Day 663: Ducks in a Row

Nothing like this

Two days in a row, three ducks in a row. Ducklings, to be precise. Little fat ones, all down and blubber, sitting on the life ring like an interconnected unit, looking out at the world. It's fabulous to see them getting bigger and fatter. I think they're past the size where a heron could gulp them down (though they are elastic-gulleted, those herons, and determined killers). They are still very cute. I wonder what will happen to them. I wonder if they'll stay and become assimilated into the borg of Maddy and Mings who populate the pond, or whether they'll take off, take flight and never be seen again. And whether we'll ever know. 

I'm bubbling with gratitude for getting to play with John-Paul at The School of Life yesterday, doing our 'Be Yourself in Any Language' course, which really REALLY needs to be longer, because it works and the feedback is always that we wanted more time and to go deeper. So we will. It was a blessing to work/play there and to work/play with JP, and once again to know that when work feels that much like play (and that it's making a tangible, positive difference to the people who come), then I'm on the right track. This is how I want my work to feel... it's not that there's no effort involved, it's that the effort feels so right. I am very grateful indeed... all thanksy and happy. Thank you all. 

And I call this in, this beautiful, flowing, helpful work. I'm up for it. Come on then, I'm ready. I'll do some doing too, and some receiving. I am so very ready to do more and more of this work, using coaching, improvisation and the joy of holding workshop space for people and making it safe for them to be themselves and be open, language aside. 

Big love, big gratitude, and ducks. 
x

Day 662: Pure Physical Joy

Thank you, Christian de Sousa. Yesterday, I went to Sweaty Thursdays in Vauxhall. It's the first place I danced, not counting Esalen in 2001/2002, where I wasn't that keen on formal 5 Rhythms because I found it a bit bloody earnest and badly led, though 'Sweat Your Prayers' was better... And then Emily Wilkinson encouraged me to come and dance with her and her good friend Karen Smithson, and off we went one time a year or three ago and bugger me, it was fantastic. That kicked me off to going more regularly, to Vauxhall and when I was in Brighton to Love Thy Everyone at St Nicholas Church on Dyke Road (also a killer class!). 

Now I dance more often than not with fabulous Sue Rickards in Tufnell Park. Sue is a joyful, committed, skilful teacher with the deepest of souls and such straightforward simplicity, such authentic aaaahhhhh... So many times, she's moved me and delighted me. How lucky I am that the nearest class to where I've been living is so, so, so, so good.

I've danced just once with the brilliant Cathy Ryan who does a Monday class, but she made a huge impression. She has skill and simplicity like Sue and a lightness too, an elfin mystery to her and pure, clear presence.  I love both these teachers very much. Jane Belshaw too... oh god, and her penchant for slipping in a little bit of classical glory to uplift and transport. 

St Peter's, where we dance

And Christian de Sousa, my original and gifted reawakener, thank you. You were ON FIRE last night. Christian walks peacefully and vibrantly through what he does. There's energy and dynamism, but no franticness in him. He holds. In my eyes, he's unassuming and unshakeable. Last night was my favourite yet, and I've been to some mind-blowing classes by all these wonderful people. It was packed. Some people yearn for more room but I love the mindfulness demanded of a very full class, and the energy. So many bodies, so many flows, so much energy. 

I can't even speak to you about the music. It was perfect. Helped by a few choice words, encouragement and presence, the dance came through me, but was not 'done by me'. It just happened. My usual frets about looking good/not like a blood sausage in a dress arose, but dissipated more and more quickly as the movement made its mark. 

I was in bliss, in joy, in movement. Every dance alone was rich and connected and every dance with others was... perfect. Perfect in all its imperfections. Some were all eyeballs and weaving and mimicking; some were gentle, supportive, little or no eye contact; some were pumping with the joy of being alive and one, which involved someone I had just danced with (usually a thing I don't love) became a three and the three of us, never having spoken, raved like it was the 1980s, shook and flung and celebrated. I danced with every little part of me. My body took me over and the music ran me. Truly ecstatic. Truly blessed.

I almost couldn't any more, but my god, it all kept going and there I stood (not still) in pure physical joy, in exactly the right place, bursting with gratitude that this is something I can do and that people are so skilful and generous that they can create it; thankful for every single breather in the room that we get to breathe and be together. In thanks too for making it. Humbled. As the session closed, we were guided to completion, stillness, thanks. I smiled all the way home, lit up, and did a whole load of energy releasing in my bed. I slept and slept and slept. And now I ache, thankful for the reminder of that dance.

My body hurts in every muscle and my soul is flying. In gratitude, in humbleness, in love. x

Day 661: Fuel for Happiness

Yesterday was blessed with cormorants and mandarin ducklings. As I swam through the sharp-edged water (a few degrees colder than the last time I swam), I watched them with pleasure and gratitude.

Maddy, the beautifully kohled mother mandarin (all the women ducks are Maddy, all the boys, Ming) allowed her tiny young to potter about the pond as if there were no heron threats or other predators. Gulls take ducklings too, apparently, and pluck manx shearwaters from the skies for food or sport. Why not live that way? Living in fear won't make your taking off less likely. They have the fluff and the calligraphy markings, those babies. I enjoyed them very much. 

The cormorant looked on. I thought I might witness a bird-murder, but apparently, they're mostly fisher birds, not duckling-munchers. Another paddled about the shallow waters where the yellow irises grow and the lily leaves spread themselves over the surface. And then it dived... and didn't come up! It stayed under ages, and all the time, my silly dread of it bursting up right at me grew and grew. It didn't happen, obviously. Eventually, there it suddenly was, like nothing happened. Cormorants, you're cool, with your great flat black feet and your archy beaks and your ridiculous lungs. I like you.

I saw the kingfisher today, flitting blue as jewelled princes' eyes above my head and off to the bird pond where the nest is, so they say. The herald of a good day. Good. I'm full of hmmmpf and ah and what? today. And sickly-sweet with envy, though not really the helpful kind that focuses, just the non-specific 'everyone else is better' kind. It's something I'm working on. I know it's just a story (which is envy's job - thanks, Parul Sehgal, for your TED talk on the subject - telling stories that make you feel bad, because you are writing them, so you know exactly which details will make your inner pillar crumble and your solar plexus writhe and shrivel like a salted slug). 

Stand to attention, you doubty motherfuckers

I'm reminded of my beautiful friend Kate, who said that her now husband was 'the reason it never quite worked out with anyone else'. Well, I can't quite imagine a husband happening, but maybe there's someone who doesn't mind my sharp tongue and bitch ability clashing with all the peace and love I want to be about, who doesn't flinch at the sound of a scratchy cello string or a strainy voice, who'll be patient (or better still, lovingly impatient) with the army of doubts about being good enough that march up daily and present themselves for duty and who'll love me and let me love them even though I can't promise to be the best at anything. 

The rescue donkey of self-love

If you're out there, sweetheart, I hope you're on your walk my way and that I'm on mine to you. And if not, I suppose it'll be useful to get used to being at ease with this, and me, and to give misty thanks for past lives full of passion, lovers and soulmates, children and kingfisher days for weeks on end. Here's to that kingdom of heaven thing, right here, right now, with whatever is rather than what should be. Here's to presence, even when presence shines a light on its own absence. Here's to acceptance and the blessings of the air, the light, the water and the earth and here's to gratitude itself, for being fuel for happiness. 

Day 660: Øyvind Vada

TED Talk Øyvind

Today's grateful post is dedicated to my friend Øyvind Vada, who isn't here any more, or at least not in the way he used to be. He died on 21st May. He was funny, mischievous, playful, serious, outrageously driven, creative, experimental, courageous and clever. He believed in people and empowered them. He believed in emergence - the creation of ideas organically, like this - in creativity, and in trying shit out and he was so fiercely full of life, right up to the eyeballs. 

I met Øyvind in January 2010, making and playing masks in Rickmansworth with Steve Jarand. I remember his mask - a big one with presence, like him - and his frenetic pace. In the evenings, when others would be resting or camp-firing (metaphorically, mostly), Øyvind was off meeting people, seeing friends, hatching plans. He'd scoot back in just in time in the morning, having stayed with old friends and squeezed the juice out of the time he had in London. 

Playing with Petter

That masking meeting led to me flitting over to Oslo to work with him, his company Memetor and his fine colleagues Henriette and Petter. I had the pleasure of meeting his very talented wife Anna on my second visit, and his children, Georg and Rakel, all of whom Øyvind was fiercely proud like the husband-father bear he was. 

In your honour, with heads both
bent and lifted.

I didn't know that he was still sick, let alone gone. The last time I'd spoken to him, he'd said he was fine and that he'd beaten the cancer. I was joyful, and not in the least bit surprised. When he was determined, things happened, likely or not. But cancer is... well, it's cancer, isn't it. Sometimes it can be beaten and sometimes it takes even the strongest away.

I'm feeling his loss and he was just a small part of my life, but he inspired me and made me laugh, impressed me with his will to do things and make things happen and his belief in his work. I feel deeply for those for whom he was a daily occurrence. If your missing of him matches your love for him, then I wish big, strong, singing hearts on you to carry you through the lack of him in living form. He left so much behind. 

Today, just after his funeral was held in Oslo, I held my own little ritual to say goodbye. I took these flowers to the Ladies' Pond, because it's the most peaceful, loving, nourishing place I know. I sat and said some prayers and gave my thanks for a good man doing good things in the world. As I did, the wind swirled and whipped and made the sun play peekaboo from behind the clouds. Some of your energy touched me then, my friend. 

Emergent heart

Men are only allowed in this heavenly place once or twice a year, but Øyvind, you can visit any time you like. Thank you for being a small but powerful part of my life. May there be more like you; may the part of you that is still your essence bring as much love to wherever you are now as you did when you were here and may that part of you that's a drop that slips back into the ocean enjoy dissolving and being part of that great emergent flow. Big love to you, sweet man. Go well, and with flowers and mountains and clean air. May you find yourself held within the heart of this flying flock. Whenever I see starlings, I will think of you.