A River Of Stones: Stone Number Thirty

A lone pine tree stands at the base of the piste. I notice there is a bare space, free of snow at the roots. A perfect seat for a weary traveller. I lay on my hand, ask the tree if I can sit. The tree tells me this is the reason the space is there.

A River Of Stones: Stone Number Twenty-Nine

The flowing of words onto a page. Without thinking too much about where they come from, and yet, still they flow, like water flowing over a waterfall despite the Salmon trying to jump up-stream.

A River Of Stones: Stone Number Twenty-Eight

I have felt that my energetic roots have gone down into the earth and interconnect with every other person who has also let themselves open up and unfurl within the earth. We are easy to see, because we are blossoming above the ground too.

A River Of Stones: Stone Number Twenty-Seven

My upper back aches. Here. Right between the shoulder-blades. Why could that be? I move my head to the left. Click. To the right. Click. I wonder if sitting at the kitchen table typing on the laptop is doing me any favours? When I close my eyes, I see myself in plough pose. Arms stretched, reaching above my head along the floor. Toes touching the floor above my head. Maybe this is what my guides are telling me I need to do in order to release the many little knots that reside in my muscles.

A River Of Stones: Stone Number Twenty-Six

Despite the cold and the gently falling snow, I can hear the birds still singing as life continues.

A River Of Stones: Stone Number Twenty-Five

I can feel the tension in my shoulders and I wonder why I am still holding on to it there. It feels like ancient grief and heartbreak trying to break out.

A River Of Stones: Stone Number Twenty-Four

Discordance is a bit like putting out your arms to try and hold onto the walls of the tunnel when you are supposed to be going with the flow. No point in doing it unless your aim is to sap all your energy.

A River Of Stones: Stone Number Twenty-Three

Surge of white-light energy where did you come from today? Did I manufacture you in my being or did I travel through the stars last night and collect you, like a firefly in a jar?

A River Of Stones: Stone Number Twenty-Two

So much anger wants to come out of my body today. I can't seem to stop it escaping like so much air out of a deflating balloon.

A River Of Stones: Stone Number Twenty-One

Today, I barely want to write a word, all I want is to sleep. I'm bored of the snow, I'm fed up of the cold and I just want my world back to freedom of mind and freedom of movement. I crave the sun on my face and the wind in my hair as I ride my bike at full-speed through the town.

A River Of Stones: Stone Number Twenty

I look at my nails and notice they are long now. When did that happen? They've obviously been quietly growing away unhindered by my little, worried tearings.... I wonder why I haven't had enough stress in my life this month to make me bite my nails.

A River Of Stones: Stone Number Nineteen

I peer out of the window and ponder the glacé-spider-leg branches on the tree across the road. I often wonder what would happen if that huge tree fell down. I feel the spidery legs would crash through my windows and invade my inner-sanctuary.

A River Of Stones: Stone Number Eighteen

The haunting clatter of the snowplough brings me into semi-conciousness. I think of Jacob Marley and his endless chains. Feel those chains tightening around me --so many things I need to do and haven't done. I am laying flat, hand on jutting hip bone, paralysed with the fear of all the things I let slip, all my doubts. The snow-blanket muffles the world outside while my inner-world churns.

A River Of Stones: Stone Number Seventeen

I stand on the riverbank, under the medieval bridge, built by the devil in a sacred pact, looking closely at the vast array of slightly-differing pebbles at my feet. In my ears is the constant gush of water travelling down from the Mountain in front of me. Just me and the pebbles on the plain as snowflakes start to leave their feathery, wet touches on each one.

A River Of Stones: Stone Number Sixteen

I stand. Stamp my feet in the cold. Listen to the Signora ahead of me talking in harsh Piemontese. I look at the array of milk, eggs, butter, cheese, meat. What are those bloody-looking, tight, shiny sausages? Salame something. Salame? Would I ever have the guts to buy one and try it? Perhaps I should ask. Looks like Haggis. Wouldn't eat that either. Or would I now? Now that my horizons have been violently split open, like the lady cutting into the guanca.

A River Of Stones: Stone Number Fifteen

Why did I do that? Why did I poke the glossy brown, plastic-covered end of that hairslide into my ear? I know what happens every time, I end up deaf. I wonder why I do it and why it makes me deaf. Maybe there are times in my life when I don't need to hear what's going on outside. Why do you need to go outside when you have an ocean already in your head?

A River Of Stones: Stone Number Fourteen

Knees folded, feet underneath me. Slight ache in the right side of my neck. The base of each hand rested on the edge of the laptop balanced on my thighs as I tap gently on the keys.

A River Of Stones: Stone Number Thirteen

I flinch as I leave the warm car. I feel something inside shrink back, resist reaching out and embracing the cold. The tips of my ungloved fingers go first. Ache. Burn. Then my cheeks. My lips. Why didn't I put on lipbalm? Why do I need to be out doing this? I look towards the mountains. The sun is large today, bright. I breath out my dragon-breath and then move to get warm.

A River Of Stones: Stone Number Twelve

Onions sizzle in the hot oil. Cream coloured and glistening against the black cast-iron. The smell transports me. My Nan's kitchen. Bonfire Night. The 1980's. A crisp, shiny, brown sausage in a Hot-Dog bun (buttered because Nan said that the rolls were too dry without!) and the soft, browny onions being piled on top and then anointed with stripes of Heinz Ketchup and American too-yellow mustard.

A River Of Stones: Stone Number Eleven

I can see the pink-swimming-capped head of my daughter as she bobs in the too-blue water framed through the yellow-chino-clad legs of the man standing with one cowboy boot up on the bar of the railing that stops us all falling down into the swimming pool below. It feels wrong to look through the legs of a strange man. Especially one so badly dressed.