Tag: Curiosity

Location, location, location

When I first set out to become better acquainted with my own curiosity I simply paid close attention to where it led me and captured notes, ideas and images as I went along. For a while this was enough to help me make sense of my experience and inform my next steps. Now, however, things are beginning to spiral out of control.

Remaining responsive to the lived reality of being curious is generating such a wealth of material and interesting possibilities that I’m beginning to drown in the chaos and lose my sense of direction and purpose. Interestingly, the clarity I’m looking for eventually arrives thanks to a little help from my curiosity.

Tired of ploughing through notes that only throw up yet more knotty questions, I decide to facilitate my own process in a more creatively curious way. I grab a book and open it at a random page. The book is Susie Dent’s ‘Word Perfect’, a collection of 366 words and their etymological backstories, one for each day of a leap year.

The particular word I’ve landed on is ‘@’. I read her short account of its origins and the chain of events through which this once-niche symbol became ubiquitous in digital communications. Then I scribble down the first ideas that come into my head.

Rat @@@. The c@ sat on the mat. Where am I @? The ‘a’ with the curly tail. Tag, you’re @!

Interesting, that last one. A user tag. A declaration of unique identity. I am @estherwaite, currently in the middle of a short and sweet experimental exercise in search of insight. I’m listening to my curiosity to see where my attention is being drawn, keen to discover what there is to learn from doing so.

So, what am I learning?

That it doesn’t matter which book this happened to be, or which page I happened to choose. What matters is the quality of dialogue between what I already know and what I’m discovering through doing this activity. That when I engage with my curiosity the specifics of what I’m doing might take any form. That the continuity in the work stems from me, locating myself here at the heart of the inquiry, providing a point of return no matter where my travels happen to lead me.

The sense of overwhelm I’ve been experiencing melts away as I envisage myself setting out on multiple excursions, some lengthy and some – like this one – extremely brief. Sometimes I’m mapping brand new territory, sometimes I’m revisiting familiar ports of call with fresh eyes. Wherever my curiosity takes me, it’s not going to be one long, disorienting adventure into the unknown. Wherever I may choose to follow, I’ll eventually return home equipped with stories to tell, discoveries to share and new skills to add to the mix.

This frame of reference make sense when I look back through my notes and consider the dynamics of the different activities I’ve been drawn to recently. This short encounter with the ‘@’ symbol involved a rapid cycle of learning and discovery that’s feeding into the ongoing development of a ‘meta’ perspective for my programme of work. My current experiments with mixed media materials have a slower pace, feeding into the work I’m doing to develop the visual language I use to communicate my experience of the Calderdale landscape. My ongoing efforts to decode the mysteries of DAW software feed into the longer-term development of my skills working with audio.

There’s a place for everything and my unique vantage point on the world is the place where all these diverse strands intersect, here at the centre of it all. It doesn’t matter how I direct my time as long as I’m engaging with my curiosity and paying careful attention to what I learn through doing so.

As I continue join the dots between the contrasting places my curiosity has been taking me, another metaphor springs to mind. It’s a bee moving from location to location, mapping out reliable sources of nectar and pollen, securing food for its journey and nourishing the collective life of the hive on its return.

03/04/2026
Now what?

It’s a killer question, as immortalised by Bloat the pufferfish at the end of Pixar’s 2003 movie ‘Finding Nemo’. As February races towards March I can wholeheartedly identify with that fish, bobbing around Sydney harbour in his little plastic bag.

After the final flurry to complete my peatland project it seems I’ve arrived at a creative impasse. I’m lacking energy and direction, missing that comforting sense of purpose and focus that comes with working towards something concrete and time-bound.

The obvious solution is to set myself up with a new project, and I’m not short of options. Since embarking on my curiosity adventure I’ve generated an abundance of notes, collected hundreds of photographs and mapped out all manner of promising trajectories. Trouble is, I’m struggling to commit to anything.

I know I’m keen to revisit some ideas involving sound and music, so I spend a few days indulging my curiosity in the technical and creative challenges of working with audio. Although I’m learning a lot, and I’m highly motivated to learn more, the lack of a clear sense of purpose is still bugging me.

Am I making useful progress, or wasting time? Is following my curiosity constructive, or am I passively allowing it to lead me astray? Maybe underneath all this apparent busy-ness I’m still just floating helplessly in my plastic bag, at the mercy of wherever the tide carries me.

Uncomfortable questions begin to close in on me like hungry sharks. What if all this curiosity-chasing turns out to be pointless? What if I spend six months down an audio rabbit hole only to return empty handed? Or if I keep dreaming up so many creative possibilities that I ideate myself into oblivion? I glare accusingly at my compass charm. What does ‘trust the process’ even mean??

With a heavy heart I face the possibility that I am, and have been, completely wasting my time. It’s not a pleasant moment, but apparently it’s the one I need to reorient myself.

Yes, I may indeed be wasting my time, because embracing the possibility of failure is fundamental to what it means to trust the process. It’s not a matter of having blind faith that everything will work out exactly as I hope or expect, it’s about accepting that whatever my experience brings me will be of value in helping me to learn my way forward. It’s one of the key guiding principles with which I first set this programme of work in motion.

And no, I don’t really believe I’m wasting my time. I think I’ve just learned so much about myself, my curiosity, my creativity and my relationship with the upper moorland over the past few months that I need a minute to take stock and regroup.

I’ve been chasing the ‘what next’ without giving enough thought to the all-important ‘how next’. I need time to digest what I’ve learned so far and feed this back into how I approach this programme of work. Otherwise I’ll stay stuck in this plastic bag, forever adrift on a disorienting ocean of endless possibilities.

So as spring officially arrives I’m having a seasonally appropriate clear-out. I’m setting myself up with more structured methods to support my work and redesigning the framework I use to capture themes, interconnections and ideas. There’s more still to do, but it’s helping with the shark problem. Now to find my way out of the bag.

20/03/2026
The ninth charm

With the end of January fast approaching, I’ve made my final charm for ‘Peatland Charm Bracelet‘. When this project was still in its infancy I imagined a total of eight and now that I’ve finish the eighth one – ‘Hourglass‘, my memento mori – I feel like I’ve created an object that brings that series to completion.

I’ve mounted the first four charms in frames, together with their companion pieces of writing, ready for display at Gibson Mill. Next I need to turn my attention to the others, all destined for an upcoming exhibition at Hebden Bridge Town Hall. I have some work still to do on the words, but I’m nearly there. Good job bringing it all in on time, I think to myself.

As it turns out, I have another think coming.

The words for my penultimate charm, ‘Compass’, are not being respectful of my deadline. What began as an exploration of ‘finding my way’ is suddenly morphing into a new piece of writing. I’m now heading deep into the transformational, restorative qualities of my relationship with the upper moorland.

It’s a compelling creative trajectory that I’m curious to follow, but the further I progress down this route the more involved I become with sensibilities that don’t belong with my compass (the irony of this is not lost on me).

The inconvenient truth slowly sinks in. The words taking shape on this page are clearly meant for a different object. I need to make another charm.

This is how ‘Teapot‘ arrived on the scene at the eleventh hour and usurped ‘Compass’ as charm number seven.

A few days later my final four are complete and it’s time to clear up so I can finally dig out the audio equipment I promised myself I’d return to next. As I’m wiping the remnants of this week’s unexpected charm-making flurry off my desk, I find myself wondering what to do with my compass.

I’d been so sure of its place in the series but now its status is irritatingly ambiguous. Every time it catches my eye I have a sense of unfinished business. If I’m going to achieve closure for this creative chapter I need to determine its fate.

Looking at it now, I remember how careful I was to position the tip of its pointer correctly, mindful of its symbolic significance. This charm represents gaining the confidence to learn my way through unfamiliar terrain. It speaks to my ability to navigate, explore uncharted territories and hone my skills along the way. And yet it seems destined to remain on the shelf, wordless and redundant.

It doesn’t seem right that I should have ousted such a potent symbol from the mix, but equally I don’t regret my decision to pursue the thread of ideas that broke new ground and led me to ‘Teapot’.

Thinking again about how this work progressed, it occurs to me that my creative process mirrored the very qualities I intended my compass charm to symbolise.

I realise that although it may not have found a place in the series of eight, my ninth charm still has an important job to do.

And here it is, hard at work in my workspace, reminding me to stay curious, have faith in myself and trust the process.

20/02/2026
Appreciating peat at Gibson Mill

It’s Saturday 24/01/26 and here I am at the formal opening and private view of the Peat Appreciation Society exhibition. Our work has been lovingly installed across two floors of Gibson Mill, a National Trust building nestled amongst the woodland at Hardcastle Crags.

I nibble on a breadstick and wait for a gap in footfall, keen to grab a quick photo of my four pieces looking very much at home in their new surroundings.

Peatland Charm Bracelet (four from a set of eight)

As I stand in front of these clean, orderly, white frames I recall all the messy, disruptive, uncomfortably challenging processes that made their contents possible.

Making my simple set of charms drew me far deeper into my relationship with the upper moorland than I had expected at the outset. I’m only just beginning to understand how much I’ve learned about myself, and my creative practice, from following where my curiosity led.

I look around the room and wonder about the myriad choices and decisions, small and large, that have cumulatively resulted in the rich variety of work we’re presenting in this space. So many individual stories, woven together here, creating something new.

26/01/2026
A permissive peatland path

If not collage, then what?

This is the dilemma I’m grappling with as the autumnal days grow shorter and the end of the calendar year begins to peep over the horizon.

Being part of the Peat Appreciation Society (PAS) has presented me with a great opportunity to create new work in pursuit of our collective aim to raise awareness and appreciation of peat. Ordinarily I’d look to abstract, mixed media collage as my creative mode of choice. However, these are no longer ordinary creative times.

Now that I’ve decided to follow my curiosity about exploring a wider range of mediums and disciplines I feel overfaced by the number of options in play and I’m not sure where to begin. All I’ve got to go on so far is the idea of combining different kinds of layers, as a visual metaphor for the slow accumulation of peat. And I’m sorely tempted by a leap into 3D, perhaps something that can be suspended.

In search of an antidote to blank canvas paralysis, I rummage through a stack of collage materials and pull out anything that resonates with the peatland theme. Immediately I’m drawn to examples of gritty, textured mark-making. The near black has a peaty quality that I’m particularly drawn to. I like the idea of making peaty things.

Gritty, textured mark-making

I mix up a small batch of dark, heavily textured paint and splodge it about on some plain paper. I notice that I’m enjoying its earthiness in contrast with the pristine white. I think about slowly decaying organic matter, things that were once alive and vibrant gradually dissolving into darkness. I begin to imagine tall, looming objects wrapped in layers of peaty paper punctuated with glimpses of colour and light.

Returning to reality, I remind myself of the modest size of my workspace and decide to pursue my experiments on a more manageable scale. I spend a few days playing with whatever I have to hand, threading beads, twisting wire, gluing paper and tissue, bringing together contrasting shapes and textures. I still can’t see a way forward but I’m determined to hold open the space for my curiosity to show me the way.

Giving myself permission to embark on this creative exploration has involved a wilful dissolution of identity that I find appealing and terrifying in equal measure. I’m reminded of Frederico García Lorca’s quote, “I’ve often lost myself, in order to find the burn that keeps everything awake”. I want to trust the process, but to do that I’m facing the very real possibility of ending up with nothing to show for it. It feels terrible. I decide to take that as an encouraging sign and plough on.

Today I’ve been bugged by a persistent idea of forming peat into jewellery. I’ve been drawn to how pleasingly anything metallic accentuates all these dark, grainy textures. I could also do with making something more concrete to help me understand my own thinking. If nothing else, it’s a good opportunity for a playful side quest while I reflect on my options.

I spend a few hours cutting rough shapes from card and experimenting with different combinations of peaty textures, beads and metallic finishes. I even dig out some old jewellery findings to turn a couple of pieces into earrings. It’s been fun, but I can’t see how this is going to help me develop my peatland project.

Rough experiments with peaty jewellery

Playing with dark textures and metallics

I feel like I’m missing a key ingredient that will enable all my investigations of materials and methods to coalesce into something coherent and substantive. I return to my PAS notes, looking for clues, but revisiting all the fascinating and important science only serves to make me question whether anything I create can do justice to my subject matter. Peat. How can whatever I make help to broker a meaningful connection with peatland?

Reflecting on what drew me to PAS in the first place, I realise that my route into this project has yet to fold in my own emotional bond with the upper moorland environment. It’s a landscape I love, and one with which I’ve formed a powerful, complex connection as a walker and trail runner. I need to find a way to open up my beloved upper moorland world to others. I begin to consider how I might share glimpses of my experience and celebrate how much I’ve come to value places that I once regarded as bleak, empty, uninviting or even hostile.

Open expanses of moorland at Dimmin Dale

I pick up the little peat earring with the coppery underlayer and dangle it in the light. I think about the ancient roots of jewellery and head online to explore the ways in which it’s been used to carry deeper symbolic meanings, or been ascribed with powers to ward off evil or bring good luck. I’m not drawn towards the magical route of talismans or amulets, but there’s something about the personal significance of choosing charms for a charm bracelet that feels appropriate to the quality of connection I’m reaching for.

What charms would I choose for a bracelet to symbolise my relationship with the upper moorland?

I’m beginning to see a direction of travel for this project. It takes a few more days of experimentation and purposeful mess-making with cardstock, mica pigments and scrap materials to get from a promising idea to a 45mm square object that finally suggests a viable way forward.

It’s a bit too small, and it doesn’t have a hanging loop, but it’s giving me confidence that I can bring together the right combination of mixed media and construction techniques to make my set of charms.

Contours test piece

My test piece represents the contour lines of an OS map, taken from a real location near the footpath across Turley Holes and Higher House Moor above Withens Clough Reservoir. It’s a MoorLIFE project site, which seems a fitting place to start. I’ve chosen map contours to symbolise both the challenge of the climb and the profound sense of inner calm that I gain from heading up onto the tops.

I hold it in my palm and realise that making the charms is firing my curiosity to understand more about the dialogue between this peatland landscape and my internal world. At this point I decide that while I make the set I’m going to create a piece of writing for each charm, using my chosen objects as prompts for deeper reflection on places and experiences that are precious to me.

Contours charm final version

The final version of my contours charm, its companions and the creative writing that responds to them can be found on my ‘Peatland charm bracelet‘ project page. At time of writing I think I’m going to make a set of eight, but who knows how many might insist on muscling their way into the action.

I’m fascinated by how following my curiosity has carried forward my early ideas about layers, 3D and suspension to answer the all-important question “if not collage, then what?” in a totally unexpected way.

The process has resulted in a departure from anything I’ve made before, opening up space to reconfigure existing skills and hone some new ones. As the new year approaches I’m pleased to have taken my first steps along a more permissive creative path.

12/12/2025

Fantasy feline

I’m heading down from Crow Nest Wood when I spot a curious face peeping over the wall.

I get the impression that I’ve just disturbed a hunt, or at least an expedition to assess the field for interesting things to chase. I feel like an irritating trespasser in a feline playground, stomping along with my stupid loud feet when I should be sat at home drinking coffee like a well-behaved human.

I wonder if the cat shares my delight at being let loose to roam the wilder world beyond the built environment. He’s certainly more optimised for it than I am. Well kitted-out and relatively hardy as I may be, I’m still far removed from being the kind of animal that can snarl convincingly, or rip more than the corner of an obstinate crisp packet with my teeth.

Despite our obvious differences, both of us are domesticated creatures temporarily at large in the great outdoors. Out here, beyond the confines of a comfortable indoor existence, we can become other versions of ourselves. Out here we can remember how to inhabit more primitive ways of being, remind our bodies how to run and climb, tune our senses to a different frequency.

I start thinking about the route I’ve taken today. What might it be like to explore the woods from the cat’s perspective? What if I could somehow be gifted with the ability to run in a feline form? The idea of transforming one step further from my outdoorsy self into something entirely more fit for purpose is too enticing to ignore.

Fantasy Feline

The black cat scrutinises me from his perch behind the wall. I pause my run, reach for my phone, tiptoe forward and steal a photograph. He observes my unwelcome intrusion with an air of coolly calculating distain.

Undeterred, I wade clumsily through the grassy roadside verge and offer up a tentative hand.

An inquisitive nose carefully assesses the tip of each finger. I risk a light tickle behind the ear. He pulls away, then gently nuzzles my palm. I wait, arm outstretched, until a forceful bump of the head grants me permission to administer affection. He directs me with insistent nudges until I hit just the right spot under the chin and my efforts are rewarded with a low, rumbling purr.

Soon enough my allotted time is up and he scrambles abruptly onto the dry stone wall. I watch as he studies me with an unreadable expression, then pads purposefully to the edge of the capstone. Intrigued, I hold my ground while he leans closer and snuffles at the edges of my face.

Our eyes meet and I catch sight of my own reflection staring back at me from two yawning pools of obsidian. My glossy silhouette begins to ripple and swirl in the unblinking darkness. The world tilts and I stumble sideways, arms flailing.

With a soft chirrup and an artful flick of the tail, he spirals away and drops out of view while I claw at a fence post to save myself from a gorse patch. I take a few moments to steady myself then pick my way carefully back to the lane, confused but surprisingly calm.

Back on solid ground I slip into a cautious jog but quickly up my pace as a burst of energy drives me onwards towards the woods. An effortless spring creeps into my stride as I hurry past gardens and houses and lines of parked cars to the narrow mouth of a muddy track.

I plunge into the shade, prompting a crescendo of urgent rustling and chattering as I drop to the ground and follow my nose through dewy undergrowth. A sturdy oak looms into view. I chart a route up its towering trunk then bound skyward, claws gouging into pliant ridges and channels, all sharpness and stealth and speed as I hurtle through a maze of branches leaving the shriek of an indignant blackbird in my wake.

Leaves dance and surge around me as the breeze picks up. I sprint along a drooping bough and leap forward, bouncing across supple limbs and through swathes of green needles to reach a shallow ledge on a rocky outcrop. Elated, I linger a while to sniff the air and savour the scent of a thousand enticing possibilities.

A sharp snap somewhere deep in the woodland gloom startles me back into action. I fly from the cliff onto the steep, papery bark of a half-fallen birch and scurry along its silver-white length to the forest floor.

My legs grow heavy as I plough through a tangle of bracken and brambles to reach the well-trodden path below the crag. Soon the slap, slap, slap of weary feet begins to resound through the muddy clearing as I shuffle to a fork in the trail and settle back into my lumpen, ungainly, familiar form.

The distant blackbird shouts its disapproval. I grin, turn towards home and plod happily onwards.

In real life, sadly, the cat and I never get properly acquainted and I don’t get to do any magical shape shifting. We stare at one another for a moment, I snap a quick photo, then we both return to our own morning adventures.

Indulging my fantasy in writing turned out to be a rewarding exercise in imagination, but took me a lot longer to achieve than expected. I discovered that part of me very much disliked telling this story in prose, while the rest of me was determined to tease out a linear narrative even if it killed me. Did I enjoy the process? Not as much as I hoped to. But I’m glad I didn’t give up when the going got stodgy.

Given the freeing nature of the subject matter, I find it interesting that so much treacle-wading went on under the hood. It’s food for thought that probably warrants closer inspection, but for now I’m keen to leave that to stew while I carry forward some cat-like speed and agility into my next creative venture.

14/11/2025

From grassland to peatland

June 2025. I drag myself out of bed, hurry up the hill and reach the top of Midgley moor just in time to enjoy a vibrant orange solstice dawn. It’s stunningly peaceful.

This open expanse of moorland feels as much like home as my own four walls in the valley below. I’ve paused in this spot many times, drinking in the panoramic views and seeing if I can trace the routes I’ve taken through distant paths and landmarks.

Not too many years ago I’d have been daunted by the thought of venturing up here. Little by little I’ve made friends with the terrain and transformed from occasional walker into fully-fledged outdoorsy type. I very much doubt I’d have discovered my inner trail runner without the influence of this bleak, rich, rugged, beautiful place.

Living in the South Pennines has also provided much inspiration for my creative work, which in turn has opened up opportunities to deepen my understanding of the landscape I spend so much time exploring on foot.

In 2024/25 I took part in Ancient Underlands, a project highlighting the ancient Calderdale grassland habitat that’s home to some extraordinary fungi species. It was a joy to learn about this hidden world and gain a more informed vantage point on a place I love.

The project prompted lots of ideas for work in different mediums, but I lacked the time to pursue this pull towards different disciplines. Instead, I settled for experimenting with new techniques and materials that I incorporated in some small, abstract collage pieces.

Through this project I was introduced to the Peat Appreciation Society (PAS), an arts collective working to increase awareness and appreciation of peatlands. By the time I was watching the summer solstice sunrise, being part of PAS had prompted me to think seriously about exploring new creative possibilities. But if not collage, then what?

All of this flowed into a period of reflection around the trajectory of my creative work that eventually spawned The Art of Being Curious. I’m developing my new work for PAS by beginning with ‘not collage’ and letting my curiosity lead the way.

Early morning on the Calderdale Way, Midgley Moor

31/10/2025
The curse of the blackberry sea
Not long after my cattle encounter, I head out for a walk to enjoy another sunny late summer afternoon. Blackberries, blackberries everywhere… it’s slow progress, as I can’t help but stop every few metres to pick another perfectly ripe one. They’re joyously abundant and annoyingly seductive.

As I amble round I notice some blackberry-related curiosity brewing. I love the massive tangles of brambles when they’re in full leaf like this, cascading in all directions and heavy with glossy fruit. However, the photos I’ve taken today aren’t hitting the spot. It’s bothering me that I can’t find a way to capture the moment.

If not a photo, then what? Last time I followed my curiosity I made something with words. Maybe I can make something with words again.

I create a new task on my phone, planning to jot down ideas and sort all of this out at home.

Ten minutes later I appear to have written the first verse of a ditty.

In the spirit of ‘I’ve started so I’ll finish’, I’m now properly invested and curious to see if I can keep going with my self-imposed rhyme scheme to draw out another couple of verses.

I’m vaguely aware of how tragic I must look stumbling along with my nose in my phone on such a beautiful day, but I’m having a lovely time playing with ideas, listing rhymes and looking up synonyms. There’s some childhood blackberrying nostalgia going on in the background too.

It’s a fun challenge and completely absorbing until I’m interrupted by a stranger who asks me if I need directions. Actually what I need is a quick way to lay out my finished text on a purple background to post on social media, but I don’t think they can help me with that.
```
The Curse of the Blackberry Sea

Blackberry sea
Oh blackberry sea
Wave upon wave of you
Calling to me
All sun-drenched and plump
A soft delicacy
I want to dive into
The blackberry sea

Blackberry sea
Oh blackberry sea
You don't understand
What you're doing to me
I've plundered your depths 
Still you won't let me be
My willpower's drowned 
By the blackberry sea

Blackberry sea
Oh blackberry sea
Until you're all gone
I shan't ever be free
My fingers are stained 
And I won't want my tea
But I still can't resist
That sweet blackberry sea
```
Roll forward to late September and I’m busy putting a basic WordPress site together so that I can begin sharing what I’m noticing, making and learning through following my curiosity. While I’m organising notes and planning next steps, ‘The Curse of the Blackberry Sea’ leaps out and grabs my attention.

I remember that walk vividly. The brightness of the sun, the bountiful brambles and the pleasure of feeling completely at ease in my own skin all come flooding back. But there’s something else at work too. A nagging, uncomfortable doubt. I begin to wonder if my ditty is worth writing about.

I mean, it’s just a silly rhyme right? Not exactly ‘art’, is it?

And there we have it – a direct line to my hideous inner critic, despiser of spontaneity, destroyer of innocence, despot most foul. I’d love to report that I immediately told it to sling its hook. The true story is much more painful and convoluted to recount here, but thankfully shares the same ending.

Yes I am writing about my ditty. I’m not going to erase it, as if it never happened or doesn’t matter. The very fact that it got my inner critic’s goat is evidence enough that it’s deserving of my attention.

On that sunny August day, my curiosity took me to a place where playfulness and unselfconscious creativity had the space to breathe and thrive. I got to experience genuine light-heartedness, unconcerned by anything beyond the effortless joy of simply creating something for the fun of it.

I think I need to have more fun. I also think I need a tune to go with my ditty. Let’s see what my inner critic makes of that.
14/10/2025
It starts here
It’s a glorious summer’s day and yet here I am, stuck indoors, grappling with future creative possibilities and getting precisely nowhere. I’m on the hunt for a coherent programme of work with the space to carry forward the full breadth of my interests and experience, but I can’t get all the weirdly shaped pieces to fit.

My thoughts are a tangled mess and self doubt is beginning to nibble at my innards. It’s definitely time to get out of the house and into my running shoes.

I head out, hauling myself unenthusiastically uphill, willing the rolling Calderdale landscape to work its soothing magic. Gradually, the heady mix of warm air, birdsong and fabulous views begins to settle my jangling nerves and unknot my brain. I pause here and there to snack on blackberries, take photographs and breath in the sunshine.

On the loop back towards Mytholmroyd, I pass a group of cattle. I stop to take a quick photo and don’t give the moment much thought as I wind my way down the grassy path towards home.

It’s only when I’m back in front of a computer screen that the cattle image begins to grab my attention. One of the group is looking directly at me and something in the quality of its expression piques my curiosity. I zoom in.

Suddenly this creature is peering into the very depths of my soul.

It’s waiting for answers. Do I have answers? I don’t even know what the question is.

Trapped in the unflinching stare of my powerful bovine inquisitor, an unpleasant sense of being seen and found wanting begins to form in the pit of my stomach. I stay with the discomfort and begin to jot down everything I’m noticing.

As I write, I realise I’ve set some creative wheels in motion. I shuffle ideas around until my words find form on the page.
```
Summoned, I stand alone
At the Bovine Court of Reckoning.
Litigant in person,
Underprepared.

No yellow tag,
No herd mark, no six digits
To validate my identity
And authorise my right to roam.

Just a sweaty, Lycra-clad,
Blackberry-munching stranger,
Perilously unclassified,
Finding the courage
To hold your gaze
And hold my ground.
```
I make a cup of tea and take stock of this unexpected turn of events.

I’ve allowed myself to follow my curiosity and harnessed its momentum to kick start my creativity. I’ve played with themes of vulnerability, legitimacy and unconditional self-acceptance; so apparently my impromptu writing flurry has helped me diagnose and let go of my earlier struggles. I’ve emerged with renewed clarity and determination to move forward and, most strikingly, I’ve given myself permission to proceed.

Reflecting on the process, I can recognise the moment my perspective shifted. Still riddled with uncertainty, I had initially written ‘Longing for the courage’ but the more I wrote and rewrote the more I became dissatisfied with abandoning myself to that predicament. Choosing ‘Finding the courage’ marked a key decision in favour of my own agency and resourcefulness.

I’m fascinated by how much I’ve gained through paying attention to my curiosity, allowing it to take the lead for a while, making a concrete creative output and reflecting on my experience.

What will happen when I do this again? Today it was all about writing, but next time I could turn my hand to something completely different. Music, maybe. Ooh, or a video. Or a facilitation method! My thoughts float off for a happy gambol through all the delicious multidisciplinary possibilities. Everything lines up and begins to resonate in perfect harmony with my broader interests and experience.

At this point I realise I’ve landed my new trajectory. The Art of Being Curious has elbowed itself into being, so I’d better get cracking.
01/10/2025