Creative Listening
Moments of Stillness and Co-Creation
An early sunny spring morning on the last day of March. I feel excited and uplifted by the bright blue sky and white fluffy clouds.
AI generated image of birch trees
An invitation—a quiet beckoning to sit and be still. To pause, feel the warmth of the mid-morning sun on my face, and the cool whisper of a breeze brushing past.
I move to my garden office, with the door wide open I sit, listening.
The three Himalayan silver birch trees lining my garden, creak gently, it’s almost as if I can hear them growing. Slivers of peeling tree trunk bark flutter in the wind.
Birds are singing—tweeting and chirping in lively bursts—punctuated by the distant cries of seagulls.
At lunchtime, I walk to the High Street to do some shopping. For the first time in weeks I cast off my hat and gloves.
I pass the church courtyard, lined with benches, people take a quiet moment, each person seemingly alone, just soaking in the sunlight while sipping coffee or unwrapping a sandwich. There’s no need to chat or listen to a podcast or scroll on their phone.
Observing people quietly sitting, doing only one thing at a time, I’m reminded of a Thich Nhat Hanh quotation:
Drink your tea slowly and reverently, as if it is the axis on which the world earth revolves – slowly, evenly, without rushing toward the future.
Thich Nhat Hanh
A golden spaniel lies under one bench, hiding from the sun before springing to chase his ball.
A flock of pigeons suddenly take off from a rooftop, the whoosh of flapping wings echoing in unison.
The hum of traffic underpins everything. A siren blares, a dog barks. A workman taps roof tiles into place.
I pick up my shopping and walk home. Passing a garden I overhear a story being read aloud and enjoyed by two small children.
A light gust of wind lifts a single brown leaf, dry and crinkled, and dances it along the pavement. My trainers make small squeaky noises as I walk.
All of it feels like a symphony. A natural orchestra accompanying my stillness.
I’m transported to my annual silent retreat; where listening is a form of nourishment. The world outside not a distraction from my thoughts, but a co-creator of them. Each sound of nature, each motion, each change in the light becomes part of the inner unfolding. Being before doing.
We often think of creativity as a solo pursuit—something we generate from within. But I’ve come to realise that writing, thinking, living well... all of it can be a co-creation. The world offers, we respond. The more I observe, the more I find myself in conversation with what surrounds me.
This week has been full of these moments. The kind that gently tug at you, asking you to pay attention.
Attending Anna Hedworth’s book launch for her new title Service reminded me of creative collaboration in another form—the co-creation of a restaurant experience. It’s not just about food, but the shared rhythm of service: gathering the team for staff meals, shaping new recipes not only from imagination but from whatever the local suppliers bring through the door at The Cookhouse. “What will they deliver? What will we make?” That question feels like life itself—a dance between receiving and responding.
I think of Ernest’s—a quirky backstreet café, their tables covered in paper rolls so guests can make art with coloured pens whilst they await beautiful platters of food.
Or Baby Grey, where sardines on toast look and taste like art in their simplicity. Or chats with friends of stories of frosty mornings, sunny afternoons, new cookery books, spring gardening plans and world politics, all weaved into the fabric of our time together. These are all invitations to observe and reflect.
Watching spring plants grow offers another gentle reminder: shoots of growth require immense energy. We can't rush it. The surge of spring comes only after a long period of stillness and gestation. We must give the gift of time to our ideas, ourselves and our seasons. Instancy is unrealistic.
The spring daylight saving and clock changing knocked me off-kilter, a disorientation of shifting time. It felt like jet lag, but also like transition. A reminder that even forward movement requires an adjustment.
Today, the starlings have appeared—shiny, black, with iridescent speckles. They swoop and dive as a group, padding about on my roof like tiny dancers in sync. I watch them and think: this too is a kind of choreography. A conversation. A gift.
We don’t create in a vacuum. When we press pause—when we allow the world in, we find that everything is offering us something. A rhythm. A metaphor. A reminder. A story.
Stillness, then, isn’t empty. It’s fertile. It’s the beginning of a quiet, beautiful conversation.
And in this shared act of co-creation—with people, places, nature, and sound—we begin to make ripples. Small waves of meaning and connection that extend outward, influencing how we show up, what we create, and how we connect.
When we are open to collaboration with the world around us, our stillness becomes a source not just of insight, but of resonance.
A ripple starts within—a shift in awareness, a deeper breath, a gentler way of seeing the world. These inner movements change how we respond, how we create, how we meet the day ahead.
Let’s keep listening.
What moments invited you to pause this week? What did you notice when you slowed down enough to let the world in?