I’m writing to you from the queue for a plane at Dublin airport— the sun shining onto metal; my body aching from my first full night with absolutely no sleep for months. I’m shattered but my heart is so full. Last night saw the last of my sessions with The Irish Writer’s Centre curating and hosting their Climate Writing Group sessions. I had the honour of speaking with Robert McFarlane and Rebecca O’Connor and Will Govan from the Moth Prizes. The evening was full of moths, wild gardens, the power of language and what it means to share this earth with the more than human creatures alongside us.
I found it a humbling, moving and affecting discussion. It made me really think about it what it means to try to navigate language in a swiftly and vastly changing world. It made me really think about tenderness and softness and what these things mean.
I’ve found myself back inhabiting my body again in ways I once did before and thought I’d lost: a daily yoga practice . And the thought that has preoccupied me now for many days is that of how we might learn what it means to soften— how that looks for us individually— and what the ripples of that softening might look like for those around us.
What is tenderness and how does it grow?
As well as meaning softness felt and care shown towards other beings it has the meaning, too, of pain or sensitivity on one’s own body: an area that could actually do with that gentle care shown to it.
The yoga teacher I’ve been practicing with in prerecorded practice focuses lots on tuning in to whichever part of our body needs us the most; the site of our tenderness — and there is part of me that wonders about the interconnection between these two meanings of the word tenderness… recently the part of my body that’s given me most worry is my nose. I’ve struggled to breathe in through it; it’s been blocked for so long and the imbalance is making me dizzy. I’m literally struggling to breathe in deeply, properly and fully. And what happens when can’t breathe properly is that we can’t really find the balance we need. That tenderness that keeps us grounded; that fills us with the breath we need to carry on. And so I’m being mindful of that and all it entails at the moment: breath.
Always breath.
Balance.
Always balance.
I’ve been working too hard for too long with no rest, no means to remain as grounded as I need to show the tenderness I need in this line of work: the one that tries to give voice to a burning, bruised, beautiful world.
I’ve been telling myself since the third trimester with my son that I’d take a break in the winter…two winters have been and gone and I’ve not taken that break but I really am this year. I’ll finish an exciting project on Connemara by the close of September and then I’m going to enter the folds of winter— making my way towards 40—gently.
Lots of folk have messaged me this year asking of I’m open for mentoring, leading workshops etc and I am — for a wee while yet. Please get in touch before I step away for a wee while (I’m hoping to rest for the end of November and most of December)
I’d love to work more with women in particular who are writing of the more than human world, motherhood, the blurring of lines—and I operate a sliding scale so please get in touch.
Inchwhooperswan@gmail.com
This is a complimentary post but I’m focusing on growing this wee garden in order to move my work in a very different direction. If you like what I write and feel it is worthy of your care, please consider a full subscription. X
Recently I’ve been drawn, even more than usual, to bees.
There is something in me that knows that they are telling me something, and that knows that I need more stillness and quiet in my days in order to listen, to understand.
I’ll leave you with a line from this gorgeous book by my dear friend Helen Jukes:
‘I was hooked. By the bees, and by the beekeeping too— those precise and careful movements that were not unlike tenderness; not unlike a kind of intimacy.’
So yes, I’m wondering how I might find ways to lean into that inter species intimacy; that tenderness. Mind yourself, show the parts of you in need of care a little love: Try a little tenderness. Then watch how it ripples; how it takes root; how that same tenderness grows in places you could never have imagined x
This is so beautiful, Kerri. We are so pleased to read that you will take a pause. We’ve just had two nights away - an indulgent break with Travis our van before he is rehomed. Literally just 40kms down the road but a lifetime away. Reading, river swims, cheese and baguettes. Restored. You are so busy, the writer’s lot, of course, in a world where attention spans are short and you have a teeny crack to leap through with your wonderful healing words. But rest is a must ... you can’t pour from an empty cup. And it will do the rest of us good to know that someone we care about is topping up her batteries. Big hugs from us 💛
We're all of the earth. Star dust really if we have genes. Favourite flowers (daffodils), favourite pets (guinea pigs), favourite places (Leeds, Lanzarote, Tenerife, Black Forest), and I feel linked to all of them ,both specifically and generally. Yet I have little maternal instinct in me (kids prepared to support that!), so I call it love and fellowship rather than tenderness.