A terrible fate befalls me. Imagine. Ambling gently along in the flow of things, I am suddenly plucked out by malevolent predator. An eagle, its talons piercing my pitiful pelt, lifts me from the earth. My stomach leaps to my throat, my terrified moleheart threatens to burst through my ribcage with its thumping. The door to my dear little burrow recedes, then the molehills, then the fields until it all a blur. I am flailing, helpless.

Plucked from the flow? Well yes and no, and certainly nothing so dramatic. I was not exactly in the flow to start with, and the plucking was hardly sudden but rather was cumulative. A little more typing, a little less vigilant about taking breaks, a little less mindful with my Qi Gong, a little more bell-ringing. I was daring to be carefree, limitless. In short, I had begun to take my little body for granted, and my right paw, my writing paw couldn’t keep up the pace. All of a sudden, manipulating a key, opening a jar, turning on a tap, negotiating scissors were beyond my grasp.

My left paw was been keen as mustard to help, but what it didn’t seem to realise is how much it relied on my shoulder which was less eager to bear the burden. My voice, like my shoulder, was underwhelmed at being called into action, not as a murmurer. Heaven forbid. It’s specialisation was out loud. And my mind…well, my mind was adamant it was not going to allow one pesky paw to wreck its plans.

The trouble with us solitaires is that we forget about working communally. And although my general sense is that all that is held in my moleskin is me, it only takes one cog to to slip and I feel as if I am an anarchy of individual parts.

It is taking a little time to move from solitaire to solidaire, to bring the reflective molemind back into the ascendant and permit the active molemind to enjoy a little respite; and to allow the paws to take turns, to pause, to wave about, to swing and to soak in Epsom salts; and for the whole enpelted self to walk about in the wind and the rain, to reconstitute itself with eight brocades, gentle conversations and absorb itself in reading. And to do some work, just a little bit at a time.

The pinger is my friend. Ten minutes allows for about four lines if I know what I’m saying – and then a fifteen minute break – Qi Gong bone-opening exercises, a potter to the end of the drive, brewing a pot of tea. I’m not sure how long I can sustain it, but then my new reflective self tells me that perhaps the sky won’t fall in – with the eagle and me in its claws – if I miss the murmurs deadline.

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