I came to Scotland to get some space - to walk, listen, and think about what’s next. The plan was open-ended: just Nicola and I (and Missy Boo), a sketchbook, and the kind of silence you can hear in your bones. But, as these things go, peace didn’t exactly roll out the welcome mat. The restlessness followed me north, packed neatly between my socks and sketchbook.

Neurodivergent Art Club is on this Thursday 2–4pm, then we’ll take a two-week break before returning with both the usual afternoon sessions and a new shorter early-evening slot, 6–7pm, starting in November. Same format, same gentle co-working space for creative brains that don’t run on factory settings. While I’m up here in Scotland surrounded by indecent amounts of moss and dramatic skies, I’ve been thinking about time.

We’re now well past the equinox - that brief, delicate point of balance in the year where day and night meet eye to eye. The hedgerows are heavy with berries, the evenings are cooling, and the energy around us is quietly shifting inward. So it feels like a good moment to say something I think many of us need to hear:

Lately in Neurodivergent Art Club, a few people have shared something that I think many of us know deeply: “I’m feeling directionless… hard to apply my mind to anything… still triggering post-exertional malaise… it’s hard to balance my long-neglected social needs with stretching my creative muscles when the basics already take most of my capacity.” “I feel like I’m going round and round in ever-decreasing circles… can’t seem to organise for toffee, or get anything meaningful done…”

I’ve just returned from a few dreamy, windy, colourful days at Green Gathering, where I had the joy of co-holding the Queer Space in the Campaigns Field. It was… a lot of things. Tender. Tiring. Hopeful. Hilarious. Full of connection, curiosity, wild weather, and the kind of community that grows when you make space for people to just be.

Quickly posting from a field to show you the Queer Dome, Green Gathering, in the Campaigns field Linky to more info here

Last week, someone in the Neurodivergent Art Club shared a reflection that struck a chord with others in the group - and with me! “I’m really enjoying making art and being creative in the group setting, but I’m finding it a challenge to get going at home.” They gave consent for suggestions - and the conversation that followed felt too rich not to share more widely.

Sometimes, the world is too much. Sometimes, your mind fogs over, your energy vanishes, or the climate breaks your heart. In those moments, planning fails. But preparing?That’s different. To prepare is to send something kind for your future self.Not a demand - a lifeline.Not a calendar full of boxes, but a handful of soft tools for when you need them most.

Some days, the very sight of a traditional to-do list feels like a trap. Every unchecked box whispers failure. Every item not crossed off becomes another tiny weight. For many neurodivergent creatives, to-do lists don’t work because they assume we’re operating on linear timelines, predictable energy, and stable executive function. So what if we made a different kind of list?

Mantle at God’s House Tower I’m very pleased to share that Mantle, one of the JourneySpiral artefacts, will be part of the upcoming exhibition Inside the Artist’s Studio: 20 Years of the Arches at God’s House Tower in Southampton. This exhibition is a celebration of the messy, magical, half-formed places where art begins - and often, where it continues to live.

Small Worlds is a giant installation of 3D spheres created by artists, communities, and schools in Hampshire takes over The Winchester Gallery – FREE EXHIBITION My piece, 'Threadwalker', will be part of the installation. Threadwalker is a small world held in the palm - part talisman, part compass. This sphere is a fragment of the JourneySpiral, inscribed with symbols from an imagined lost language that never quite belonged to empire.

A love note to the days that don’t go to plan

Some days, creating feels impossible — especially if you're neurodivergent. This gentle post explores creative rituals as soft, sensory ways to reconnect with your art when energy is low. No pressure, no perfection. Just small invitations back to yourself, even on blob days. Your spark is still there.

There’s a quote I love (that I also kind of hate because it’s annoyingly true): "Action precedes motivation." Not the other way round. Not “Wait until you feel inspired, then begin.” It’s: “Begin, and the inspiration might show up on the way.” (Being a massive nerd I also love the quote from 'Dune' - Mood's a thing for cattle or for making love…

Somewhere along the line, the world got sold a story: that creativity should look like a tidy schedule and a respectable work ethic, that if you’re not showing up at the same time every day and producing with machine-like consistency, you’re not a “real” artist. It’s a story that smells of factories and fluorescent lights, not paint and paper and breath.

I've been writing this month about beginning again, about returning to work after an interruption - this week I have been thinking a lot about how 'begin again' can be an intimidating blank page and wondering 'what if it doesn't have to be that way?'. We’re often told that a new beginning should feel clean, that it ought to arrive with a sense of sharpness and clarity: a fresh page, a tidy desk, a perfectly timed Monday.

You know that feeling when you’ve fallen out of a rhythm—maybe with your art, your routines, your life—and the thought of getting back into it feels like standing at the foot of a mountain in your socks? So do I! I talked last week about feeling like I was starting over with my creative plans and routines following political upheavals (again) here in the UK.

To those who work in whispers. Offline, doors closed, out of sight, who carry water without applause, who pass messages hand to hand beneath notice. To those who shield the small flame of resistance with cupped hand. This is for you. Your work counts,even if no one applauds. Even if it is too risky, too intimate, too nunaced, too sacred to show.

Since the Supreme Court ruling in mid April, my routines and my energy have been badly disrupted. We are expected to continue as normal when these big political shocks come (and they really do seem to just keep coming, don't they!) but the reality is, my neurodivergent nervous system can only take so much. There has been a toll on my creativity, despite being inspired to make a painting and a Zine about all of this fuckery, and now I feel like I am (once again) starting over.

What if there’s no magic method — just a series of small, imperfect moments that shape how we live with ourselves? Lately I’ve been thinking about how much time I’ve spent searching for the thing that will finally fix me. You know the one. The book. The method. The podcast. The life-changing therapist or teacher. The system that will solve my executive dysfunction, my tendency to overcommit and then disappear, my low energy, my tendency to spiral in shame when I mess up something small.

There's a lot of language of helplessness around 'artificial intelligence' - and anger, and fear. Our capitalist system has corrupted the ownership and custodianship of tools, so we are right to be wary - if you are wary, I welcome that (not into angry debate, just as part of this new song humanity is humming in the midst of collapse).

“This is Thornvoice.May it guard your truthand scorch all cages shaped like courtesy.” Introduction *A spell of sacred fire for trans folk, and any who are silenced by ‘niceness’.*Craft…