They say only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun. I am neither a mad dog nor an Englishman. I am English, yes, but I’m a woman, and I believe reasonably sane, admittedly, by my own reckoning, nevertheless, here I am walking in the midday sun.

As I walk through the avenue of trees, the mechanical sound of the cicadas is deafening, it is rhythmic, it is ongoing. Beyond the trees, the wind, a gentle breeze, plays in the leaves of the maize, creating a musical whispering. A persistent fly buzzes around my head, annoying, noisy and avoiding my swots.

As I come up the rise and walk along the flat, hotly exposed with no trees, the silence is astounding. The cicadas are still, the insects have stopped buzzing and the musical whispering of maize is left behind. What greets me now are the glowing faces of sunflowers looking up towards the summer sunshine and lower down, beneath their sunny heads, some cornflowers competing for the light. The white butterflies silently quiver and dance, enjoying the sun, the gentle breeze and the peace, just as I am.

My feet continue to pound the hot sticky surface which smells of the toils of industry, and oils of mechanisation. My body pushes on through the heat noticing and enjoying all the sensations it receives; the bright array of colour, the smells of summer, the trickle of sweat and the gentle dreamy singing of the occasional bird that languishes lazily in its shadowed respite from the heat.

I sometimes wonder if my descriptions are too much, overwritten, or too wordy. I often remind myself that less is more. However, this is me and this is how I experience the world. I notice everything and I notice the impact on me. All my senses are always on high alert. I stand here at the bend in the road, the bend where the gravel collects, with the valley stretching out below me and every single sense picks up on every single thing around me. The crunch of the gravel as, even with my feet firmly on the ground, my weight moves gently, rocking, almost imperceptibly to maintain balance. The panting of my dog returning after an unsuccessful chase, the rabbit was never really at risk. A mournful mooing of a distant cow, and a belly roar of a horny bull. The baby chirps of birds in the shady branches and the persistent buzz of that tenacious fly seeking the moisture on my skin. Tiny, tiny flies annoyingly attracted to my sweat, flies barely visible that tickle my skin and fidget the hairs on my arm. And the smell, the subtle and gentle smell of the wildflowers, masked by the cloying sickly sweet taste of silage travelling through the dust filled air. Taste and smell inseparable, confused. Finally, that sixth sense, the one deep within, the one that talks to me constantly, the one informed by all the other inputs, the sense maker and guardian of my soul. My inner core sensing a gentle peace with the world.

A startled turkey makes me jump as it lollops along, gurgling loudly, hoping to gain enough height to clear the fence, its terror visible in the trail of panic stricken excrement oozing from its body as it flaps and squawks and finally, finally takes flight, escaping the playful advances of my dog.

On reflection:

This is where I feel two hats merging, locking horns and at the same time supporting each other. For those of you who know me, I support teachers and leaders in schools as we work together to improve student achievement, often with a focus on literacy. I often see prompts in schools reminding young writers to use their senses, which is great advice, but it can result in a formulaic piece of text.

I was walking along the road. I saw some flowers, I smelt the silage. I heard the birds. I tasted the dust. I felt hot.

Then we encourage our young writers to extend this by adding more description.

I saw some pink flowers. I smelt the sweet silage. I heard the noisy chirping birds. I tasted the dry dust. (And here we might push the idea of show don’t tell) I felt the sweat trickle down my spine.

But still we don’t get the outcomes we hope for. This is where I urge you to meld the writing process and the mindful awareness into one. We need to go beyond superficial noticing into a deeper felt sense in order to be a successful writer and at the same time to help us manage our own wellbeing.

Many of us are not overly perceptive. We are bombarded second by second with incoming messages. How much do we truly notice in the moment, and how much do we notice the impact of these things, moment by moment, on us? Before asking our young writers to capture these experiences for their readers, we need to teach them to notice it for themselves and explore ways of expressing it.

Don’t expect them to write about every experience but do encourage some kind of capturing of their experiences either through talking, writing, drawing or any other creative modality.

Here are some examples of activities you might use.

1.Close your eyes and listen.

Record in some way everything you hear.

Draw what the sound looks like?

Notice and ‘capture’ how the sound makes you feel. When have you felt like this before?

2. Close your eyes and have someone squeeze some paint in your hand. Play with it. Notice how it changes. Imagine what colour it is. Now imagine it a different colour, does it feel any different? How does the feeling change as it is spread more thinly? As it starts to dry? What does it remind you of? When have you experienced something similar?

3. What do you notice about your visceral response, that felt sense, and the images in your mind when I say the following words: chocolate, rice pudding, ice plunge, warm bed, etc.

4. Play games such as encouraging the young writers to draw the difference between tired and exhausted, drained and fatigued…what do each of these experiences feel like in your body? Does everyone have the same experience of these words? Are their images easily interpreted by others?

By working on being mindful and helping your learners to express their feelings you are not only supporting their mental health but also giving them the skills needed to write expressively.

Artwork by Nirvana Steiner. fb: Nirvana's Art