There is chaos that clings to my thoughts like algae on a river. I pull myself in many directions. I have ideas, so many ideas. Some glimmer, form and unform. Some make it into the world and take on a life of their own. Some retreat back to the dark spaces of my desk drawer.

This year, I want to bring more projects into the light.

This year, I want my creative waters to run clear.

I write to you now from Christchurch, New Zealand. My writing desk is on the borderlands of an estuary. There are a dozen houses or so before my street ends and wetlands begin. Within walking distance are two river mouths, Avon and Heathcote. But there is still distance between me and nature.

Writing can be a reflective practice. A way to heal trauma. Or an invitation to explore the imagination. It can be a vice and a vocation. Sometimes, I write noise that should have been music.

I came late in life to the works of Mary Oliver. There are some books, some authors that I have always intended to read but never quite have. It’s like we had been standing at opposite ends of the same library and all I needed to do was walk over and pick up her book.