Solitude...

... for Knots in the String.

For what is solitude but just another word for seclusion? That most peaceful state where anything is possible and if one is lucky, one can hear the pappus of a dandelion flutter to the ground on a breeze.

‘Solitude coaxes magical things from our souls.’ (Terri Guillemets).

And so it has been this last week as I switched off the phone, declined coffee with a friend (more on that in a moment) and tapped away on the computer as I took my latest novel to the last few chapters. Only a little way to go, another few days of purdah and I may have reached The End.

Seclusion wasn’t complete though. I shared the house with husband and terrier, I went for walks, and I did my regular ballet class. However, when I said no to my friend, I realised that some folk possibly don’t understand my self-imposed exile, simply because they’re a lot more gregarious than me.

I suspect they might think I’m odd too … different … and perhaps I am.

I don’t shrink from my own company and I do prefer to walk with the terrier alone and I don’t mind kayaking alone or swimming alone either. It enables my creativity to flourish, ideas and words to expand. Otherwise, how else could it happen? A writer needs those moments where an uncarved block can become a thing of beauty.

This is not to diminish my time with my friends at all – they’re good times where I share in their lives and hopefully, they might want to share in mine. I always come away from such engagements with contentment because of time with kindred souls.

But seclusion allows my mind to think along creative lines without interruption. Mostly it’s my writing, but it might also include a tangent on embroidery or gardening.

Aside from the need for it when I’m writing, it’s also a panacea for a world that spins uber fast with surround sound – an exhausting world.

Do you agree?

(image from House Beautiful)

It’s what struck me about the Nurture Garden at this year’s Chelsea Flower Show. Even before Monty Don spoke about it on the BBC telecast, I felt it was a garden that could sing to me of reflective solitude. It’s also changed my thinking a little of colours in my own garden. I’ve always planted white, variegated plants and the odd deep burgundy or black for a calm effect, but I see now that the refined palette of Nurture can drift through a landscape with seemingly uncontrived and quiet elegance.

Today is not brim full of solitude. I have my grandson with me and we’re going to venture to the Pirate Beach which is overhung by enormous sandstone cliffs.

Hopefully today’s gargantuan gales will sweep across the top to land somewhere out to sea, whipping up a maelstrom of rearing horses while we play on white sand, protected from the roar and clamour. If I have cobwebs in my ears, I won’t have any left as we make our way to the car to drive out to the beach. In fact, my head will be empty of anything much at all – the debris will be blown clean out to sea!

My Time:

Writing. The end is nigh and the preceding chapters before the epilogue will be a touch brutal. This is a fantasy but not of the epic kind with battles, wands and wizards. It is a journey from hubris to humility and it’s set in a world not unlike our own. I’ve enjoyed writing it – it’s been somewhat of a step back to where I began my writing career – a writer of an unusual style of fantasy which, in its time, ranked in the Top 100 of Amazon fantasies for six years. I needed R and R from the intense nature of writing historical fiction and this book (tentatively titled The Red Thread) enabled me.

Embroidery. I’m enjoying the creation of the Brenda Kinsel bag so much - the bright colours, the feel of Appletons, Flora and Gumnut wools in my hands, and the way it is growing quickly.

I’m so grateful to my husband for successfully drawing up a pattern from a mere photograph.

Ballet class. Of course. Even with the sore foot. Waiting for test results.

Gardening – approached rather obliquely. We’ve converted the city Matchbox house to full renewables and with the installation of a heat pump hotwater service, I lost ¼ of the south wall garden and in its place, an awful array of hardcore machinery.

So yesterday, I spent rather a lot of money on three beautiful weeping Japanese maples (deep ruby red in autumn and with a small cut leaf) and my husband will shield the machinery with brush fencing to match the rest of our fencing. I’ll underplant with all the white hellebores I currently have sitting in buckets.

It won’t exactly be an intimate space, but it will hopefully go partway to reinstating the contemplative state that has always been the Matchbox’s signature in its urban setting. We’ll see.

Reading:

Kindle – The Medici Manuscript by CJ Archer which I mentioned the other week. Still enjoying it greatly.

Audio – Finished Pymm’s Jane and Prudence. Sadly I was underwhelmed but I think it had far more to do with the narration than the writing. I’d now like to move on to some Doherty, Turney or McKay – fiery well-written hist.fict that will no doubt have me glued to the audio.

Print – I’ve begun Gyles Brandreth’s biography of Elizabeth II. It’s written gently and anecdotally and gives a precious view of an iconic woman whose private side we know so little about. I enjoy this kind of bio.

Substack - special standouts.

  Elizabeth’s essay on a very special old man brought tears to my eyes. Elizabeth writes simply and with great depth. A gold find on Substack.

  David Michie continues to educate me in the ways of the Buddhist. I usually wait until I’m in a solitary space and really concentrate on what he has to say, whether it is from him directly, from his own teachers or from The Dalai Lama’s Cat (otherwise known as HHC).

  Tom Ryan delights me with posts of his philosophies and doings. I learn much from him and he invariably puts me in a good place.

  Rebecca always grabs me from her first word for the week. I’m so glad to have found her account and feel that she’ll take me on many a dimensional journey through humour, creativity and real life.

When I look at my list of Substack subscriptions, there’s a theme. They’re essays written with breadth and depth and absolutely no ego. They’re written by people who have eyes wide open in today’s difficult world and every time I read one of the posts, I know I will perhaps be a better and more educated person than when I began.

TBH, Substack is one of the best things that’s happened to me as a writer (and reader). For years, I avoided creating an author’s email list as I didn’t want to inundate any readers I might have had. But Substack has this curious ability to match kindred with kindred. It’s almost spooky. I’m truly glad to be a Substack writer and I hope that you all feel you’re getting value, each time you open your email.

Later:

As I finish writing this newsletter, I’m alone. My husband is driving our grandson home, the terrier is wrapped in his little polar fleece jacket after time in the surf and in a rockpool. He’s snoring gently, farting a little too often, and outside the wind has dropped to a puffle (not so much for the terrier).

But despite the terrier, the essence of solitude is all around and to find a piece of music that encapsulates that is not easy. Mostly, music and songs about solitude focus on the depressing negatives.

However, I couldn’t really go past this one: