I heard a song this morning in my mind about wanting me to be happier, he said, “I want you to be happier. And it was for me. Someone sent me this song. I want you to be happier.
Me too, I want me to be happier.
And I think of all the reasons to be happier.
My name means noble and I reclaim my creativity and my voice….
I booked a ticket to an exhibition at the Royal Academy of
the Arts.
I’m working through, or playing with, The Artist’s Way book
and this trip was my artist’s date. The thing is, I didn’t really want to go. On
the morning of the exhibition, I had that walking through molasses feeling.
I had been offered three opportunities to head out the evening before, to three Halloween-themed events. A poetry evening, a witches' songs and stories pub night in Hove and a talk on women in folklore. Something inside me was charged that night, and already out the door. I stepped outside to check how the night felt on my skin. I breathed in deeply. It was mild enough for comfort and chilly enough to enjoy a winter coat.
The damp street under misty lamp light is
giving me Randy Crawford songs. I was on my way, but I didn’t go. I don’t know
why. But it made me feel sad, angry and disappointed in myself. Instead, I
stayed home and cooked a meal for my family and even though it was appreciated,
I knew that my lack of commitment and my struggle to organise my thoughts and
my day had left no room for me.
The truth is, deep down I was scared to try something new, I
was scared to find myself in an unfamiliar house, hall or room, completely
free to leave, but completely unable to. Free in the world, trapped in my head.
I still can’t shift the regret. The fact that I sabotaged my
joy and denied my inner artist access to the feast, and its creative offerings.
Still, I went to London with zero anticipation. I felt I
must, having missed out the previous night. A lump of wet dough had more energy than me
that morning. Even the train was taxing. Me, sitting down, sick with anxiety, just
wanting to go back.
In London I felt scared, slightly panicked. I know this place;
this is my town. But my town had changed, and I had to reacquaint myself.
The exhibition was big, it was big, huge. There was so much
space, so much on the plate and I couldn’t eat. I guzzled it down in 20 minutes
without tasting a thing.
I glimpse black human shapes, and white teeth with a gap, a confident police officer, gold wings and musical notes, curving S shapes into the sky from old wireless’s with no sharp edges. I see black hair, black faces, black legs. I am told stories and shown moments and given an idea of what it was like. It was playful, and I played too. Adding my own captions and giving them Brummie and Jamaican accents, for fun. There, I slowed down. I did not want to see children snatched with black hands and fingernails covering their mouths. Maybe Their Eyes Were Watching God, just before they were taken. Now their eyes are screaming.
I was reminded, I was informed, I was exhausted after 20 minutes and
I kept thinking, Oh, I didn’t see that painting, Oh I’m sure I haven’t seen
that painting. There, I slowed down and remembered, there was nothing to get
to, nowhere to be. I sat down, and began again. The black beauty pageant looked
shy and unsure if she belonged, a black Carrie, a beauty queen by whose
standards. I wonder if she fiddled with her crown and I wonder how many times
she touched her dress, I wonder if she stood up straight or looked down. I
can’t forget the naked black man standing like a giant X in the middle of
somewhere. I can’t remember the space around him, just him.
There was a feast. So much had to pass through my small eyes
to get to my huge soul. I cut up my food and ate again, slowly.
At some point, I had to leave. I really needed to sleep
there, and wake up with these black people with white teeth and the gold winged
dress, the ankle sock, puff ball hair, naked legs, and all that, all that I
couldn’t fit into one evening. Imagine living in that space for a week. I’d
need a tent… oh but since it’s only my imagination, I could have a double bed
and a side table with a Dictaphone, and a note pad and a triangular ink joy
pen, you know, they are so easy to write with.
I left, wondering how long it would take me to get to my
next thing. A black history tour of ‘Expecting’ a talk on black mothers in
parts of Africa and the care and protection rituals and practices around them.
I wish I’d gone, but to be honest, I was waning. The time
was 4pm and I couldn’t face the tube. “How are they gonna get 2000 people down
there?” I sighed in sarcasm, deciding instead to wander the streets with no
aim.
I walked, eyes up mainly, the only way you can with adverts sweeping
across the buildings at Piccadilly Circus “Ha!” I chuckled, “How have they put
Boots the chemist there?” It seemed a lucky spot, for such a non-special shop.
Lindt the chocolatiers, curled right around the corner as it should.
I went to Fortnum and Mason, I fantasised from the pavement about being the window dresser. It took me a while to decide to go in. I wasn’t
sure I was allowed. It seemed like the sort of place you had to pay just to
enter. I’d heard that Harrods charged £1.00 to go in years ago. I don’t know,
maybe that was a myth, or true at one point, when people walked around with
coins.
The staff took pride in own concessions department and their
ironed uniform. I imagined being the manager. Striding out onto the shop floor
amidst Christmas shoppers, and thinking, ‘Right, everything seems to be going
well!”
Again, I left quickly, because too big, and it was packed, and
because I on a buffer rule, for my ADHD, I was trying not to impulse buy, but I
really wanted to get at least one thing. The revolving tea strainer was £48.00,
but I think a bar of chocolate was reasonable, I just couldn’t find that bar of
chocolate and again, the crowd, lights, smells and sounds were all coming in at
once and I couldn’t locate where a single thing was coming from, it was
everywhere, until I couldn’t locate a single thought. So, I left, sort of
trying to look as though I hadn’t found what I wanted, yeah right.
Outside and so many lights. It’s after six and the night is so
much brighter than the day around here.
A crowd had formed long ago, sustained and evolving with
every new artist and entertainment that appeared. I stayed briefly, and quickly
left, as it was way too interactive.
I saw a woman I recognised, she was in the RA earlier too.
With new born strapped to her chest, a confident and calm vigilance about her.
She stepped out into the road, a quick and certain glance back for any cars,
before she heads off, home I imagine. She looked like home, her baby looked at
home.
I turned away from her, deciding she was alright. She knew
that place well.
I found myself drawn to darker, dimly lit, wet cobbled streets, First Berwick and Carnaby. Almost overcome by a delicious curiosity. Seduced by something a bit dangerous, I slipped down a secret alleyway, with hidden boutiques to indulge my serious love of fabric, fashion and colour. Streets I didn’t know. Adult shop-lit streets, Chinese ‘massage’ newspaper covered windows, delightfully dark, deliciously seedy. Trouble and ‘sin’ rose to the surface to meet the day people, the nice couple tourists, the families who might have accidentally wandered off track, grabbing their children’s wrists, strapping the little ones, who could walk, and really wanted to, into buggies, for speed and safety, the barflies, the ‘pick pockets operating in this area’, the sex workers, the clients,
They meet in the space between day and night; the
unavoidable squash in places; the milk poured into the orange juice and mother’s
face curdles as she can’t turn away from the naked arse in her face, thighs
half squatting, no knickers or knickers down, pissing – a straight blue shop-lit
piss right there in the street. I must have stopped long enough to ask, ‘is
that happening, I saw it was in the mother’s face.
Is she alright? Well, I won’t stop here, I won’t watch. She
has a story and I don’t know it.
I headed into the high street and to lighter themes.
Designer stores with no customers and minimal displays grouped in colours.
After hovering at the door, I decided to enter, well there was no doorbell.
“Are you open?” Fair question. It was late and there was no one in the shop,
just two stunning girls I didn’t know, but was already pre-judging. They were
light, breezy and very friendly, ‘Oh sure, yeah, ok!’ She overly nodded. I
asked for a business card. Well, I couldn’t pretend they didn’t have what I wanted,
they really had everything I wanted. But I could only afford the business card.
It was time to go home; I wanted to go now, via Mr Ben’s
wardrobe. I really couldn’t cope with the tube. I tried five times to enter the
station, but it was not the path of least resistance. The bus! I would catch a
bus to Victoria Station. I just needed to find my bus. I stood outside the tube
station scanning for one that said Victoria. I paced about busspotting;
distraction was helpful and unavoidable. It helped to pass the time. And as it
is with these things. The minute I forgot about the bus, there it was! Victoria
38. It was getting away from me, but it couldn’t get that far with all these
traffic lights.
I followed it, it disappeared, up a main Street. I lost it,
but there was a bus stop. The display told me that 38 was coming a few minutes.
I was hungry, but I didn’t have time for food. There was a
McDonald’s up ahead, but it was busy, and tables were downstairs. It was bad
enough having to put junk in my stomach when my eyes had dined so well that
day. But eating in their basement? No.
I hung around at the bus shelter. I hadn’t really checked
the café right in front of me, opposite the stop. I thought it was a chocolate
shop. But that was the one next door. They just looked as though it was the
same place. It looked closed, but the door opened when I pushed, ‘Are you
open?’
‘Yes, but the kitchen is closed’
I scanned the fridge. There were a few options. I didn’t
want a meat dish as I was a bit worried about how long it had been in the
fridge. Eventually, I opted for a harissa and quinoa salad pot with a raspberry kombucha…what
have I become?
She offered me a free pastry as it was closing time. ‘Yes
please, thanks!” I accepted gratefully as she packed my dinner into a bag with a
spoon and a just-in-case fork. She was nice, really warm and down to earth.
My bus arrived and I sat upstairs to enjoy the views on the
way to Victoria. I think I annoyed the woman in front with the smell of my
harissa.
It was all smooth sailing from then on. I arrived at
Victoria with my dinner, I had to wait for the super off-peak train, but that
was ok. I nipped upstairs to the mall, before heading to my platform.
The escalator was closed off, so everyone took the stairs. I
started to go down, but we all seemed stuck and there was no movement, I peered
over heads to see a man carrying a too big for him rucksack, he was taking a
long time to get down. I noticed people trying to help him off with the bag.
But at the bottom he struggled to put it back onto his shoulders, when I got to
the bottom, I asked him if he could manage. He said, he could, but the bag was
just too heavy. I offered to bring the other strap around to his shoulder, ‘There
we are!’ As soon as he had his walking stick, I left and boarded the train.
I got a good seat at the front, brilliant.
At Haywards Heath the train stopped. I was head down, deep
in Spotify. I noticed after some time we had been there for quite a while. I
had a bad feeling.
The man making the announcements did not seem to know how to make an announcement. No one could hear except that there had been a collision. I was worried that two trains had hit each other, but then a passenger said someone had jumped onto the track at Worthing, my heart sank. What is going through someone’s head when they decide to do that? It was a heartbreaking thing to reflect on. I wasn’t that bothered about getting home. All the trains to Portslade were cancelled, understandably. But I knew it was all going to get sorted eventually.
I cheered myself up with the hapless announcements and a
fellow passenger who wore an outfit that made him look like a ‘Traitor’
Back in Brighton, I was surprised from behind by an old
colleague and friend, Kamilla. She had been on the same train. We caught up, and
she gave me a lift home.
I couldn’t really sleep that night, too many adventures and
lots to process.
I know one thing. Without that day, I would not have
been able to write this.
I reflect on the artist's paintings at the RA, and how the
predict text on my iPad keeps wanting to make him the actress who played Olivia
Pope. I reflect his enormous creativity. I’m certain the gallery wasn’t big
enough for Kerry James Marshall.
It was all an essential reminder that I need to fill my creative
cup daily and that I can.
I continue to reflect on the day; the woman squatting in the street, the soul who jumped onto the track that night, the little boy twisting his body to escape the buggy that held him, the soft old man, back bent with the load he carried.
I reflect on the black beauty queen, and the crown I
adjust, and often forget to wear.
And well, it all seems to have meaning to me. It all reads
like symbols and messages. No coincidence. It reaches the different parts and
wakes me up.
I’ve got a plan, my cup isn’t full, and when it is, that’s
fine, that’s ok. I’ll just share it with you, and then, I’ll go back for more.
Cheers!
The sun sets on another day
The birds still have so much to say
They arrive with stories much too late
The afternoon has closed it’s gate
And evening bids us all sit still
So listen closely if you will
As troubles stirred begin to settle
Prepare the hearth, boil the kettle
Write your troubles in the book
Tear the pages, have a look
Pop them folded in a boot
Pick one and we’ll find the root
As if to garden, pull it out
Whisper, ‘What’s this all about?’
Now you see and understand
Be brave my love hold out your hand
Now we see and hear and know
The time has come to let this go
Put it quickly in the flame
Send it back from where it came
The fire dies as night gives birth
To dreams you planted in the earth
I did not come in the same way as you.
It was quite a thing, but what could I do?
They cut a hole in my perfect home and latex fingers snatched me out.
Taken. The original kidnap.
I must have thought ‘Oh my God!’ What a shock.
I wasn’t ready, I hadn’t prepared.
I would like to have gone that impossible route.
The red tunnel, tight and slippy.
But her body said no to squeezing me out.
Squeezing the life out, to get my life out.
I believe a took ‘the path of least resistance‘.
It was that or go back.
My cosy dark soupy room.
The light came sudden and all at once.
I wasn’t prepared for no struggle at all.
So now all I seek is struggle.
I didn’t come in the same way as you.
But now I know, I know what to do.
If you send a child to ward off the troubles
She will see only monsters and confusion
A black frying pan she sets down with two hands
And in it she dollops a corner of lard
It’s interesting to watch it turn clear
It’s hot enough now for a couple of fat sausages
They’re sizzling in the pan, but not in nursery rhymes,
she never knew them.
And if she did they were squashed into soul-less places like heels and elbows
Her heart was already full of pain and her belly was full of sausages.
Her father brings bread and tea in the morning and there’ll be hot lunch at school
But on Saturday‘s her heart is full of pain and her belly is full of sausages.
I know I have a song left in me for ALL the women
And we can dedicate this to our men.
I know I can be unpredictable and at times crazy and wild
And a bit or a lot scary
But I know how much you love the sea.
So, could you see me like the ocean and not turn away?
even if you don’t want to get too close.
Could you stand by, at a distance and appreciate the power I hold?
The crashing waves.
It always calms, it’s still the same ocean,
I am lucky enough to own a beautiful piece of woodland. I like the word blessed too.
It’s not massive; nine acres. I feel a bit self-conscious saying that because nine acres is big to almost everyone I know. It’s just that I know a few people with a lot more.
But to me, nine acres is great.
I decided to let people stay there as a way of earning a bit of an extra income and as we have a little shephard’s hut in the clearing. It’s a really special place. The woodland is ancient, mostly sweet chestnut trees, but we have a few strong oaks and some birch, rowan, holly, hornbeam, apple and willow. And probably others I’ve missed and forgotten.
Things have been going well, guests have come and enjoyed having the woods to themselves. That’s the unique selling point, you get the whole place to yourself.
We’ve had the most wonderful guests over the years, so I’ve felt fairly trusting and relaxed. Everyone has been very respectful to the land.
One year, I decided to let a group of people stay at the woods. In hindsight I didn’t really have my eye on the ball and should have done a few more checks ahead of their stay, such as finding our their exact number. But as I say things had been going well and I had no reason to feel there would be a problem.
I went off to a family gathering, after contacting the guest to confirm their number and discovering they were bringing 25 guests and not the number they had specified on the booking form.
The woman renting the hut was very put out when she realised that she should have let me know the numbers because as well as paying for the hut, extra guests had to pay for camping.
I was easy going about the misunderstanding and offered her a good discount. It was important to me that she have a good stay.
I went off to my family gathering with an uneasy feeling. But I ignored it.
I asked a friend to pop by the land and meet the guests at check out time, just to make sure things were ok.
She called me to say that the guests had left earlier than the check out time. This information left me feeling more unsettled.
My friend had a look around and told me the land had been left in a bit of mess.
I was very disappointed, but felt confident I could deal with it. However, I was not prepared for what I found when I arrived to clear up.
When you let guests stay in your home or space you have to be prepared for some issues that may crop up.
But half a dozen bin liners overflowing with rubbish including dumped camping gear and beach toys was just the awful beginning.
By the time myself and Joan - an actually saint, without whom I’d have lost my mind - had cleared up, which took 3 days, there was well over a dozen bin bags full and overflowing with litter and fly tipping.
They had left all the dirty pots and pans in the sink, spilled red wine over the bell tent, they had defecated all around the clearing and didn’t use the toilets, they left the napkins they used to wipe themselves after going to the toilet on the floor.
We had to pick up used sanitary towels and tampons from the woods and guests were still finding them the following week. They had even ground up fire lighting blocks into the clearing, which took me forever to scrape up and clear away properly.
It was a mess, and when I tried to confront the guest she was in complete denial that they had done anything wrong at all. She even attempted to seek compensation from me.
To me this was insane. I had never seen anything like it. Later on my husband reminded me that, to them this was normal. They probably didn’t see it as their problem at all. But to me it was nightmare. Not only had they utterly disrespected the land, they had no idea of how much trouble and pain they had caused. When I tried to reason with them, they only had contempt for me and the situation.
Something in me went numb. I decided I would not go back to the land. It wouldn’t be the same again. It had been defiled.
At the time I had been going to counselling and I decided to talk about this in my next session.
I told the counsellor about the rubbish dumped on the land and that I had turned away from the place.
She then ask me an amazing question, ‘Can you see the land as yourself?’
I wondered what she meant for a few moments, but I actually could. I could see the land as me straightaway.
Then she said, ‘See the land as yourself and every time you turn away from the land, you dump another bag of rubbish there. Every time you turn away from the land you turn away from yourself and you dump another bag of rubbish on your heart.’
Her words woke me up instantly! I’ll never forget them. My mouth and eyes widened as if to let this new insight roll in and down into my soul, ‘Oh!’ I said, closing my mouth to taste and swallow this new understanding.
So now what?
I’d have to go back. I didn’t really know how to be when I got there. Should I say sorry to the land? How would I know it had forgiven me for allowing those things to happen and then for turning away and leaving.
I met up with another good friend soon after, he’s a man with a lot of wisdom usually contained within very few words.
‘Ask the land what it wants from you?’ He suggested.
So I went back soon after with this question.
I knew where to go. A little hornbeam tree in a mini clearing between about four to five metres in diameter with a mossy carpet.
It was the kind of place you had to enter slowly. You would step up to an invisible door, walk through and the air around the hornbeam and clearing was altered. It was better to move slowly, it felt pleasant to do so. In fact, all discomfort is eased generally by slowing down, and in this space, my body knew that before my mind did.
When I was eight years old I used to live across the street from Peckham Rye Park in South East London. Every Saturday afternoon I would cross the busy lane and make my way over the grass common to The Gardens. I would enter under the wisteria pergola and experience the same thing.
A complete slowing down, almost to a stop. I could observe the flowers more closely, more intentionally and they would show me more of themselves, so that the roses were not just red but luminous. The deeper I looked at them the more they glowed back at me as if in mutual appreciation, as if delighted to be finally recognised.
And I would whisper to them, ‘I know who you are’.
At the woodland this particular clearing provided me with a quiet hiding place.
I knew this was the right spot to ask my question.
I sat down gently, with my back resting against the tree.
I closed my eyes and began to feel my self present and aware of my body and everything I could sense around me.
I took a deep breath and waited, then I began, ‘I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry for what happened.’ I felt sad, ashamed and remorseful.
‘What do want me to do with the land? How can I put things right?’ I asked.
I sat still, and became aware of my thoughts, but they didn’t seem to be my thoughts at all. More like a stream of words just coming to mind.
“Do not bring your sadness here.” Came the direct and seemingly curt response. I was not expecting that. Then more words,
“We have absorbed far more. We have been here for a long time.”
So I answered the words with, ‘…Yes…yes you have. Of course!’
I then had images and thoughts of blood spilled here over thousands of years. Blood, atrocity, violent assaults, murder, war, fights, deaths, separation, darkness, light, union, births, celebrations…
“…and still we return season after season. We come again and again, so you see…?”
‘Yeah’ I nodded, feeling silly and embarrassed. I’d hugely underestimated the land and the spirits here.
“Your worry is not useful.”
I listened.
“For even in their apparent disrespect, they were enjoying themselves, and it is this enjoyment we were focussed on.”
‘Oh! I see, I see.’ This was great, I thought.
“That is what you must bring to the land, that is what we want from you. Just bring your joy.”
Ironic. The woman who booked the land was called, Joy.
“Bring YOUR joy.”
Then the land was quiet save the wind talking with the trees and the bird song getting louder, signalling my time to leave.
I lightened up. Had I just had an interaction with the land or the spirits of the land? Maybe it’s the same thing. I appreciated the direct answers they gave. The no nonsense elders with no interest in or need for diplomacy.
It was hard to swallow the fact that some people are just doing the best with what they know and most of us have no idea. Most of us are stupid enough to be alright.
So, if ignorance is bliss and knowledge is power, then wisdom must be the quiet one, the patience, the trust and forgiveness.
I could put things right by seeing what I didn’t like and being able to focus on the positives. And there were so many positives, even if I didn’t see them at the time.
From that day we brought so many wonderful moments back into the land. We brought so much joy into the space. The incident that had devastated and wounded me was barely a scratch on the land.
And in those beautiful, joyful moments I found forgiveness. It was fine, it was always fine.
Years later the incident came to mind again, while I was at home sitting in front of the TV, considering the environment. I remembered the white blocks of fire lighter that those guests had trodden deliberately into the clearing. I would say thoughtlessly, but I believe there was some thought that went into that particularly act of malice.
‘How long will that take to disappear?’ I wondered, worrying about the soil.’
The familiar tone and words came back,
“You see the land, as you see yourself; tiny, small. You see yourself as separate from one another. But you are not separate from each other and this land is not separate from other lands on this Earth, or the Earth itself. The land is more than you think, the Earth is more than you think, you are more than you know and that is your greatness, if you would only know it.”
I don’t think that is last time I’ll hear from the land, and that makes me happy.
I’m looking forward to visiting again soon, and I’ll take my happy with me, I’ll walk slowly into that little clearing, and rest comfortably against the hornbeam.
And sometimes, I’ll be blissfully ignorant and sometimes I’ll know and sometimes I’ll hear it’s wisdom; quiet and direct.
