Mole has been exploring rhythm, time, and dancing to the beat of one’s own drum but has, it seems, failed to take heed of these ponderings. A glitsch earlier in the day and a sore paw spawned by the desire catch up, have combined to stall murmurs of mole. A snooze tonight, a rested body, and some gentle application in the morning will bring murmurs to your in-box tomorrrow.

I am, on the whole, an early to bed sort of cove, but last night I started pootling about among the boxes in the cellar. I was looking for a piece of bone to replace the handle on a saucepan lid, but one thing rather led to another and I ended up discovering an untouched crate marked MOLEX. And, well, I couldn’t resist prising up the nails and taking a quick peak. Incense, trapped for a hundred years or so rose from the cracks. Folds of silk and cotton and sawdust spilled onto the floor. I peered at the papers lying at the top – something to do with Wu Xing. ‘Not now’, my Higher Self commanded as my paws itched to fossick. The chimes of midnight reverberated from the Grandfather clock upstairs, and with an enormous effort of will I hammered the nails down again.

I only tell you this because you would think that after such a late night, I would be as unwilling as a sloth to rise again in the morning, but – Oh blissful day. You should have seen the mole at dawn. I had barely opened my eyes before my paws were on the ground, the door of my burrow opened, the gate reached. The sun was shining but the air was cool – so cool I thought I might see snow on the mountain. I was, as you might imagine, in my element again. As I bounced my way towards Knocklofty I couldn’t help but remember the way I had waded, almost treacled my weary self up the same path the morning before. The air had been heavy with the heat of the previous day. An anticipated thunderstorm had broken spectacularly behind the mountain but left this side with a few drips of rain and the weight of unburst clouds. The reward silent stillness, only broken by birdsong, and the only other beings I saw were wallabies – and their innocent, not yet cautious joeys who were grazing at the side of the path.

Today there was not a wallaby to be seen. I had hardly embarked on the upward path when I heard shouts and grunts and the pounding of large human feet, and when I reached the first point where the paths intersect, I was confronted by a squad of footballers blocking the way.

When I am surrounded by men, en masse, exerting their physical strength, I feel like a very, very small mole indeed. I scuttled off the path to manoeuvre myself around them to move on and up and beyond, but their voices filled the natural amphitheatre of Knocklofty, and I knew that they might either catch me up, or round on me from the other direction and meet me head on. No wallabies were to be seen. Hiding behind trees, perhaps, holding their paws to their ears and quaking in mortal terror. I felt a degree or two separated from the element I had been in when I first strode out of my burrow.

It made me ponder about elements, not the Chinese ones, but the occidental variety: the figurative ones which give us such satisfaction to be in, and the meteorological ones we boldly choose to brave – and what happens to us if we are neither in them or facing them.

Some creatures seem to live entirely within their elements. I am sure that is one of the reasons I so often take my bearings from Great Uncle Mole and Uncle Ratty when I find myself out of sorts or too loosely scattered. Great Uncle Mole travelled from time to time but always underground; it would never have entered his mind to fly in an aeroplane. Uncle Ratty, on the other hand, strayed a long way from the riverbank but he was always at home wherever he went. He braved new elements and made them his own.

As a wee mole I was rather tumbled about by the elements, uprooted and plonked and uprooted again. The times when I was in my element could be counted on the claws of one paw, and perhaps you need to experience being in your own element to brave the others.

This morning, when I had reached the summit of Knocklofty, and was well beyond sight or sound of the footballers; when I was breathing the mountain air and eucalyptus, and was enwrapt in my element again, I came across a forlorn wanderer. ‘I’m lost’, he said, his lips quivering. ‘I don’t know where I am. I’ve never been here before.’ He was, he told me, from across the river, and had lost his team.

I was reminded that an element is part of a complex whole. I’ll not be able to look at a squad of footballers again without remembering the one who was so out of his own element when he was in mine. And in so doing maybe I can take a leaf out of Uncle Ratty’s book, and make more elements my own.

But now, back to the cellar.

Great Uncle Mole was a great one for rituals. Come hell or high water, every morning he would emerge briskly from his bedroom in a tartan dressing-gown and head straight for the kitchen. He’d fill the kettle and put it on the stove. Life was not worth living without an early pot of his own special blend of Irish Breakfast and Russian Caravan. The tray, or trays (should there be any other creatures staying in the burrow) were set up the night before, complete with a linen tray-cloth, a small tin of digestive biscuits, and a flower in a vase arranged just as his Mama had done many years before. This ritual was a solitary occupation, and if any small creature, up with the larks, ever dared follow him, they were scowled out of the kitchen and told to go back to bed. Nonetheless there were times I watched him from the safety of the hallway. There was something about the precision of every move, its quotidian invariability, that suspended time. One could not believe that there would not always be a Great Uncle Mole making morning tea.

While the kettle was occupied with the task of bringing the water to the boil, Great Uncle Mole pootled along to the vestibule where (in amongst the mufflers and sou’westers and oilskins, capes and ulsters, berets and flat-caps and gumboots, walking-sticks and snowshoes, straw-hats and umbrellas and badminton racquets), a pair of weather instruments, encased in oak, bravely stood their ground. He would tap the barometer first, and tap it again if he didn’t like what he saw. Then he would squint at the thermometer. The vestibule was dark and Great Uncle Mole’s eyes were weak. Sometimes he had to guess, but nevertheless, what ever he said he saw would hold for the day, the weather outside be damned.

One of the best things about this method was that the temperature was seldom more than a few degrees below and never, ever above 50F (or 10C) because it was Uncle Ratty who had attached the instruments to the wall and Uncle Ratty was a good inch or two taller; 50F was what was level with Great Uncle Mole’s eyes. Down in his burrow it was usually cool, and little could be seen of the world beyond, so it might as well have been true.

As the temperature heads for the 80Fs on this old imperial thermometer, and a hot spell is forecast for the next week, I wish Great Uncle Mole were here to fool me. I contemplate fooling myself by merely raising the thermometer higher on the wall, and removing my spectacles before taking a reading, but the sun penetrates this burrow of mine, fills it with heat and light. An extraordinary sleepiness overcomes me at this time of year. The days go on for ever and the short dark allows no time to restore and recover. Although the solstice heralded a welcome turnaround to shortening daylight, here in the southern hemisphere the evenings continue to lengthen for a further 29 days.

I look at sunflowers, daisies, marigolds and geraniums sturdily holding their own in the sun, while I wilt in the shade. In the mornings I can barely raise myself. Where is the mole who leaps out of bed on those dark winter mornings, striding up Knocklofty while others creatures are hibernating?

Am I alone in this desire to hide away from the bright heat? Very nearly but not quite. I find that rather than hibernate in the winter my friend the Malagasy fat-tailed dwarf lemur aestivates in tree-holes for the seven hottest, driest months of the year, but perhaps even closer to my heart is the only other known aestivating mammal, the nocturnal and solitary four-toed East African hedgehog. It has its very own mechanism for hiding away from the too-bright world. Its obicularis panniculi, the circular skin muscle in its soft belly contracts into a bag, a blissful dark place, into which the hedgehog withdraws, its spines erecting themselves protectively in the same movement.

Oh to be an East African hedgehog.

Last night, had you been hovering in a balloon somewhere between Hobart’s city centre and the harbour, and had you been looking down on the scene below, you might have seen a small mole peeling off from the throngs of festively clad humans, moving purposefully towards the cathedral tower, key in paw, and quickly, silently slipping through its doors into the quite dark of the vestry. It was about ten o’clock.

At that point you would have seen no more except perhaps for the lights going on in the tower, but as I was that mole I can tell you that I climbed the spiral staircase, let myself into the ringing room, drew a rather rusty, faux Breuer chair to the round table in the middle and fossicked about for the contraption in my rucksack.

Ten o’clock was on the early side for midnight bell-ringing, but a dinner with chums had ended unexpectedly early, and here was a welcome little lull in a day that had been so full I hadn’t even had time to send my broadcast out to you.

And while I was tapping away the contraption suddenly pinged. A message came through from a dear neighbour of mine. She recalled bells in Edinburgh many decades ago and how the Papa of a friend of hers recited Tennyson’s Ring Out Wild Bells (otherwise known as In Memoriam). And this dear neighbour had carefully written it out in full for me.

Well, being a soul raised on diet of boxing day amateur dramatics (and having not had the opportunity to indulge in them since the boxing days of my youth at Great Uncle Mole’s burrow), I could not restrain myself. I rose up on the blue canvas seat and, drawing myself to my full (though not extensive) height, paw on heart, I proclaimed to the empty ringing room:

‘Ring out the old, ring in the new…’

I exhorted the ropes and sallies to let the old year go, to ring out grief that sapped the mind, the narrowing lust of gold, foul disease, the thousand wars of old, spite and the darkness of the land; and to ring in the larger heart, the fuller minstrel and the kindlier hand. I did the poem no justice but it so filled my small moleheart that when the others at last arrived; when we took our positions and began to ring, the words seeped up the ropes and into the bells and out into the night.

In the final days of the the Altjahrswoche, I had begun envisaging how I would prepare for the new year, so that when I awoke on the first of January it would be in crisp new sheets, to a clean and tidy house. I would leap up, fill my molelungs with early morning air on Knocklofty, return invigorated to breakfast, meditation and Qi Gong, and set myself to write. ‘Start as you mean to go on’, a voice, perhaps that of Mathilde had whispered.

Alas, ringing at midnight does not bode well for early rising; and the business of New Year’s Eve – all its shopping and preparing of food and wrapping of birthday presents leaves behind it a trail of chaos. I woke up late and I woke up to muddle and unfinished business.

And I woke up remembering the night and the ringing and the sense of farewelling the old and making space for the new, and I began to think that carrying this as an intention – as a way of being through 2016, was a much better idea for this clay-pawed mole.

I don’t often catch myself in a looking-glass but last night I was smoothing back my greying pelt before going out for mince pies, and for a moment glimpsed myself. My paws were clasped behind my neck and the negative space between shoulder and paws had created a cherubic pair of wings. It made me ponder about perceptions, positive and negative, and Christmases past and present.

I had thought that the murmuring mole might stay silent on Christmas Day, but I remember Christmases past when all external structures and daily contacts have slipped away; times when alone-ness, absence or loss have made themselves most acutely felt. Often. at times like this I have met with acts of extraordinary kindness, been taken in and nurtured.

I wish those of you who are celebrating with families or friends a great Christmas, but I especially want to send my molehugs to those of you for whom this is a difficult time. I hope you can find soothing music, a good book or a jigsaw puzzle. Or perhaps a stroll is more up your street, or a crossword, or writing a letter. I am about to put my kettle on. You might like to join me By putting on yours so that we can toast ourselves with a good cup of tea.

When I go for my early morning walk I sometimes don’t see a soul, or maybe just a figure in the distance. From time to time I might meet a someone coming the other way. We will greet each other, perhaps even have a brief chat. But this morning I was walking up the hill and where my path merged with another I found myself suddenly side by side with a fellow creature. We strolled quite happily together, talked about Hamlet, and then our paths diverged again.

The merging paths stirred a distant memory.

I was on the back seat of a stuffy little Morris 8 somewhere in France. We had been somewhere in France for many, many hours and been lost several times. It was very hot and I would have liked to have stuck my snout out of the window, but it was only allowed to be a little bit open, just enough to get rid of the petrol fumes, but not so much that it made a draught. I couldn’t inch it down further because it squeaked and gave the game away. A chap at the office had lent Papa the car. Mama was navigating.

Still, all the discomfort in the world couldn’t undermine the treat I had on my lap: the Green Book of Puzzles, given to me by Great Uncle Mole, and now I had hours and hours to immerse myself in it with no-one asking any more of me than that I should keep quiet.

I was trying to nut out a particularly challenging pictogram when I heard Mama saying that we should be coming to a fork in the road. Perhaps it was the pictograms and their incongruity that gave me a sudden image of a giant silver fork stabbed down in the middle of Route N74 as if it were mere mashed potato.

‘Is that “une fourchette dans la rue”‘, I asked with all the puffed up pride of an eight year-old mole who has just done a term of French. Mama said she had no idea. She was turning the map upside down. Forks were now the least of her worries. She had to work out how to circumnavigate Chalon. We seemed to be heading for Lyon instead of Geneva.

‘Nearly’, said Papa, who was rather more interested in linguistics than driving. “Fourche de routes”. A fourchette is a derivative of fourche from the Latin furca.’ I had no idea what he was talking about. And I was still none the wiser as to what a fork in the road might mean.

I asked.

‘It’s a bifurcation. Or perhaps…’. He paused. ‘Perhaps it could be any number of divarications’. I could see his face in the rear-view mirror. His eyes had taken on that dreamy look he had when his mind was elevating itself above the dreary business of everyday living.

Mama suggested he should concentrate on where we were going.

A fork in the road, whether literal or figurative, should be an exciting thing – an unexpected manifestation of options, but for me they more frequently present unresolvable dilemmas. I come to a standstill and go no further lest I take the wrong route. This afternoon I spent a little time with my snout in Great Uncle Mole’s O.E.D., trying to convince myself that if only I understood forks a little better, I would be able to resolve my fear of them.

Fork is a very old word, but then I suppose pitch-forks are very old tools. And strangely, it is the older figurative uses of the word, the ones that are obsolete, that most accord with the sense of unease I have about forks; the way they pull the rug of certainty from under your paws. In 14th century courts, witnesses whose testimony was contradictory were said to be forking. In the 17th century a forked fee was a bribe extorted from both sides; a forked argument was one that was deliberately ambiguous, or one that contained a dilemma. If you stumbled over a word, or used the wrong one, you might say your tongue was forking. In other words a fork is a deceptive trap.

But when I resurfaced from the O.E.D. and allowed myself to ponder again about my morning stroll, I realised that there was indeed a different way of looking at a fork. The path I had taken was not the handle but a prong and what I came to was a confluence not, as Papa would have put it, a divarication. Is there some way I can turn my fork phobia on its head? Can I trust, somehow, that my fellow prongs will do what needs to be done without my meddling, and that we shall come together in the palm of the fork with complete synchronisity?

We have been visited by deliciously unseasonal weather. Today there is snow on the mountain and a pelt-tingling antarctic breeze outside my burrow. Perhaps it will make the anticipation of Christmas more real. One of my dear molekin sent me an advent calendar this year, too. It transported me back Christmases past. Every year we celebrated the tea-chest ritual at the parental burrow. With a lot of huffing and puffing it was hauled up from our notorious cellar and was plonked ceremoniously in the middle of the parlour. The lid was eased off with the claws of a hammer and then, with as much restraint as possible we dug out baubles and paper-chains, tinsel and lights, flinging the wood-shavings onto the carpet. And our mama would retrieve the advent calendars She could never bear to throw anything away, and so they accumulated, year by year. They were displayed, precariously, on the curtain pelmet, obliterating the photographs of her children.

The more I ponder about advent calendars the more I appreciate what wonderful inventions they are. They draw out the pleasure of anticipating a major event ahead, and they also encourage us to savour each day as a separate entity. They are a rather splendid model for planning. Had we mole-scamps given a second thought to the old advent calendars, we could have opened a window for every day of the year, several years even – reflected, too, on years past.

It was this remembering the past through the provenance of each calendar that made me delve back into old murmurs. This, it seems, is the 50th murmurs of mole, and I thought I might turn it into a sort of – well not exactly an advent calendar. Over the last year you have accompanied through highs and lows, seasons and idle thoughts and writing hiccups. And you have been introduced to several members of my extended and scattered family. It seems only right that they should be gathered together as the year draws to an end. Imagine, if you can, that each of the twenty links of what I shall call my reflective calendar is a window back into their lives. Unlike an advent calendar the sequence is unimportant, allow your curiosity to take you anywhere you might like to revisit.

It all began a year ago with a snout and a little exploration. -1- I took you to St David’s Cathedral to ring the new year in. -2- And I first introduced you to Great Uncle Mole and Uncle Ratty as they changed their calendars. -3- These two were such steadfast influences on my early life, and remain be a great source of inspiration and succour. We explored encyclopaedias with them -4- , and played with maps with Uncle Ratty,-5- if not being taken on his wild adventures of the mind, -6-. We met Mathilde, Tante Mole’s terrifying companion from Mulhouse-7-, learnt of her courage -8-, and how she returned from the grave -9-. Even more alarming was the neighbour Trelawny, -10- whose field held a tale that haunted poor Great Uncle Mole into his old age -11-. Uncle Ratty’s tempestuous sister made a brief appearance -12- , as did the not so subtle Mr X and his narcissistic brother, the amateur psychologist Cousin Ezekial. -13- We have not seen the last of them. We dug even further back into the life of Molex whose life was transformed by a lantern slide show -14- , And came closer to the present with Grandpa Mole -15-And Grandma Mole who adored colour -16-. I introduced you to my familiar Monsieur Boo -17- , contemplated his life under the oak tree -18-and bade farewell to two friends,-19- and -20- in winters that make today feel like a heatwave.

It has been quite a year – but would have been nought if you, dear readers had not been anticipated, and might have faltered without your support and encouragement.

Thank you.

Although my paws have been on the ground my snout has been in the clouds. The chimp arrives to pick up the post in ten minutes – but, alas, murmurs is not yet ready to go.

My apologies.

I was moseying about at the market the other day when I overheard a comment about how in the zen of archery a mole is to aim beyond the target. It stuck in my mind because I find targets and goals and endpoints rather forbidding. They become bigger the closer you get to them, so big that the concept of beyond becomes entirely obscured; so big that it is much more comfortable to stay where you are than get any closer. But if you were to focus on the space beyond the target, well then it would shrink back down to a gentler scale and, who knows, it might that you pass it without even noticing.

Had I been a less inquisitive mole, I might have wandered up to the nearest hill, taken up a lotus position and pondered this thought for a while, allowing it to seep into my being. Over the next week or so I might have brought the thought to life and put it into practice. I might have seen whether diminished targets lost their ferocity, whether I felt more courageous about approaching them, whether the far blue yonder (now visible) drew me on.

But I never can leave well alone. I decided to do a little digging, and soon began to think I had rather got the wrong end of the stick. For practitioners of Kyūdō, or the Way of the Bow, the target is seen not as a destination at all but as a mirror of one’s intentions. The archer is not shooting to hit the target. Hitting the target is a result of one’s right intentions. More than that, it is the result of a selfless alignment between heart, arrow, movement and the natural world. And each time the arrow is raised, drawn, and shot, it is done with such singleness of purpose, with such preparation, that it might be crowning point of one’s life.

This required even more pondering.

I thought about it when I lay under my doona last night, when I moseyed about on Knocklofty this morning, and over my banana and walnuts at breakfast. And it filled my mind when I was practicing Qi Gong in my weedy garden, especially in the second movement in the eight brocades when a mole takes an archer’s stance and is asked to draw the string of the bow back past its ear.

The intention has to begin long before the raising of the bow. You have to discern the target, distinguish the false from the true. As Zen master Torei says, ‘If the target isn’t right, it’s not even right if you hit it’.

I still want to ponder my first impression, to think about seeing the world beyond the work I am trying to complete, to see an afterwards and a broadening out. I want to breathe deeply, not freeze in fright as ends draw near. But I also want to go deeper into right intentions, smooth alignment and giving the moment its own life.

It was so cold last night I unfurled my second doona. This morning when I was dazzled awake by the late spring sun, I could feel a little bit of Antarctica strafing my snout. And then, when I strolled up Knocklofty, there was Mount Wellington glowing with a generous dusting of snow.

We are three days away from the beginning of summer, and I am filled with unseasonable zing.

I am beginning to wonder whether the indecision that sometimes assails me originated in the move I made to the antipodes all those years ago, and never quite being able to reconcile myself with the inversion of seasons. The chill of this morning gladdened me not just because I thrive in the cold, but because my Anglo-Swiss soul is appeased. It knows it should be heading for winter, that November should be drawing the autumn to an end, and that it should not have to be dragged, kicking and screaming, from spring into summer. My Tasmanian body, though, is alert to the burgeoning vegetable patch, roses, raspberries and early daylight. It tries to persuade my retreating soul to lighten up, mingle, stay awake, eat lettuce, be more vocal, and spend more time with friends.

The hemispheric split is not unlike the disjunction that any being who has been uprooted from familiar territory battles with; the constant to-ing and fro-ing between our own lived lives and the tendrils that hold us to the past and dear ones whose lives continue elsewhere. The way this makes us feel both plagues and enriches us. It ebbs and flows. The hemispheric split has no such nuance. It is defined by its opposition and that opposition is directional.

I know in my mind that we are all heading in the same direction – that just as night follows day, summer will follow spring, no matter where I am, but the hemispheric split creates Spring/Autumn, Summer/Winter as dichotomies. And I feel as is if my soul is heading in one direction while my mind is heading in the other. No sooner does one thought or feeling enter my mind, when its polar opposite presents itself in equal measure.

Is it any wonder that I so often find myself in such an agony of self-doubt?