The pain I feel from any loss
Is not defined by that loss
But by my relationship to it.
What it means to me,
What significance I have attached to it.

No matter how hard a person may try
To soften the blow
To protect me
They cannot change that significance
And so
They cannot reduce that pain,
Merely prolong it.

Only I can change my relationship to things.
Only I can change my attachments.
And so
I will feel the pain that I will feel,
However long it takes,
Until I reach a level of completion
Sufficient to the significance
And so
Allow myself to release.

Of course
I can always choose
To release


Beech leaves barrel and tumble from a blue sky

Not blustered from branches on this calm day

Not shaken by squirrel or pounded by rain

Only the sheer weight of sunshine

and the implacable impulse of their true nature


They fall each in their own way



The truth of their descent is the chaos of their own dynamic

Gravity carving through stiff air

They fall

to Earth

Glossy dark with frostmelt

Drying and lightening in the winter sun

to the colour of old Gnomes

(this is why Gnomes are so rare to see,

even when they stand close enough to touch,

if they would)


I stand and watch the beech leaves,

and the oak, more like to swoop, less to tumble

still they fall

true to their nature


I stand and watch as my fingers turn from pink tingle to white ache

Until the wrens return

Stand and watch the last fall


I too am touched by the light

Feel the impulse of my Nature



Time for me to release, to let go

Carve my path of truth

I need no storm to drive me

It is time, and it is my nature.


Good bye to Beech, to Oak

Farewell to Gnomes



Dealing with the Damage

When I make an arrow, I look for a piece of pine or cypress from some damp, sheltered valley, where all the trees stood straight and tall, each like the next, near identical. This way my arrows, like the trees they came from, are straight and true, and all behave as the others do.

When I make a harp I choose cedar for the soundboard, and choosing carefully can make a well tempered, uniform board, that will give a well tempered, uniform sound for many years.

My bokken is made from white oak, that grew slowly in the thin soil of some Asian mountain, where the gusting wind tightened the grain and toughened the wood; that one won’t break easily.

Beech for my kitchen, larch for my log cabin, yew for my bow, purple heart for my pipe stem – whatever I make, there is a wood suited to it, each grown according to its nature, each valuable for its particular properties.

What happens though, when the tree does not grow according to its nature? What of the sapling clinging to a crag, searching every crevice for enough soil to root? What of the stunted, angular bushes swept out of shape by constant gales? The twisted misshapes crushed by landslide and rockfall, that struggle to rise again, fight back towards the light, strive against the odds to fulfil their destined form? The drought baked, the lightning struck, the fire scarred? What of them? What of the driftwood relics, ripped from riverbank by some flood, washed out to sea, tossed, tangled, eventually cast upon some windward shore with no identity but the warped and weathered patterns of their past?

What of the wood that is so gnarled, so warped, so deeply and fundamentally damaged that it can’t possibly have any value?

Look again.

Look again, and look properly, because this is where beauty is found. Straight grain may make straight arrows, yet whenever I seek beauty, I seek character. I seek the flow and the curve. I seek the healing and the recovery that shows the power of life. I seek variety, I seek healing, I seek inspiration. The way the spirit strives towards the light, however the environment is twisted, produces the richest, most evocative patterns, each swirl and ripple evidence of some small triumph over adversity, some hardship overcome. The dancing flame patterns of a fiddleback veneer, the intricate convolutions of a walnut burr, delight the eye and fill the heart in ways no straight line could ever reach.

When I choose to create, when I choose to express myself through art, when I choose, and I do choose, to surround myself with beauty, then I look for the gnarled and the twisted, the raw and the real, the honest evidence of a life hard lived, a story told with truth and feeling.

If all I had was straight grained pine, I would not be a wood carver. I wouldn’t even make arrows, because straight grained pine is no use for making bows. Without the cragfast sapling, the mountain would hold less beauty, and fewer birds. Without driftwood the endless flat beach would overwhelm my eye and underwhelm my soul. Without the twisted history of the bristlecone pine, each moment would drift unanchored and meaningless, here and gone without consequence, each experience dissipating like mist in sunlight.

This is no fairytale. Many trees are withered by drought, consumed by fire, smothered by landslides never to rise again. There will always be death. It is a part of the great cycle, and however hard it may be to witness, I would not stop that wheel from turning. Yet even those trees that don’t decay, and by their death nurture new life, will eventually be transformed into coal, or fossilized into fascinating rocks, eternal record keepers and reminders of the enormous scale of this creation.

So it is with wood, and so it is with people. We each grow from our roots, swayed and distorted by our hardships. Most rise, some fall, and so it is.

Whether you deem yourself to be one of many, like the forest of pines, or an isolated individual clinging to your niche, you still have your nature, and you still have your value. Whatever it is, be true to it, to the best of your ability.

I, being true to mine, will struggle out from under this landslide and reach once more for the light, seek the sun on my leaves and stable soil for my roots. Perhaps my fruit will nourish others, perhaps my bent boughs and twisted trunk will make good shelter. I will not hide, and I will not pretend to be other than my self. Maybe one day, some like minded individual will see the beauty in this gnarled old stick and choose to include me in their creativity.

Take what you can from this, with my blessings. Then go and be, simply be, however damaged you may think yourself; you may be surprised.

Chakra Blocks

I don’t speak because I am stressed…

I’m stressed because I’m not expressing my anger…

I’m angry because I’m afraid…

I’m afraid that if I really did confront you with all the things that I see and feel then we’d have such an almighty row that you would never speak to me again, ever. That I would challenge you so much that you would shut me out permanently. That it would be my fault.

I’m ashamed how small and lost, how utterly desolate and purposeless that makes me feel.

And some people say it’s wrong to focus on one person, so I feel guilty about that, because nobody else inspires me, drives me, challenges or lifts me the way you do. I don’t love anybody else this way… not even me.

Way down at the root of it all, I fear I may be broken, so deeply and fundamentally broken that there is no hope, only pain. I fear I don’t know how to be myself, so I will never truly live. I pray to all that is sacred that this is not true.

But if not being broken means never loving anybody this deeply, this intensely, then I think I’d rather be broken apart to the very soul of me, and in love, than patched and whole and heart lonely.

Maybe, just maybe… maybe it’s possible to be open to the soul, shamelessly in love, and not broken. Maybe? Maybe all my many flaws are possible to heal, in time, in love.

Maybe if I’m big enough, strong enough, open myself wide enough, let enough of my soul shine through then all that will be left will be love, and that will be enough.

Maybe you will be there to see it… that’s up to you. All the rest is mine.

Curious… read this from the other point of view, and see how much is true


Maybe the time will come when no one will flinch when I speak my truth, no one will wince if I show my heart.

Until then my Gravatar stands as guardian of my honesty, protecting this space from my own self censorship, holding the potential of being real, and being witnessed.  Maybe I’ll make full use of this, and maybe the habit of hiding will die slowly; if you are interested then you’ll find out.

There are already some of you who can hold that space for real, some who know me by various names, and even a few who could find me on a map.  If you have earned my trust, you will know. There are one or two who would stand and cheer if I went public with the whole of my truth… remember you are stronger than most, and I choose to be gentle with others who are more vulnerable.  I’ll show myself when I choose.  In this space, at this time, I choose to remain A Bear and keep other names for other places.  As always, your support is appreciated.

For now, heartfelt thanks to Liz Collier, who drew me before she knew me, and dances like a wild angel. When it comes to inspiring raw truth and natural honesty, she leads by example.


Life is not a relay race, where each generation passes the baton to their successor and then stumbles to a halt.

It is more like a rope, with the strands running alongside each other, twined together into cords to lend strength and flexibility, and with many cords twisted into the rope. Should a strand break, it may well weaken those strands before and after, yet the cord will remain intact, and the rope remain sound.

Bear with me…

This is not much of a “grand launch” but more of a trial by accident.  I tried to RTFM and found that not only were the FMs written for people who already knew what they were doing, by people who assumed everybody already had a certain familiarity, but that I actually needed an active blog on which to practise.

So in order to learn how to create a useable blog, I first had to create a blog… Does anyone else remember why the word meaning to start a computer is “Boot”?

Fortunately for me, I’m no technophobe… in fact the irony is that the entire concept of blogging fundamentally depends on the real internet – the actual physical network of servers and switches and mind numbingly high capacity data networks that I used to build.  Seriously, if you so much as pick up a phone for a long distance call, chances are that somewhere between Europe and Asia those infinitesimal pulses of light that convey the content of your thoughts will at some point pass though equipment that I installed and commissioned.

And millions of people are tapping away at keyboards across the web, feeling frustrated if their upload bounces or their download takes a few seconds longer than expected, and they have not the slightest concept of quite how complex the structure of their reality is… I do.

So I apologize if my text layout is a bit off, for the absence of interesting photos, or a fundamental lack of “intuitive feel” navigating these few sparse pages… and don’t apologize at all for not linking in to Faceache or Titter (don’t get me started) but really when it all comes down to it, I’ve paid my dues to technology – I’ve paid a lifetimes subscription for myself, and probably everybody who ever reads this blog.

So if it’s all right with you, I’m going to walk outside to a wooden hen house, and get a real warm egg, to go in my real hot frying pan with some good bacon, and have an actual, physical, low tech nourishing breakfast.

And no, I don’t care that it’s 2:30 in the afternoon.

Have a real day, and I hope the sun shines on you.

I wandered lonely as a Bear,

I wandered lonely as a Bear,

Through Faerie woods and Raven hills

Learned strange and mystic wisdom there,

I never should eat daffodils

I woke with head of fluffy verse

And shoulders knotted up like rocks,

It must be said, the poets curse,

Why can’t I find my fucking socks?

Not getting wet, in stream I stood

Whilst chickens clucked upon the bank

It’s early yet, perhaps I could

Go back to bed and have a snooze



Well, it’s better than “Testing, testing, one two, one two…two two two”

Who knows, it might be the only thing I ever post…. but then again…