked, beautiful and free.





Field of Awareness

29 08 2021

Here I am with my earnest intentions. On beautiful mornings, I will meditate with the horses. I will sit in the sun, take my seat and spruce up my mind. It will be great.

As soon as I arrive, find my mindfulness app with the perfect bell set not too high, not too low, Tinker makes contact. You are absorbed in something, she says, which is of interest to me. You are accessible therefore I will come to keep you company. At the same time you will provide a handy sun shade and provide fly relief when I put my head between your knees. This is great.

I am committed to meditation and distractions are good for working on your commitment. I begin. Tinker lowers her head and breathes with me. We enter into a state of blissful connection. I am at peace. I hear wild geese passing over the stubble field and, in the distance, church bells. This is great. Just what I came for.

Tinker gets restless and pushes her head against my arm. The flies are annoying her again and I am very useful in rubbing them off. Her eyes are itchy and my knees make good bony scratching posts.

I look at my timer. I’m halfway through my meditation and I have achieved about five seconds of settled breathing. The rest of the time my attention has been on Tinker’s antics. This is not so great but in many ways it mirrors my life. How many times have I tried to dedicate quiet time for meditation or reflection? How many times have I failed and given up in frustration?

I wonder what I need to learn here? Do I keep trying or find something else to do with my precious time? I’m working on my inner life here and I have flies in my boots and a pony eating the plastic box upon which I have taken my seat.

The answer is obvious now that I see it. I need to lighten up and let go of the need to find a perfect outcome. My meditation looks and feels like my life. Of course, it does. Why should I be surprised? The very marrow of meditation as I understand it from the Buddhist tradition is not to clean your mind but to really be present to your life and read it for what it is.

Whatever is in my life will also change. After a few moments of unsettled inquisitiveness, Tinker moves off to find something more interesting and Sheranni takes her place.

I take a deep breath. He breathes with me. We stay connected breathing in and out. His presence is strong and tender. You don’t need to get it perfectly right, he says. You just need to breathe.





Burn Yourself Out

11 07 2021

There is so much to love about Buddhist Philosophy, I keep turning to it every time I get stuck or lost or confused. When I say ‘turn to it,’ that makes it sound as if I spend my spare time leafing through Buddhist texts looking for bright jewels of wisdom to illuminate my day. In reality, it goes something like this:

Question: Will you prepare a workshop on Zen Philosophy for the Sixth Form?

Answer: Sure! (inside voice: when the hell will I find time to do that extra thing in an already crowded week?)

Three days before workshop: I’ve forgotten everything I knew about Zen. I need to read something quick and easily digestible because I don’t have time to read anything slowly and properly. Why did I agree to do this? I’m tired of doing seven things at once. I wish I could just sit down and read some Zen and really find some nourishment in it instead of having to teach stuff all the time. I’m tired of teaching. I’m tired of spending hours preparing material that is eaten up in seconds. I’m tired.

I choose three books on Zen. I light a candle. I sit down with my notebook. My hound lies across my feet and I begin to relax for what feels like the first time in seven months. I take a deep breath. I remind myself that I once fell in love with Zen. This bit of time for research will be like visiting an old friend.

I pick up the weightiest book, the most serious and scholarly book. Just the thought of it makes me want to take a seven year snooze. I put the big book down and turn to the lightest slip of a book. I start to go through it and I see that there are pencil underlinings on almost every page. I start to get excited. I’ve done some work with this little book already. I don’t have to start at the beginning. I’m halfway there.

I read this:

‘In order not to leave any traces, when you do something, you should do it with your whole body and mind; you should be concentrated on what you do. You should do it completely, like a good bonfire. You should not be a smoky fire. You should burn yourself completely. Zen activity is activity which is completely burned out, with nothing remaining but ashes. This is the goal of our practice.’

Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind. Shunryu Suzuki

I feel as if a curtain has parted in my mind, showing me a place I rarely visit. This place is clean, cool, uncluttered. There is nothing in this space except truth. No trace. I’m immediately gripped by the idea. I see that it is the opposite of what most people consider burn out. I see that working at something with full attention is clean work. I also see that when I work, I sometimes leave dirty little traces. The need for acknowledgement, the need for some sort of reward, the need for approval. Like many people, I think a pat on the back for a job well done is a good thing.

Zen doesn’t teach morality. It doesn’t say: don’t work for approval, praise or recognition. It says, in its wonderful Zen-like way, just do your work fully. Leave nothing undone. No loose ends, no corners cut, no nonsense about it being too hard or boring or inconvenient. Sit down and read your book. Take your pencil and make your notes. Write. When you need a mind break, get up and make a cup of tea, finish the job, prepare the workshop and when you have given the workshop, don’t linger waiting for feedback, just move onto the next thing.

I’ve been playing with the Zen way of work for a couple of weeks now, and I already I feel the difference in how I approach tasks. I do them with a lot less effort because I’m not so focused on the outcome. I’m not looking at what comes next. Whether it’s approaching a horse to put on a halter, playing games with a pony, or planning our sessions and long-term curriculum, I’m enjoying the feeling of complete burn-out. I’m also more aware of the signs that I’m starting to smoke a bit, usually around Zoom meetings that I let creep into creative time, and I’m stoking up the fire, which means making guilt-free decisions to switch off, knowing that I don’t have to stay for pointless meetings. What a relief it is to work like this.

It strikes me that horses know how to practise Zen. Watching the herd freely graze and move around together, they do things completely without trace. They have no preconceived idea of how to act. If you allow a horse enough time there is nothing to get in the way of their activity. When Sheranni makes a decision, whether or not to come back into the yard, after I have supposedly turned him free for the morning, he may take a moment to weigh up the situation and may run through a few options. When he has made his mind up, though, he moves with commitment. He is not thinking: I should have stayed in the field where the grass is greener. Naturally, I can’t know this for sure, but observing him and other intelligent thinking animals, I sense a greater connection to what Zen calls the ‘big mind’ of pure consciousness and less attachment to the ‘small mind’ of personal thinking.

Our personal thinking and ideas of what should occur in any given activity means we are often not free to act without trace. We are weighed down by notions. We create intricate, multi-layered stories of how we must be in the world. Suzuki puts it like this:

‘When we practice Zazen our mind is calm and quite simple. But usually our mind is very busy and complicated, and it is difficult to be concentrated on what we are doing. This is because before we act, we think, and this thinking leaves some trace. Our activity is shadowed by some preconceived idea, the thinking not only leaves some trace or shadow, but also gives us many other notions about other activities and things. These traces and notions make our minds very complicated. When we do something with a quite simple, clear mind, we have no notion or shadows, and our activity is strong and straightforward. But when we do something with a complicated mind, in relation to other things or people, or society, our activity becomes very complex.’

Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind.

I love this. I love the way it lets me drop my complex thinking and yet still offers a strong and straightforward way of operating intelligently. I love the freedom it presents. It takes away the doubting, the second-guessing, the deliberation. This summer I’m dedicating to true burn-out.





Twenty Springs

2 05 2021

I found the bench of no regrets on a walk a short while ago. Here as I took a break to breathe in the warmth of the sun and tune in to the birds, I remembered my friend’s observation that if we were lucky we had ‘twenty springs left to live.’

Twenty springs is a finite amount of time. A stretch of seasons that will take me to my final years. If I must live these years with no regrets, I must make every spring count. The question of how I might do this has preoccupied my thinking on my walks.

Twenty springs will age everything I love. My brother would have been 55 this May Day had he lived to see this spring. Inevitably, there will be other losses, sadness and grief flowing through my springs. The bench of no regrets will remind me to keep living each spring with surprise and equanimity no matter what arrives.

The blossom will remind me to keep things fresh. To resist becoming stale or so stuck I cannot move. The blossom will remind me that all beauty fades and all life decays. The blossom falling into the water from the cherry tree reminds me to capture the moment. To resist closing my heart or mind and look more closely instead.

I wonder whether the horses will travel with me through twenty more springs? As spring foals, they mark their 20th spring next year. They could both live until they are 40. What a privilege and joy it would be to share more time with them. To grow old together.

Of course I cannot know that I will have the gift of this time, yet simply imagining it has inspired me to view this spring differently. I’m counting it as the first spring. The first spring I have dedicated to the start of something intentional.

Small wonders are happening. As I’m slowing down to savour the spring mornings, animals and birds are less inclined to leave. A young heron stood near my knee fishing, ducks slept in the early morning sun, beaks tucked under wings and stayed asleep as I tiptoed around them with the hound. A robin stood above my head and looked in my eyes and sang. This morning the seagulls were silent and from the cool quiet, I heard the call of a cuckoo.

I’m reading Carl Jung on Nature, Technology and Modern Life and this short passage leapt from the page like a silver fish. Here Jung has retreated to a sanctuary he built from stone by hand and reflecting on his life.

Life has always seemed to me like a plant that lives on its rhizome. Its true life is invisible, hidden in the rhizome. The part that appears above ground lasts only a single summer. Then it withers away – an ephemeral apparition. When we think of the unending growth and decay of life and civilisations, we cannot escape the impression of absolute nullity. Yet I have never lost the sense of something that lives and endures underneath the eternal flux. What we see is the blossom, which passes. The rhizome remains.

Carl Jung: Prologue to Memories, Dreams and Reflections.

In a few weeks, my first ephemeral spring will give way to summer and I will remember it like a friend. There has been so much to take care of this spring to prepare for groups to visit the horses and it would be so easy to get caught up in the details. The horses are ready, though. And in knowing this spring, so am I.





Small gifts from the sea

28 03 2021

Like many of us, I have missed the pub, the picnics, the public gatherings and events that punctuated previous years. Nevertheless, there are some compensations for a year of social distancing. The beach has become my back yard, a place of reflection, imagination and connection.

On my beach walks I collect small treasures that have no worth to anyone but me: a few polished sea glass stones in greens and blues; an oyster shell; slender driftwood sculpted into suggestive shapes. I keep these treasures in a jar to look at while I wash the dishes. This small ritual creates a sense of space in a day where I am necessarily attached to a screen.

Because I haven’t been able to travel far, I have travelled small instead. Small things have always delighted me. As a child I used to take long meandering walks around the lanes and across fields, and collect things along the way. Insects, leaves, feathers. Small pieces of the outside that made me feel connected to the inside. Some leaves I held onto for years. Not long ago a found a dusty fragment from a tree of life I visited in an Arabian desert thirty years ago.

I am not systematic in my collecting or my classification. I often find things that seem significant, and then store them somewhere only to come across them unexpectedly. I enjoy the surprise this brings, the joy of rediscovering a mood, a feeling or a moment lost in time.

All life is made of such moments, of the smallest movements that link together to create a chain of being. When I look back over the past year, I see how richly textured it has been even in the bleakest moments. Under the surface of flatness, of sameness, of ordinary routine there have been moments of rare delight and connection.

The sea has been a constant in a turbulent year. Each day the sea offers something new and unexpected. A school of dolphins bouncing through sparkling waves; foam whipped dry by the wind; a pause by the steps to listen to a sea shanty spontaneously offered at the end of a dog walk. The sea keeps me going through difficult times. It reminds me that light and movement are constants of change as much as darkness and stagnation.

Sometimes it’s hard to see through the darkness. It’s hard to keep going when discouraged or disheartened by forces beyond your control. The sea is powerful and beside it I often feel small. Walking by the sea, I am reminded each time of how vulnerable we all are. The sea also, paradoxically, brings me a surge of strength to keep finding my way home.

Those times when I step onto an empty stretch of sand with my hound and find a space to breathe, those times are real and true and those times are when I feel a rising sense of hope.





The food of love

14 02 2021
Classic French Recipes X. Marcel Boulestin

We all want to be loved in our shining magnificence, in our unflawed glory, but true love waits until we are low and exhausted and confused. It beams right through the humble heart and lights us up. It reminds us to be soft and tender and raw. It lets us know that the quiet space of no hope can often be transformed into a new understanding. Love lets us know that we are never alone.

I have learned about love in the unlikeliest of places and from unlikely people and beings. Love often shows up when I am least expecting it. When I am low and close to giving up, it will announce its presence quietly: a shift in the way the light falls over a row of frozen benches looking out over the estuary one early morning; a new note in the tone of someone’s voice; a drop in the wind. All of a sudden there is understanding, a fresh way of apprehending what was previously obscured. Like many of us, I set things up so that my life runs smoothly, rolling on oiled wheels. Love likes to stop me mid-track. Here take a look at this, it says. If I ignore it, it is patient, which is the mark of a great disrupter; love takes its time to surprise you.

Shell fish featured in my first love story. Whelks and cockles, to be precise, which now I think of it are prized as aphrodisiacs. I collected them in a bucket with a boy who couldn’t look at me. I wondered all that day and the next day and for a long time after why he would not meet my eyes. I wanted to find him to ask him – what? Nothing had occurred. We had simply hunched next to each other on a barnacle covered rock and he had told me my future. He told me what he could see, that I was blind to boys like him. I would go after the other kind of boy, which I did. I wonder how he knew this at 12? What I would give to go back in time and take the bucket from his hand and look directly into his eyes and tell him he was wrong.

I went to buy shell fish this morning because I have been dreaming of fresh scallops. I took an old French cook book to bed and read with relish how to make béchamel sauce from scratch. I love this battered old book. I’m enchanted by every recipe created by the cook whose first name is the mysterious initial X. Marcel Boulestin was a food writer from the 1920s and 1930s who inspired many cooks including Elizabeth David. His cooking is plain, elegant and simple. As much as I enjoy imagining creating epinards florentine, spinach in a creamy sauce, I admire Boulestin’s spiky writing. I love the way he tells you precisely what to do.

Clean the spinach well and, having washed it in several waters, drain and dry it. Put it in a thick saucepan with a good piece of butter, and cook, stirring well on a fairly quick fire.

This is how I learned to cook spinach. I love the poetry of washing it in several waters and the good piece of butter, the generosity to the cook with the conviction that this way of cooking spinach and stirring in other ingredients, each carefully picked and prepared, will result in a simple meal of deliciousness. Boulestin’s cooking is probably considered old-fashioned now; there is a lot of cream and butter, I mean a lot, although for me this is part of the charm because it reminds me that cooking creatively means looking at the foundations of good recipes and essential elements and assembling them in the way I would like to eat now.

There were no scallops at the farm shop because the boats had not been able to go out to sea in these high winds. Half expecting this, I had already planned to buy mushrooms instead. Forest fungi packed into a brown box; I chose the oyster mushrooms because they were the closest to the sea theme I had in mind. I still don’t know what I’m going to do with the mushrooms. They are pearly and precious and I want to do them justice. Boulestin has several mouth-watering concoctions involving oil and butter, garlic and parsley. I will perhaps saute them with fresh coriander and lemon because bright flavours are singing to me right now.

Thinking about food is a simple form of love especially when the world outside is complicated and still so uncertain. There is comfort and reassurance in knowing that my outing to the supermarket or farm shop or greengrocer will yield some small pleasure. I find I’m savouring food more than ever because life is precarious and food is one of the loveliest ways to say to yourself or someone you love: here, eat this, I care. It might be wild outside, but this will delight your heart.

The small, simple and humble ways we care matter. Philosopher Alain de Botton says that we need to consider the mundane when practising love. We need to make room for love in our daily domestic lives. When we think of love as some operatic performance we forget how most of us live our lives – in quiet symphonies of small duties. Feeding children, feeding animals, feeding ourselves and those we love with words and actions that leave us either feeling nourished or depleted.

Love has the capacity to illuminate the mundane. When I think of moments when love appeared in this week alone, I recall swift and sudden tears, laughter, gestures of surprise, gratitude, hope, compassion, connection, warmth, imagination and shared understanding: all rich ingredients of love.

Oyster mushrooms with garlic, onion, leek, kale and coriander, cooked in olive oil with fresh thyme and some butter.




Slow fade to black

10 01 2021

During this winter I’ve taken a walk most evenings at twilight. There’s a moment when the sun lowers behind the trees that makes me reach for my camera. As the cold laps across the fields and starts to freeze my fingers, I frame the last filaments of light. Scrolling through my photo collection, I notice dozens of images of trees at twilight, each tree with bare branches outstretched as if to ward off the oncoming night; holding it slippery, gleaming and alive in the sway of a dark net. This slow fade to black creates the kind of ending I would wish for all dying beings. There’s no agony in twilight, no fuss, no sense of loss: the light dims and merges into the lovely muted softness of the time we call dusk.

The year itself has now gone past its own twilight and is again in the ascendency. Already I notice the evenings drawing out, reaching further into the light and the rise is welcome after a dark year of loss with heavier loss to come. Driving home each day, I hear the bone weariness in the voices of the intensive care doctors and nurses interviewed on the radio. I hear the urgency in the reports of a crisis in the NHS overwhelmed by a virus ‘out of control.’ Driving through the twilight, I think about beginnings and endings. I wonder what is beginning for us as a community of beings dedicated to looking after the most frail and the most vulnerable. I feel hope that elderly people who have been housebound for months will live to experience another spring. At the same time, I know many will not.

In living and loving so fiercely, we so often forget that we must die. It’s hard to look death in the eye. Our instinct is to hold onto life at all costs and we have developed such intricate ways to prolong life, sometimes for good years, but in the end death outwits all our technology. Death endures our best attempts to slow it down. It comes whether we are looking or not.

None of us can know how we might meet death. The philosopher Socrates met his end with maddening good cheer, refusing to go into exile and stop his teaching, refusing to stop pointing out what was obvious to him and infuriating to his prosecutors: that he couldn’t die anyway. He would merely change from a mortal being to an immortal one. His soul was going somewhere better, thanks. Now hand over that cup of hemlock.

Socrates’ death began a revolution, a commitment to bring his ideas out of obscurity and into the light. Grief created an explosion of ideas and an outpouring of brilliant work by his most faithful student Plato. Without Plato’s commitment to honouring the ideas of his mentor, some fundamental principles of education, mathematics and the beginnings of the universe might never have been born. Grief is so often fertile soil for making things anew. At the same time, death takes away our illusion of control. It lets us know that we have limited time to live, and that, according to Plato, is a good thing. We should live our lives remembering that we will die. A good life is a life that has recognised death and made room for it. All living is a preparation for death.

Not many of us are like Socrates, boldly going to his final destination, as if he were merely hoping from one Greek island to another, but perhaps we could learn to open the fingers we habitually place over our eyes when considering death. Perhaps we could in the words of Joan Halifax, anthropologist and Zen priest, who spent years sitting with the dying, meeting them in their pain and suffering, find a ‘sane relationship to our sadness without being overwhelmed.’

This makes me think of the way animals grieve and die: sanely, simply, softly. At the start of this week, our resident elderly goat Bill died. Rickety, tired and prone to infections, Bill was in human years the equivalent of a centenarian. He spent nearly every morning seeking out a warm sunny patch in which to rest his old bones. Although often exhausted, he was always gracious to visitors and enjoyed a good scratch between his horns. His death came as no surprise. Last winter his grave was dug in preparation, but he lasted longer than anyone expected. Our Dartmoor pony Tinker tenderly nosed Bill’s lifeless body as he was lifted into the wheelbarrow to be wheeled off to his burial.

In Greece, people are buried the day after they die, which means there is little time for elaborate funeral preparations. One of my Philosophy students said there was no fuss around death in the Greek village where he grew up. One minute, you’re there, the next you’re not, and everyone just gets on with it. Nevertheless, no fuss doesn’t have to mean no care. Maybe caring means acknowledging the fact of death itself with full presence and gentleness, just as Tinker did for old Bill.

Some Christmases ago, I witnessed a pair of horses show a similar interest in the death of one of their herd members, an old thoroughbred mare who collapsed in the field where she was later that day buried. The remaining herd members, a pony gelding and another pony mare, remained present to the death of their herd member by standing near her grave, pawing at the earth, turning over the soil under which she lay. I witnessed vividly that day how animals are not afraid to get close to death. They are perhaps aware of death in ways that we are not.

As I write this, I notice two images: a tree at twilight in a beautiful winter scene painted by John Skinner, and the gentle smile of my friend who ended his own life. I also notice the new ticking life of my young hound, licking his paws on the sofa and I sense that here is life beginning and ending, beginning and ending. I don’t need to understand it. I just need to remain still and sane enough not to be overwhelmed. I think of Tinker taking the time to caress old Bill with her lips, and I secretly hope that wherever the old goat has gone he gets to hang out with Socrates.

Bill, right, never passed on the opportunity for a good scrap with Betty.





Look into my eyes

6 12 2020

You see me as I am and as I have always been. Clear, honest and full of love. I hold all of my life in my heart and if you ask me in the right way, I will give it in service to you.

You who know the ache of being separated from your own kind, the hours when you feel the heaviness of your own singular presence. No other to lighten your way. No other to enter your life and make it into something shared. No other at night when you lie with your heart open and awake. Waiting.

I feel you. I feel you want to come closer and I lower my neck to you. You ask permission to caress and I soften. I caress you in turn with my breath and I feel you open the space in you that was shuttered. Years, you say. You tell me you have not hugged anyone in years. Nor has anyone touched you. I feel your sadness like gravity.

I hold you here. Your hand rests on my neck. I am still for you. Quiet. I listen to your words of love. I hold your longing. I hold your kindness and willingness to share with me your secrets. I hold them sacred for you. I see you. I see how you have touched the place you do not speak of to those of your own.

Look into my eyes and tell me how you are and do not pretend. I will listen. I will see you.

Written for Maggie (not her real name) and for all those who are lonely for touch, love and deeper understanding. A recent survey shows more than 1.7 million people in Britain will be spending Christmas alone this year. This is twice the usual number.





Making Music

15 11 2020

I have always admired people who can make music. To be able to play a clarinet or piano fluently seems to me like the most gorgeous gift. My musical talent fits into a matchbox. At school I was in awe of those musical geniuses who had the facility I lacked. I remember once picking up a guitar with a fluttering feeling of finding my instrument and being told by the teacher that I was holding it back to front.

I resigned myself to becoming a listener rather than a player. I was an ardent onlooker and observer and remained in awe of those who had the secret knowledge. Last week, I realised the true point of music is to connect.

We set up in the barn with an array of hand pans, exquisitely crafted by Lyndon Forster, who offers music workshops through his community enterprise PanKind.

We had invited Lyndon to visit in the summer and we were all entranced by the reaction of the horses to the melodic sound of the pans. As soon as Lyndon started playing, the herd, who were some distance away grazing lifted their heads. Then, as if drawn by a magnet, they came to investigate. Dragonfly, our most sensitive Arabian, seemed to connect most intensely, exploring the pan with his whiskers as we experimented with different touches to lift the sound from the metal.

The barn which is a combination of tractor garage and night shelter to two Dartmoor ponies Evie and Rose became transformed into a music studio to which we had invited a group of patients from Langdon Hospital.

One of the patients, a talented musician, was instantly gripped by the guitar and provided background accompaniment to the ripples of sound from the rest of the group. Another patient gently moved his fingers down a dulcimer while Evie breathed over his hands. Someone else touch played a pan. At one moment I realised that all the beings in the barn were utterly absorbed in the process. No words were needed. We were connected as one.

No division between animal or human, patient or staff, teacher or farmer. Just us. Playing. In a big draughty barn. It felt completely natural and also humbling.

When we allow things to unfold with a harmony and rhythm all of their own, we make music. The spontaneous music of being as we are.








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