Tag Archives: Light

Rites and Writes for the Autumn Equinox

by Andrew | 4 Comments

It’s that time of year again – autumn always seems to be the favourite season of writers. Our inner nerd must associate the cooler air and autumn leaves with the wide-open prairies of unused exercise books. And we’re off!

Not that there are as many leaves left to turn orange and fall round here after the summer that we’ve had. Summer: increasingly my least fave season, though this year I did enjoy an excellent Zen meditation course as well as a wonderful introduction to natural history with the Natural History Museum. It’s been a weird year – heat and drought and war and politics and divisions, plus loss and grief that never really seems to budge. Perhaps the cycle of the year puts us in a space to start again.

Autumn, though. It’s something about the light, I think – the slant of the light in September, a thinner yellow that catches something: what? It was there in Orleans House Gardens in Twickenham this morning (see above). It was there on the English Channel last week when I taught a Four Elements workshop at the Hastings Book Festival (thanks for having me!). Something that changes in the light makes me see or maybe just feel things differently: a certain lift happens.

Thinking about that: as a writing experiment, take an old piece of writing and rewrite all or some of it by telling it slant.

A different perspective, a new setting in time or place, a fresh register: bring the subject matter in another direction.

Perhaps think about the quality of light this work might sit within, and let that feel its way into the writing. And maybe you could prepare by doing a meditation or visualisation that draws on a particular quality of the light.

To illuminate (ha!) this writing experiment, try this ritual for the Equinox from Bhanu Kapil, first published in the Ignota Diary 2019:

23 September
Ritual for Autumn Equinox
Invert yourself at the edge of the water, so that the top of your skull or your hair makes contact with the current or wave. And if this is not possible, if your capacity to take this posture is restricted in any way, then feel it in your body first. And if that is not possible, or if feeling is not possible in this moment, then take a glass of water and add some pink Himalayan salt, fresh lemon juice and pepper. Drink this. And if this is not possible, then lift your face to the rain. And if it never rains, then wait until the water finds you. Wait for the unexpected emotion that changes or charges your very real heart. And then: step through the indigo door, as Rachel Pollack said, into another world.

All of that! Some Bhanu (and Rachel) magic to send you on your writing way. Let the light lead you into another world of your own creation.

And spookily (or maybe not), as I type this post Bhanu also informs me about this. If you’ve ever enjoyed the great wisdom of Rachel Pollack’s writings, you might want to show your assistance. (And if you are interested in tarot but have never read her Seventy-Eight Degrees of Wisdom: you must seek it out! It is widely regarded as the best book on the subject.)

***

While I’m here, coming soon:

* Reawakenings, a Four Elements workshop run with Words Away, at a central London location tbc, 26 November 2022. Thinking about the changes we’ve experienced in the last few years since we last came together in person, let’s explore together ways to reawaken our writing: reset or reboot it, rebirth it even!

* Masterclasses on craft and practice, structured around an updated syllabus for my DIY MA in Creative Writing, on Zoom, January 2023 onwards.

 

Happy Autumn!

 

Friday Writing Experiment No. 41: The Still Point Of The Sun

by Andrew | Leave a comment

20131221-224331.jpg

This is the solstice, the still point
of the sun, its cusp and midnight,
the year’s threshold
and unlocking, where the past
lets go of and becomes the future;
the place of caught breath, the door
of a vanished house left ajar.

This comes from a fantastic poem called ‘Shapechangers In Winter’ by Margaret Atwood. A friend sent me this earlier today. Do read the whole version. Magic. Truly magic, conjuring up all the eternal power and pagan divinity of this special day.

(I use pagan in very broad terms. Let’s not forget Christmas is basically a pagan festival. And if you feel awkward about that idea, remember that at their hearts most religions celebrate the possibilities for renewal.)

In some ways I find the energies of the winter solstice even more compelling than those of the summer. We’re in a time of darkness, and now we’re returning to the light, minute by minute. The sun that’s disappeared behind the terrace over the back is gradually going to get higher and higher. But that presumes that light is better than dark, and in truth the dark is good in its own way. There are things in life we must gently accept. Tho too this is a time of rest and slumber and indoor pursuits, and long walks in fresh air with the dog.

In a couple of weeks, I’ll have exciting news to share. A Circle of Life moment that belongs to this auspicious day.

For this week’s writing experiment: write about a cusp where the past lets go of and becomes the future. You could include a solstice. If you write a poem, ground it in specific and concrete imagery. If you write fiction, include a specific and concrete gesture within. If you write nonfiction, be true.

Happy Solstice, Happy Christmas, enjoy the darkness, and may love and light be all around.

Friday Writing Experiment No. 35: Bring In The Light

by Andrew | Leave a comment

20131103-082425.jpg

In recent and forthcoming weeks we celebrate Diwali, Bonfire Night, Halloween, All Hallows aka the Day of the Dead, the changing of the clocks, the onset of winter. A time to remember that life is made of cycles, and that winter is a time of rest for the earth. A time to hunker down with good books and writing projects. A time for the indoors, for making fires.

I remember visiting Sweden one January, and being charmed by the presence of candlelight everywhere. Candles flickering in little glass snowballs on cafe tables, darting in a deep red bowl on the high windowsill of some apartment. A hotel in Stockholm is even designed with mood lighting in mind, and the bedside lamps are programmed to light up the rooms in soft shades – blue or orange or indigo, or cycling through the rainbow if you desire. It struck me that the Scandinavians really make an effort to bring light into their lives at this time when daylight is at a minimum.

Light. Life. Love. Clarity.

For this week’s writing experiment, consider how you can bring light into a piece of writing. You can do this literally, e.g., devoting an ode to a candle or writing a story that involves lamplight. Or you can consider things figuratively, and work out how some concept of light might bring a piece of writing to life, or maybe help you revise a piece that needs some assistance.

You might also want to consider an earlier writing experiment that tasks you on writing by candlelight.