I currently live in a collection of houses in the middle of a farm. None of us are the farmers of this land but we are surrounded by it and so it forms a big part of the context of our days. The harvest started a few weeks ago. First it was the rape seed fields, whose friable stubble has left huge areas exposed, the chalky soil looking sunbleached and desolate. Now they are just finishing off the barley and there is gold everywhere. Soon the wheat will be taken but for now it remains, a nutty brown haven for deer who seem to enjoy sitting in it with their heads poking out. During the daytime the air is visibly full of dust, and the quiet roads rumble as huge trucks shuttle back and forth between the depots and the enormous combine harvesters. For so much of the year I hardly see any humans but at this time I never leave the house without waving to at least 3 or 4 guys high up in their cabins.

I love how much the fields change, so quickly. I enjoy not knowing what state things will be in when I leave the house. I love the bales that dot the landscape, and then feel sad when I see them being scooped up. This is a season of flux, a season of reminders of all the activity of humans on the land, a season of recognising how much is altered by the changing climate – how the crops and the timings are a bit off compared with years/decades past.

I can sense the changes too at night, while we take Toby (our greyhound) out for a quick pee before bed. At the solstice 10pm was still very light and I loved that feeling of being out in the fields with no one around, witnessing things that maybe no one else sees that much. The other night I realised that it was mostly dark, especially when it’s cloudy, and that I might need to bring my headtorch soon. I felt the pang of grief that the summer is ending, eventhough there is still so much summertime to be felt.

I cannot walk amongst the fields, grown to produce food in some shape of form for humans or animals, and not be reminded of all the humans on the planet who have no access to food intentionally. The Palestinians, the Sudanese. How to hold all this in one small heart, how to witness such abundance and efficiency of modern technology and know that there is enough for all of us, if only people would allow it. I have been feeling the fire of this season stoke things in me and I am learning to embrace the valid anger I feel at so much injustice.

As always I’m asking how these things I’m learning can form part of my wider ecology of work, creative practice, life so that I start to feel less like I’m compartmentalising myself, and more like I am living from one centre with everything connected. I think of corn dollies and their braided forms. How can I weave all these strands of me into a cohesive whole?

If you are interested in exploring the possibilities that exist within you/your creative practice to contribute to new futures rooted in justice and care, get in touch to find out more about the mentoring work I do.