A Feel-good Guided Meditation

If you’re looking for a quick pick-me-up in the form of a guided meditation, then look no further than my latest video on Tales & Meditations.

It’s designed to help you drop any of the unwanted heavy stuff and present to the world a new version of yourself.

I hope you enjoy it 🙂



Snippets of the Seasons

I’ve just uploaded, to Tales & Meditations, excerpts from the audiobook of my teeny tiny fable, The Girl with the Green-Tinted Hair.

It’s a story about how a friendship blossoms through the four seasons, and what each of the seasons represents.

Continue reading “Snippets of the Seasons”

Affirmations for the Dying

(Taken from the description in the new video.)

Those of us who are dying can often feel alone. 

They’re turning into butterflies, when their loved ones, even though they may mean well, want to keep them as caterpillars.

That’s understandable. 

Continue reading “Affirmations for the Dying”

Tales & Meditations – A New Adventure

I’m super pleased to announce that I’ve set up a YouTube channel.

It’s called Tales & Meditations, and has come directly from an inner nudge that wouldn’t leave me alone.

Continue reading “Tales & Meditations – A New Adventure”

A Typical Day in Taipei

A leaf dances in the wind, a tree waves to the sky.

A child takes her first steps beside a blood bank.

The reflection of a bird flies by on the screen of your phone.

A toothless old woman, beautiful when looked at through selfless eyes, grins at the alien.

Young girls take selfies with victory Vs and Korean hearts, and old girls pose next to monuments. Been there. Been there.

An elderly man sits like a butterfly, day in day out, ankles purple and swollen, bruised and cracked, like an old painting or an ancient ceramic pot unearthed. Every day he waves but never smiles.

His son sometimes sits by him, listening to Buddhist chants on his phone, smoking, and drinking bottles of sugar-free green tea.

A profusion of sounds and colours: laughs and greens, cries and blues. Reds, oranges, pinks and yellows, and the barking of a dog as it chases a rusty squirrel.

The thud-thud-thud of a bouncing basketball, it sloshing through the net.

The crunch of gravel under fallen feet.

Leaves rustle, and lapping water licks.

Families having picnics, children chasing bubbles, climbing slippery rocks.

The mechanical sounds and harsh smells of manmade things: scooters and trucks, cigarettes and fried food. Incense.

Coffee beans roasting, and a wicker basket of wrinkling tea leaves basks in the sun.

A fruit fly buzzes and moans, and a caged bird sings the old song of freedom.

Mosquitos whistle whilst trying their best to pierce your armour.

Weeds between the paving slabs not trying to reach the sun but succeeding anyhow.

A plane flies overhead, below one even higher. A swallow shows off, then returns to its spittle home above your head.

A black cat in the market sits on weighing scales, dozing, with its tiny pink tongue hanging out.

A crying woman is hugged by a stranger—bad news.

A man sits alone on a bench—no news yet.

A scared boy cries for his mum, bottom lip trembling. A tatty street dog puts its head under his hand, and the boy stops crying. It’s not so bad being lost, you know.

Groups of men playing dominoes and checkers in the shade of great banyan trees, while their wives dance with other men.

Dogs in pushchairs, children on leads. Parrots on shoulders.

An old woman, walking with a stick decorated with bangles, yells obscenities to those only she can see. She lives in ruins.

The delicious smell of sweet potatoes in sugary syrup, shiny and golden.

Freshly baked breads with red beans.

Windows filled with cakes that tease the eyes and disappoint the tongue.

The unconditioned nose wrinkles at stinky tofu, and the eyes gawp at pigs’ trotters, marinated intestines, and the hearts of chickens.

A pig’s mask, all flesh and no bone, hangs by a hook through one of its drooping eye sockets. Good for broth.

Vegetarian buffets aplenty save so many days.

The day retires with a sky of purple and pink.

A small black bat shoots through the steam of cooking chestnuts, under the orange glare of a streetlamp.

The moon rises yellow over cold, quiet buildings.

But the city never sleeps.



On the Verge

Do you ever feel like you’re on the verge

of something new,

something that could potentially be

more you;

something that lets the world see

who you really are?

But the inner waters are choppy

because you don’t know how far

the boat will be pushed out;

the thought of titanic waves scares you,

and the thunder might clout,

but you knew

that you were too big for the shore—

for why else did you ask for more?

You were heard by the songbird

that flew overhead,

and your plea bled

into the ears of the One.




A Mission to Sit


that’s all I’m asking of myself,

to breathe in the moment:

a whole plethora of sounds,


someone’s talking,

the wind chime chimes,

the roar of a truck,

and a scooter,

there’s a car,

two of them;


Crazy pictures,

colourful and real,

voices so close,

they take me away with them,

by the hand;

so easy to be lead astray.


A serene moment of calm,

a deep dive into the depths,

an encompassing space,

Then memories long forgotten;

fears not realised,

(the realised ones bring a smile).

Meaningless conversations,

some real, most not,

some I wish I’d had,

others I regret having.

Someone’s coughing.


Straighten the spine,

pull back the shoulders,

scrunch the carpet with my toes,


take a deep breath,

let’s see if we can try this again;


that’s all I’m asking of my self,

to breathe in the moment.


I’ve been practicing meditation and mindfulness for seventeen years – that’s nearly half of my life. Yet the mind still does what it does best: distracts from the present moment.

If you’re finding it hard to meditate, to quieten the mind, take comfort in the fact that everyone who meditates is going through the very same thing you are.

Just because the mind is thinking doesn’t mean you can’t meditate, or that meditation isn’t for you.

You have a mind—it thinks.

It will make a ruckus because that’s what it does. It’s our job to watch it, not to stop it… just to watch it, and then observe what arises from the watching.







The Flutter-by Dance

Fluttering by.

A seemingly chaotic dance of dips and dives,

of colours and their shades,

without a beginning and an end,

without a known purpose,

to the endless song of silence.

Not questioning the butterfly,

not asking why or when or how or what;

being with the butterfly

we can lose ourselves in that silent dance

and become the butterfly;

not dreaming of being the butterfly,

or wondering if we’re the butterfly dreaming of being a human,

but becoming the butterfly,

inseparable from it,

one with it,

connected in the silent dance.