An introduction i regret agreeing to..

Right, then.

Apparently, introductions are customary in these sorts of things — blogs, diaries, unsolicited public introspections. I’ve never been one for announcements. I don’t particularly like talking about myself, and I certainly don’t enjoy explaining who I am to strangers.

But if I don’t, someone else might — and I’d rather get ahead of the nonsense.

So.

I’m Ramson Clement Badger.
Badger, obviously. That much should be clear. Thick coat. Dark eyes. White stripes down the face like I was born already exhausted. Which I was, in fact.

I’m not particularly large for a badger. Sturdy, though. Serviceably broad. Weather-worn in the way tree stumps are — with a bit of moss clinging to the corners and a certain look in the eyes that says “I’ve seen enough, thank you.”

I live alone, beneath a buckthorn tree. Not out of necessity. Out of preference. I enjoy the quiet. I enjoy the earth. I enjoy not being spoken to unless it’s absolutely unavoidable.

My burrow is modest, by badger standards. I’ve carved out a space for my books, my herbs, and a reading chair that leans slightly to the left, just like I do.

If you're imagining something tidy, you’d be wrong. I’m not a mess, but I am a creature of piles — of papers, of bark samples, of unfinished lists and dusty notebooks that I swear I’ll sort through when the weather is less judgmental.

What do I do?

I write.

Not novels or anything so grand. I write what I see, what I think, what I don’t say aloud. Observations. Field notes. The kind of thoughts that don’t belong in conversation but still insist on being had.

I observe moss. I study beetles. I collect unusual stones and then forget why. I make tea and then drink half of it and forget the rest on the windowsill where it becomes a metaphor. I nap more than I admit. I name things I shouldn’t. I talk to the kettle, occasionally.

That is the sum of me.

I dislike noise. I dislike small talk. I dislike creatures who think being busy is the same as being important.

I do not enjoy surprises. I do not enjoy being visited unannounced. I do not enjoy the phrase “you should smile more.”

I’m tired of the assumption that quiet is sad, or that solitude is something one must be cured of. I am alone because I choose to be. Because the woods have better stories than most conversation. Because I find silence more comforting than congratulations.

I like tea. I like mushrooms. I like the smell of crushed pine needles. I like the sound snow makes when no one’s walked through it yet. I like a good sentence — the kind that lands like a stone in still water.

I believe in the dignity of slow things. Of rot and root and rhythm.

I believe in taking the long way round.

If you’re still here, I suppose that means something.

I make no promises about what this blog will become. I suspect it will be nothing more than a series of ramblings from a creature who watches more than he speaks and feels far too much for someone who rarely shows it.

But if you’re weary, or wandering, or simply in need of a quiet corner — this is it.

The kettle’s on. The fire’s low. There’s moss on the floor and probably a woodlouse in the biscuits.

Welcome to the burrow.

I’m Ramson. And I’ll be writing here, whether anyone reads it or not.

— Ramson C. Badger
Badger | Writer | Still a little unsure about this whole thing