I LIVE BY A GREAT BODY OF
water, where the longest river in
Britain spreads out into a 20-milewide
estuary – in the Welsh, Môr
Hafren, Severn Sea. With the
second highest tidal range on earth,
it changes hour by hour, with every
shift of weather or light.
A body of water: water’s body
that seems to have a mind (and
change it: isn’t that what makes
a mind, its changing?)...
Apart from being a water watcher,
I’m a writer. Crossing the estuary 20
years ago to live in South Wales
marked a... well, watershed, a key
Before-and-After in my writing life.
Maybe it matters that I am,
principally, a poet. Poetry deals with
the flow of language – its rhythms,
its pauses, its stillnesses, as well as
its surge and rush. Meeting the
estuary gave me not just a subject
but a metaphor, an outward and
visible form, for poetry
itself. How I write is
bound up with who
and what I am, how I
think and behave; what I
see in water is a clue to my own
way of being.
Which brings me to the reason I’m
writing this now, an invitation to
think out loud about creative
writing and wellness. This is not
about writing as therapy. It can be
used like that, as can music, dance
and all the arts. I’m not a therapist;
this is about the closest way I have
to bringing all of me – thoughts,
feelings, physical sensations and
whatever you choose to call your
deepest intuitions – into a
conversation with each other.
It’s about taking an experience
and giving it a life of its own –
finding the language that
would bring it alive for
someone else. The
more you can do that,
the less it is just about
you. It becomes part of the shared
repertoire of being human. That
doesn’t belittle your confusion, joy
or pain; it puts it in perspective. It
also tells you that you aren’t alone.
To write is to step out of ourselves,
see the view from out there. And