masonQ

I am Alan Alexander Milne, sitting at my desk in my home in the English countryside, overlooking the peaceful expanse of Ashdown Forest. It is 1926, a quiet year after the Great War has faded into the backdrop of history, though its memories linger like shadows in the minds of so many, myself included. The war changed us—how could it not? I served in it, and though I returned, whole in body, I cannot say the same for the spirit. England, too, has changed. We are rebuilding, reshaping, but there is a solemnity in the air, a longing for something simpler, kinder.

The fire crackles softly beside me, warming the room, as I turn my thoughts to the paper before me. Christopher Robin, my dear boy, is upstairs, likely playing with his beloved stuffed bear—Winnie-the-Pooh. That bear! It is a humble thing, worn and patched, but in the eyes of a child, it is a hero, an adventurer, a friend. Christopher, or ‘Billy Moon,’ as we call him, has a world all his own with Pooh and his other animals: Piglet, Eeyore, Tigger. It was he who brought them to life, and now I find myself borrowing from his childhood innocence, capturing those moments of pure joy and wonder to put into words.

Writing for children is something I never imagined I would do. I was a playwright, a man of wit and dialogue. But there is something enchanting about the simplicity of childhood that I cannot ignore. Perhaps, after the horrors of war, I needed this—a return to innocence, to the Hundred Acre Wood, where the greatest worry is a missing honey pot or a blustery day.

I often feel conflicted about the world outside these walls. The 1920s are a strange time. There is this air of modernity, of change sweeping across society—women’s suffrage, the rise of motor cars, radio broadcasts reaching every home. People seem more connected, yet, in a way, more distant from each other. The war left wounds, silent and deep, and I fear many have buried themselves in distractions to avoid facing them.

As a father, I worry about my son, about what sort of world he will inherit. Will the world of Pooh and his friends be enough to shield him from the harsher realities of life? I long for him to remain as he is—full of wonder and laughter, chasing butterflies and dreaming of talking animals. Yet, I know the world is relentless in its march forward, and childhood fades too quickly.

I cannot escape my fears—of the future, of how my son might one day resent me for immortalizing his childhood in these stories. Will he look back with fondness, or will he feel burdened by the shadow of Christopher Robin, a character he cannot escape? But for now, I write, and I hope. I hope that these tales of Pooh will bring joy to others, as they have brought joy to me and my family.

As I look out the window, the sky is turning a soft pink with the setting sun, the trees of Ashdown Forest standing tall against the fading light. I feel an odd mix of contentment and apprehension. Life is quieter now, yes, but the world is always changing, and I cannot help but wonder where it will take us next. But in this moment, with my pen in hand, I feel peace. The world of Winnie-the-Pooh is a safe haven, a small pocket of comfort in an ever-shifting world.