1. Biting in to a crispy, rosy Braeburn. Sweet and tasty to boot.

2. Having a blog with lovely readers where I can share things, like my crispy Braeburn.

3. My new pink fleece which makes me feel like a teddy-bear. A toasty teddy-bear.

4. Having a small stone listed among such lovely people as Lizzy’s Literary Life, Stuck in a Book, dovegreyreader scribbles etc etc.

5. My neighbour knocking to let me know I’d left my front door keys (car keys etc) in the front door.

6. Oh, all sorts.

Our new house is cold.

It is especially cold downstairs, where the conservatory greedily sucks heat from the rooms behind it.

It is especially cold right now, with the whole of the world-outside breathing frost and chilled air onto our roof, our walls, the earth cooling our foundations.

We have retreated upstairs to the office in the evenings, and Kaspa isn’t taking off his hat. As I sit at my desk right now, I have two pairs of socks and a huge pink fluffy fleece and a hot mug of tea. The cold is seeping in at the window. I can feel the currents.

It is difficult to concentrate on other things when we’re cold, or hungry or thirsty, or emotional. As Maslow knew well. How can we continue to engage with the world in these times? If we skip the times when we’re cold or hungry, we’re wasting an awful lot of life.

I’ll begin by noticing the cold on my fingers. And the heat on the tips as I hold my earl grey. Listening to Silver’s sneeze. Acknowledging the precise blue of the sky, and how it weakens towards the horizon. The sunlight on the top third fence. The teddy-bear texture of my jumper. The sound of the washing machine drifting lazily up from downstairs.

I can notice these things whether I’m cold or not. I am noticing them. I feel a part of the world again, the gorgeous cruel beautiful cold world.

“I am going to start by saying something controversial. Truly changing ourselves is very, very, very difficult.

This time I have three presents for you – some gossip, a free article on change (in which I say some unpopular things), and advice on how you can make your loved ones very happy. Enjoy.

Kaspa & I went to the Royal Albert Hall on Monday night to see Rufus Wainwright and his sister. If you don’t know them you should check out their music immediately.

In the first of his sections, a man came onto stage before Rufus to request that we didn’t clap between songs or until he left the stage – he was performing the songs as a ‘song cycle’ and his exit was part of the performance.

He entered in a gorgeous gown with the longest train, and slowly walked to the piano before performing the whole of his album ‘All Days Are Nights’ which contains many songs about his mother dying. He was accompanied by blown up slowed down images of heavily made up eyes slowly opening and closing, like strange spidery aliens.

I was moved to tears many times. The silences in between the songs gave them space to breathe, the silence was reverential, sacred, it gave the music solemnity and grace.

That was my experience.

I overheard the woman in the next seat complaining to a friend afterwards. ‘He’s so up himself’.

Is he ‘up himself’? What does that mean? In the second part, he joked with the audience and laughed at his failure to reach a high note. Can we accept each other when we ask for some serious attention? Where is the line between solemnity and hamming it up? Does it even matter?

It doesn’t matter to me. I don’t know if it would matter to Rufus or not, and if the people that did clap clumsily  after one song, making a clattering noise in the silence, annoyed him or not. I allowed myself to be taken in, taken through. I was in safe hands. I’ll never forget that voice, those songs, that sacred silence.  

Could any of your loved ones do with slowing down, or cheering up, or untangling their tangles?

Or are you just completely and thoroughly stuck when you think about what you could buy them?

For £10 ($18) or £20 ($35) you can buy them the gift of a conversation with me (or an email coaching report) and/or a SIGNED copy of A Year of Questions: How to slow down and fall in love with life. Here’s more information.

I put SIGNED in capitals as you might not have noticed it otherwise. That’s what you do when you’re making an irresistible offer like this one.

If you’re not in the UK it’ll take a while to get the book across to you so do get in touch soon. If you’re in the UK you can just feel smug about getting a couple of presents sorted in November.

Thank you for your attention, lovely people!

I am a minimalist.

This morning my inbox is pure white, like snow.

Thinking of snow reminded me of this poem called Snow, which whiskey river published on Sunday. I rather like it.

It also reminded me of McNiece’s suddenly-rich snow (the ‘friend’ was Kaspa! who took the snowy photo illustrating today’s blog) and Frost’s woods, which, shock horror, I don’t seem to have shared on Planting Words before.

And so here they are. Snow snow snow. I’m feeling all Christmassy! I might have to make some spiced biscuits!

*

SNOW

It began to snow at midnight. And certainly
the kitchen is the best place to sit,
even the kitchen of the sleepless.
It’s warm there, you cook yourself something, drink wine
and look out of the window at your friend eternity.
Why care whether birth and death are merely points
when life is not a straight line.
Why torment yourself eyeing the calendar
and wondering what is at stake.
Why confess you don’t have the money
to buy Saskia shoes?
And why brag
that you suffer more than others.
If there were no silence here
the snow would have dreamed it up.
You are alone.
Spare the gestures. Nothing for show.

- Vladimir Holub
translated by Ian & Jarmila Milner

*

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.