A paean to practice

November is a bloody month. Cold starts to scour your guts and damp to demoralise, and winter is nearly all to come. So whoever thought up the idea of writing a novel in a month, or if not that then writing something every day, or if not something then just writing, just creating... it was a good thought. Still, I wasn't going to do it this year. Tired and demotivated. Thence the blank space here on 1 November. But, then, somehow, since others were - Lorianne and Lucy and Fire Bird (and they have all created much of beauty and interest in the past month) -  I did too. Just doing it, of course, is the best way of all. Inhabiting the moment, not the end. Who knows why, but writing practice, photography practice, like any daily practice, are supremely worthwhile, their own purpose and justification while requiring neither. Make a space and pour words into it, pour pictures. Make it bigger, keep pouring. What it is, where it goes: we don't know. The mystery. We know, though, that it is. A little every day is very soon a lot.