Friday 8 May 2015

The Lungs of a Compass

Following a few months of being rather hectically busy, I have finally found time to read a little more in the past few weeks. Gloriously, I have been lost and found in two literary works of particular note; Firstly, Paulo Ceolo's 'The Alchemist'. Journeys of journey. The second book that has happily swallowed me whole is Cheryl Strayed's 'Wild'. My copy of it was sent to me by my brilliant best friend, complete with tiny asterix nudges and annotations to draw my attention to the many gem sentences within it. In this way we joined together (despite the fact she lives in the French ski mountains) to accompany Cheryl on her 3 month solo venture of walking America's PCT in order to find her way again. Few books are able to take my breath away whilst also filling my lungs with hope and oxygen. Effortlessly, this one did. 

It was her journey. Her wild, independent, journey. Instead of the Disney hero of the stories we grew up with, who venture off into unknown lands to find love and treasure, here was a true life heroine, self assigning herself an independent quest across mysterious terrain. Her tale is told with honesty and a deep sense of experience. She offers us the immense gift of truth. 

Freshly inspired by alchemists and backpackers, I have chosen this week to venture into the deep heart of North Wales. Here to find space and time, I am surrounded by mountains and overlooking vast stretches of the beach. Each evening is spent curled up in a gas fire heated (astonishingly cheaply rented!) caravan, drink tea, and exist. 


This afternoon, I went for a walk. It was drizzling, cold, and altogether rather aggressive weather. As I clambered over the dunes to reach the sands, I paused to wonder whether it might be a whole lot more sensible to clamber back down and return to the cosy comfort of my caravan. But then the winds took me. 

As I half jumped and half stepped down from the dunes, the wind wrapped around me and pulled me further forwards on to the beach. Taking my arms and shoulders, it guided me forwards hurriedly, encouraging me to break into a gentle run as I made my way across the vast stretches of sand. The tide was completely out, leaving me with miles around of clear, slightly rippled, stone coloured sands. The horizon white and navy, it was impossible to separate the very ends of the earth from where the deep sky began. Listening to the rush of the whipped winds around me and the dulcet tones of Keaton Henson from my iPod, I felt a decompression of my chest that I hadn't expected. Suddenly, with panic, I thought I may burst into tears. But to my delight, I began to laugh, and laugh and laugh!

Then the dancing came. I didn't decide to, any more than I made any choice for the next few minutes what my movements would be. But there it came, dance came breaking from my bones and snapping from my muscles. Dance that had been lying formant, in my months of being so busy with so many jobs and commitments. As I fell, faltered, skipped, and leapt across the sandy plains of that welsh beach I realised all at once how much I had missed pure dancing. How much I do miss it. And just at the moment that I came to this heady realisation, I spotted something. 


There, lying in the grey expanse of wet sand, was a piece of treasure. Unique amongst the many other pieces of pebble and shell, was a smooth, pock marked black stone. The very replica of the sculpture that I wrote about seeing in Paris almost exactly two years before in this same blog. 


There were no other stones around my treasured find, and no real reason for me to spot it amongst the rest of the sea debris. But there it was. Laughing all the harder at this blatantly comical nudge from the Universe, I relaxed my shoulders more than ever before, and happily sauntered back to my caravan cave to shower and drink teapot bellyfuls of hot mint tea.
It's just all moving sands. All of this life. Sand filled plains of change and challenge, as the waters drift and the tide move through and around us. This dancing beach experience remains, along with the clarity I hadn't realised I was looking for. 

I have learnt that it's OK to go a little wild every now and again, or to get lost in a foreign land. I have been taught by two great writers and the Universe itself that it's OK to take time to listen to yourself. Your own voice is the only one you really need to hear, when navigating. Where is your path taking you, currently? Which route have you chosen, in this year of 2015? 

This week I will be returning to classes and to studio practice. To compass books and maps. I'll be carrying a small, pock marked, perfectly sculpted pebble to remind me not to turn back. For now, this is where the journey has taken us. 

Be brave! Be happy! Be a little wild this month! You might be surprised at the treasure you may find.

Liberté.
X.