mother tongue
I used to count my steps, measure my heartrate, suspect I was getting sick not because I felt it but because my HR variability dropped.
between two seas
from an island tucked between the north sea and the atlantic, a weekly newsletter from evolutionary biologist and novelist rebecca hooper, about life and death, land and sea, science, art, and finding joy.
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only light
I wish I could say I had some notion I was being followed—that some ancient sense within told me to stop, to turn around, to search the swallow of blue behind me until I saw the eyes peering back.
we are floating
meeting Nótt and Hulk
I, magpie
We wake early and go to an eastern bay.
soft rebellion
and a willow of wing
learning to save a whale
In the shallows, there is a whale—but don’t worry, it is only a life-size, inflatable, water-filled (and thus, extremely heavy) pilot whale.
we are not invisible
if we think we are, we are not paying enough attention
there is tenderness
(and there is terror)
barnacles in space
of moons and barnacles and where we find our wonder
universality
a day of avian encounters
peculiar magic
a gale & a funeral & a dog singing to sky
the embodied human
Time ripens in the spring.
Announcing my debut novel: These Glass Bodies
available for pre-order now
the joy of being autistic
and the importance of diagnosis
the boys’ club
may we all be furious
golden edges
when a ship wrecked in the north
on this island, life and death and life
what this island teaches me
to dream an octopus dream
on cephalopod sentience
nature should not be moralised
there are no villains in this story
the dolphin in my arms
responding to a mass stranding event in Orkney