February is bleak and dreary out here in the sticks. We have fog, frost, rain, snow, khaki fields and mud. I'm glad I'm not a sheep.
February entertainment consists of going to the local starling murmuration site at dusk, standing in the cold for half an hour with other people and seeing nothing, nada, zilch.
And going again the next night and being driven home by a wave of sleet.
Meanwhile in Calais, lone refugee teenagers are sleeping rough hoping that we can make enough fuss to persuade Theresa May to change her mind and give them sanctuary. I just found three petitions online. Here's one.
At least I can sit and write. Or attempt to write. The current project hasn't been going too well so I've been doing writing practice, namely some of the exercises in my favourite writing book - Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg.
Also I've been reading and working from her book on writing memoir - Old Friend From Far Away, in which she says:
Writing is the act of reaching across the abyss of isolation to share and reflect. It's not a diet to become skinny, but a relaxation into the fat of our lives. Often without realising it, we are on a quest, a search for meaning. What does our time on this earth add up to?
I like that.
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