Saturday, 29 December 2012


The word burgeoning is whispering through my mind over and over again. Maybe because it is a nice sounding word, a fully fleshed word that rings true,  or maybe because my mind is trying to tell me something. Whatever has caused it to plant itself in my mind it seems like a word to breathe in and wrap myself around as I move from one year to another. Is 2013 to be my year of burgeoning, or has 2012 already been my burgeoning? 

To put forth new buds, leaves, or greenery; sprout.
To begin to grow or blossom.
         To grow or develop rapidly.

Tuesday, 18 December 2012

A moment in a story

I begin at the end because it is  only at the end that I realise what the start and the parts in between mean. 

Now  the press of my wife’s thumb trying to urge her  warmth into the cold sweat of my palm reminds me of all she is to me. Her hands are paper, yielding paper that has been scrunched, folded over time and again, a furry softness that only repeated use and age can give. Yet their touch has always been solid and strong- she is soft strength, a beautiful juxtaposition . 

My palm trembles as her thumb traces small circles, squashing the skin as it undulates and stretches cross the bone of my palm. A small gesture... a hidden gesture, nobody else can see it but I can feel it and with each swirling rotation of her thumb I am reassured. She knows and I know that in this moment we need no words, we recognise each other completely, we realise and understand through the muted touch of one anothers skin what the other is feeling. This moment, this foreboding collation of all former points has arrived. The promise of it has weighed heavy in our hearts but now it runs through us and we run through it. The time for skipping around it has filtered away leaving the sediments of my life. A fated moment is unfolding itself around me and inviting me to step inside it.

Sunday, 9 December 2012

A week

A week is a universally known period of time, it frames the start and end of a set of days. It helps us split our existence up into meaningful parts. It allows for a new beginning and fresh start every seven days and we need that promise of a pause… a start again, a regrouping and gathering of ourselves. What if there were no measure or concept of days, weeks, months or years, just a continuous passage of time that was not defined in any kind of way, would that be liberating or would it completely contradict how we as human beings work? We feel a need to define everything and in defining, confine our thoughts into a structure and pattern that would be unnatural to break from.

This musing over a week and what a week actually means is born out of a feeling that this last week has been so complete in itself, so full of thoughts and growth and experiences that to leave it and start living through another, a week yet to come seems too soon, time moving on and moving you on in its uncompromising way. The last week means something to me not because of the external things that happened because externally nothing of great note happened but because of the internal dialogue that has been whispering and shouting, bubbling over and draining itself to nothingness over these past seven days until now on the seventh of those days it has settled onto a comforting hum of contentment. Yet, if there were no weeks or days just moment after moment undefined would I feel as if I had progressed if I hadn’t traced it and measured it against the cycle of seven days?