Do you ever wonder what our lives would have been had we not put pen to paper? Had we never been afflicted by that curious condition which must have you turn your life into words. Yesterday coming back from () through the wood, I was looking at the tree’s, at the Autumn light and trying to describe it for its Autumn in my story. When I came upon the blackberry pickers, they sang as they worked. There’s not a soul amongst them that can read or write and yet I thought I would give anything to be one of them. To be part of that great thrum of life and activity, to see the fruit of your labours in front of you at the end of the day, to know that it would be of use to others. They stopped when they saw me watching, they took off their hats and nodded and I knew they wanted me gone. It was not a performance, the singing was not for me or anyone else, it was for its own sake. Like breathing they did it without knowing. They didn’t need anyone to hear. Why do we need someone to hear us, why is it not enough to be?