There’s an ancient lesson carried on the wings of the wasp. All summer long, the adult wasp labours to feed its larvae — bringing back morsels of meat, tending tirelessly to its growth. In return, the larva excretes a sugary substance, sweet fuel that sustains the adult. A season-long exchange. A strange, ancient symbiosis. But then the cycle ends. The larva matures, breaks free, and flies away. And the adult wasp — who gave all its energy to feed what it believed would sustain it — is suddenly left with nothing. No sweetness. No return. Many starve before the winter comes. The New Symbiosis in the Age of the Algorithm We may believe ourselves far from such a fate, but in The Age of the Algorithm, we too are caught in a cycle of feeding something that does not feed us back. Social media feeds on our attention. It studies our every digital move — the click, the pause, the hungry linger. It adapts not to know us, but to keep us. In return, it feeds us a stream of content: hyper-personalised, eerily precise, tailored to our curiosities, fears, longings, and wounds. A perfect lure. A perfect loop. But unlike the wasp, this is not mutual care. This is extraction. Far more parasitic than symbiotic. Anticipation: The Hook of Endless Scrolling Our brains are wired for anticipation — What comes next? Whether joy or outrage, awe or envy, the algorithm delivers. Each swipe, a gamble. A hit. A hook. And within this feed, we meet a curated mirror of comparison that makes us feel less than: Bodies more beautiful Lives more successful Joy more effortless Brilliance more constant All targeted to our insecurities with laser precision. In a world already aching — with war, climate crisis, political unrest, and quiet personal grief — the feed becomes a storm. Anxiety from the outside in. Despair from the inside out. The Hollowing Like the wasp, we have spent years feeding something we believed would nourish us: connection, inspiration, belonging. Yet, the more we give — time, attention, emotion — the emptier we become. Because what we serve is not in service to us. The Antidote: Art as Return Perhaps the way through this Age of the Algorithm is not to consume more, but to create more. Creativity — in all its forms — is not a luxury. It is how we remember ourselves. It steadies the mind, softens the body, and brings the spirit back into the room. Creativity is not only healing… it may be the very key to our survival. Because when we create, we are no longer feeding the machine — we are feeding the soul. An invitation Before you scroll to the next thing or back to your task list, ask yourself: what could I make today? A scribble, a soup, a sentence, a melody. Something small, something true. No audience. No outcome. Just you, feeding your own sweetness back to yourself. And who knows how that sweetness might ripple out, quietly nourishing others too.

On a rainy Saturday, I perched on my scooter outside a bleak building called a “hotel.” Two storeys of grey walls, curtains drawn tight, no softness, no welcome. Inside, asylum seekers — people who have already fled unimaginable hardship — sat like ghosts behind those curtains. I imagined their bewilderment and fear, not just of what had forced them to leave home, but of what they were now witnessing outside their windows. I was grateful to be there with my partner and two friends, people who give so much of their lives to social justice. I felt supported and in good company — and because of that, even more aware of how alone those behind the curtains must feel, unable to step outside without fear, unable to walk freely to the shops, unable to live the small, everyday freedoms that should be taken for granted. In the car park, “our side” gathered — bringing colour, music, placards, a kind of determined joy. Across the road, “the other side” stood, watched over by police. Some were almost certainly folk living with deep inequality themselves — in health, income, education. But instead of turning their anger towards the governments, billionaires, and policies that have stripped their lives bare, they had been persuaded that the real threat was the vulnerable people hidden behind hotel curtains. Among them were more organised figures: a young man in dark glasses and slicked back hair, magaphone in hand; a flag of the “Knights Templar” — symbols of old violence repurposed for new hatred. Flags, flags, flags everywhere you look. Tribal symbols to cling to. The atmosphere was noisy, tense, surreal. I held my sign — Different Roots, Shared Future — and I wondered what those inside the hotel could see or hear. Did they feel supported by our music and colour, or did all of it feel like part of the storm? I left with mixed emotions. Relief that I had stood in solidarity, but also sadness that my presence meant “choosing a side” in a theatre of division. I wanted to bring love. I wanted to bring welcome. But I also wondered: had I added to the noise, to the storm outside those ghosted windows? And yet — I know why I was there. Absence would have felt like silence. My small act of witness was not about fuelling division, but about standing for humanity in a place where humanity was under threat. Standing there in the storm, I thought of how often fear has written this script before. The huge protest in London led by “Tommy Robinson” plays this out on an even larger stage — grievance twisted into hate, division magnified and broadcast to the world. A Human Story as Old as Time It is an old story, told in many places, with many names, and it always begins the same way: with cracks in a community, widened by whispers of danger, until neighbours see only enemies across the divide. They say there were once two villages, side by side. Each longed for safety, each wished simply to endure the hunger of winters and the drought of summers. But one day a whisper came to both villages: the other means to destroy you. Fear tightened its grip. The first village sharpened its spears and built higher walls. The second village strung its bows and fortified its gates. Each looked across the valley and saw the other preparing, and took it as proof of the rumour. And so the cycle deepened. Suspicion became certainty. Certainty became hostility. And soon the two villages brought about the very destruction they feared. The battle came, the sky darkened with dust, and the earth shook beneath the weight of their anger. When it was over, both villages lay in ruins. Only then did they see the truth: that neither had ever wanted war. Fear had been the victor, and both had lost. But the story does not have to end in rubble. In the silence after the storm, there is another possibility. The walls, though broken, can be mended. The fissures that run through the earth can be filled with light. Like the art of kintsugi, where broken pottery is repaired with gold, the scars can become places of beauty. What was once cracked can shine more brightly than before. Perhaps this is the story we are being called to write now. Not one of endless fear and ruin, but one of repair, courage, and light glinting through the seams. As you read this, you too may be feeling the weight of fear and division pressing on our world. My hope is that this story might also remind us that every crack can become an opening, every act of witness a seam of gold.

There’s a lone oak tree on the shore of Loch Lomond, at a place called Milarrochy Bay. Twisted by wind and time, it stands apart—its branches reaching across the bay, as if yearning across the water for the company of other oaks on the far shore. This painting began with soft watercolour washes to hold the quiet light of sunset, followed by charcoal to draw the tree’s distinctive form, the shape of the distant mountains, and the reflections in the water. As I worked, the painting became more than a landscape. It became a meditation on solitude, on connection, and on how beauty can take root in the most unlikely shapes. To many, the tree seems alone. And yet, I found myself wondering—what if it isn’t? What if beneath the surface, its roots are still entangled with others through ancient networks of mycelium? What if even in separation, there’s a thread of kinship and memory holding it in quiet relationship? This thought stayed with me: even when we stand apart, we are rarely truly alone. Whether through shared values, quiet support, or the invisible bonds of community, we remain connected—sometimes in ways we can’t immediately see. And just like the tree, shaped by solitude, our own unusual growth might hold something beautiful for others to witness, to recognise, to feel less alone themselves. This painting is called What the Roots Remember . It’s an invitation to reflect on the connections that sustain us, even when we feel isolated. It’s a reminder that longing is not weakness—it’s a gesture of hope, of aliveness. And it’s an offering to anyone who has felt on the edge: you are part of something deeper. The roots remember. A moment to reflect: When have you felt most alone—and what, or who, reminded you that you were still connected? Are there ways your own ‘twisted branches’ have become a gift to someone else? I’d love to hear what resonates for you. Visit my growing gallery of paintings.