a spring writing routine 🌺

dawn letter XXVII

Welcome to the gowk storm.

Or cuckoo storm — an untimely spell of unsettled, wintry weather from early to mid-April.

The old calendar (our deepest self that’s been here before) recognises it as a micro-season between end-of-winter and almost-spring. Sometimes known as a blackthorn winter this false spring coincides with the cuckoo’s return to the wood.

Psychically¹, this tumultuous whirl of uncertain energy occurs when things shift from what they always have been (or how things have been for a while) to what they could and should be. It’s a shift from comfortable yet lifeless stasis to vital, soil-splitting action. While there might be reluctance to leave winter’s cocoon, rebirth after death is inescapable.

In the chill April drizzle a crow tugs despondently at the scraggly fronds of a buddleia bush which grows valiantly from the disused and cracked chimney pots of the property shop roof. Stone, plant, and bird are words on the sky’s blank, grey parchment. A heavy grey that not even the greenest, strongest light from the otherworld could pierce.

I watch from the sofa. Bones stiff, imagination dry. I’m stifled not necessarily by lack of routine but by the absence of ceremony, of mystery. Ask anything of me except to sit here, day after day, pretending that life isn’t a form of sorcery. Yet that’s what I’m doing. Every task feels empty, the day hollow.

My soul craves ritual. It craves intuitive living, where it’s easier to fish stories from the river one warm afternoon than sitting at a desk using my brain. It craves a special cave to dwell and create in, a sacred pattern to follow, meaningful routines I can perform with feral devotion. Unfortunately, lukewarm people are thriving in this cold April climate and I need a distraction from their clammy touch.

Between the bloom of blackthorn and hawthorn I’ll drag my life outside. Shake it, like a dusty old rug that’s lain season after season. Beat out the accumulation of dust, sunlight, footprints, and wear. The 5pm Sunday malaise, abhorrent re-wearing of my green jumper, morning dread. Rewriting personal lore as a form of malingering.

For reasons unknown the cold clutch of the gowk storm is necessary. The cuckoo (eun sìth, a bird of the fairy realm) sings a song that summons snow-winds and biting rain. It’s an eldritch call to withstand one more winter, one more death before we reach true spring.

What needs to die before I can begin again? How can I deftly sidestep the weekly slide into scummy, stagnant pools? It’s this simultaneous shaking up and killing off that generates new life.

On the cusp of true spring, I want to imbue more meaning and mystery to the vital tasks that became ossified during winter’s reign — namely my writing routine.

This magical post from

Kerri ní Dochartaigh

inspired me to freshen up my writing routine for spring:

| T H E . C E R E M O N Y |

A desk dressed with flower and candle. A writer robed in silk, neck weighted with rose quartz. I balance the lilac fountain pen in my palm, its nib gleaming sharp, the ink within a shade of sorcery. I imbue the air around my desk with limerance because I want to fall obsessively in love with writing again.

Like plants and people, words flourish under care and attention. Words can’t be shaken from the soul with harsh commands or sudden movement. Words are attracted to those who sit patiently, without expectation. They respond to unabashed curiosity, playfulness, and deep wonder for creation’s mysteries.

A fragrant cup of loose-leaf Earl Grey tea in the most whimsical china cup also works wonders.

| T H E . S P E L L |

I speak an intention to the gowk wind. To the bright spring sun or wild, white moon. I don’t write at a particular time because some words belong to the dawn, and some belong to the dusk. I read my affirmations like a good wildling. Taking to heart that “before all else, every action begins with strengthening the spirit”² I also read a few lines of poetry — elfin fruit on my tongue. If afraid, I ask guidance from one who is yet perfumed with loamy grave soil.

| T H E . R I T U A L |

I light the candle, ink the pen. Make the day’s first mark. One line for how it feels to be in this body. Another line for my most pressing thought. And last but not least a silky, shimmery scrawl for the soul.

I ask what I’m hungry for. Copy the lines of poetry. Wait with patience and love for what emerges from creation’s deep pool — shadows, treasure, a misshapen heart, rain-song, nothing. If all I have are the lines about body, mind, soul, and the thieved poetry then it’s a good day. If some unexpected treasure emerges from the pool it’s a great day.

I don’t ask for the ritual to give me anything, merely the strength to perform it.

That’s it. My spring writing routine. It’s new, based on what I need right now, and as yet untested. Save a few key items, I think it’s fairly adaptable for writing by the river or in a cafe. I’ll let you know if it’s fruitful.

What ceremonies form part of your writing routine? Is ritual an important part of your creative process? What do you need to write? If I could bring a candle to the cafe when I write I would — striking fire into life from nothing (except persistent effort and certainty that the match will light) feels like a potent symbol for the creative process.

You can read my previous dawn letter (about why I write) here.

If you haven’t subscribed yet you can read my recent dusk letter and February’s love list with a free trial (I’m sure Substack gives you that option?).

In March I shared a mini-series of beginner Gaelic phrases on Instagram. Each day focuses on a different topic, from greetings and the weather to goodbyes and food. Of course, there’s some magical Spring folklore sprinkled in too.

If you’d like to read them, my books Fireside Fairy Tales and Fireside Magic are available here, here, and here.

As always, thank you for reading. If you’d like full access to my work please consider becoming a paid subscriber by clicking either of these buttons:

1. Definitely my over-wrought, moody interpretation and not a part of traditional Scottish folk belief (as far as I’m aware).

2. Quote from Women Who Run With The Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estés.