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  • Fi Phillips

Pick up a small stone

Updated: Mar 12

This was the first ‘small stone’ that I ever wrote.

After the Storm

Retreating storm clouds bruise the sky, leaving their wounds on the deepening veil. A single plane carves across the blue, its climbing departure trailing a diminishing white scar.

The rooftops cut black against the sinking sun, remembering the once warmth which will return again.

I was introduced to the concept of small stones by author, Buddhist priest, psychotherapist and activist Satya Robyn, as a method of writing ‘in the moment’.

A small stone is a short piece of writing that captures exactly what happened in that moment, how it felt, what you saw and heard, and what impression it left on you.

For those who struggle to build a regular writing practice, small stones can be an ideal way to get just a few words down every day.

Give it a go. Take a moment to experience what’s happening around and to you, and then turn it into a small stone.

Here are some more of mine:

Happy New Year

Children in bed.

Fireworks cease.

Champagne pops.

My love and I.

The Wane-strel

Like the wane-ing of the moon, my energy shrinks when she is around me with her words of disdain, criticism and disapproval. She misses the magic in the precious gift that life has dropped into our laps, while ‘they’ laugh, dance and breathe joy around us.

Lawn Gems

Sparkling light gems touch each fresh blade. Winter bling in my January patch.


You say I am black and white, a line too hard and straight to express myself, and yet I see too well the shades of grey that paint us all into existence.


When they were younger, my children were an extension of myself. I could wrap them up and carry them away from cruel words.

Now, they are themselves. They are individuals, bright seeds of their adult selves. I can no longer cocoon them away from harsh words, cruel deeds or malicious minds.

I can only love them, prepare them and arm them with minds and hearts filled with confidence and self belief.

When they hurt, I hurt. When they cry, I hide my own tears. These are hard lessons for us all but ones we must bear.

My darling butterflies must learn which flames to avoid.