Day 680: Richer Than Ever

I love where I live so much that on Friday, it was with definite reluctance that I left for London for a five-day ‘weekend’. My first stop, after a pleasing faceful of my beloved cousin Ruth, was Cathy Ryan’s Open Floor dance workshop, called Anchored in the Unknown. I’m new to the group. I knew that I’d know one person (my utterly beloved KathJones). Knowing others was likely, but not guaranteed. I did know a few and was delighted to see them, even though it doesn’t matter - one of my favourite things is to walk into a group of absolute strangers for a workshop. You know that some people will delight you, others will trigger you; for some you’ll have stories coming out of your nose that will fall away as you find out who they are and others, the ones whose wedding you may end up attending, you might not even notice.

I am bowled over, lifted up, shaken and resettled by this wonderful workshop. Cathy is very small indeed, but you have to remind yourself of that. She’s like a big person a little bit further away. Compact and calm, very present, very pleasing. She does so much by doing little. She is acceptance on legs (whatever she’s feeling, that’s what she puts out) and she’s great at what she does. Thank you, Cathy Ryan. Whenever I’m in London on a Monday night, I’ll be dancing at your class.

Thank you for the incredible blindfold dance. We took partners. One dances blindflolded amongst their peers while the other watches out for them. I loved my dance. I was meek at first and gained confidence and curiosity as the time progressed. What moved me to the point of falling tears was the guardianship of my partner. Watching him make blind connections, I felt proud, like you might of a toddler at a first day of playgroup. When he stood alone, even though he may have been loving it, I played stories of loneliness and my heart got bigger and more prickable. It was such an honour to be this person’s guardian angel. I felt such tenderness and love for him, this young soul in my care.

And thank you for this fantastically bad poster, found in the venue's library. It combines politeness with utter fucking weird. I love it. 

I had a weekend full of laughter, playfulness, love, touch and movement. I met fabulous new people and I found some old friends again. I came out of there all full of joy.

And intertwined with all of this, the Ladies’ Pond reopened. Its first time since late last year, my first time for more like 9 months. My god, my good, my beautiful feminine heart of water. It was such a huge gift. I was greeted with a squeal of delight from my friend Pauline Pond Lady Latchem, who then shoved a wreath on my head and took a photo. The water was just as cold and calming as I remembered, if a little cleaner. The works done at the pond have changed things, but the beauty has not wavered. We swam, Ruth and I, every day we could, and every day was cold, loving, beautiful bliss. All those women who smile and talk and laugh as if we saw each other yesterday. All those plants that embrace the water in their fingers. The honeysuckle, still making itself known by its moreish sweetness. The kingfisher, no more than a legend now, said to have been seen, but lacking proof. Thank you for this gift.

Monday held a very pleasing cello lesson, a very pleasing lunch with Tiu de Haan, a joyful trip to John Lewis to get Our Ruth an iPhone and a wonderful dinnerandthentheatre night out with Little Jean and Our Ruth, to see Showstopper! God, they’re good, that lot. They make shit up, with panache. They practise, that’s their key. And they study. They learn all about the different kinds of musical styles so that they can do justice to whatever people ask for. They are all improvisers of many years’ experience. They have played together a lot and it shows. They create a musical from start to finish based on the audience’s suggestions.

Many of the songs they pluck out of the ether (they seem to have been there, hanging over them like a playful cloud of completeness) are as good as, if not better than, a lot of standard West End musical fare. Watching them left me delighted, inspired and hungry… hungry for more playing and more music in my life. I don’t think I aspire to join them  (I did once, before I had any idea of the level of skill and magic they had) or even to be as good as them, but to create something that feels so joyful, for the players and the audience – that, I aspire to.

And then, to finish off a fine few days of Town, a job in Newbury with my favourites, Frank, and lovely Suzy and Julia. Ace! I got there early, before 8am (which meant a 5.30 start from Ruth’s) only to find no taxis. I was even more annoyed because this has happened before, and I forgot. If you’re arriving at 8, you need to book a taxi or you might as well have got a later train. Unwilling to wait around, I walked up into town. I found a standing taxi or two but Newbury has this ‘book and wait’ thin going on and most cabs can’t just pick you up.

I was getting frustrated, at my third empty taxi rank, when a car drove near… I thought he was going to do the same and ask me to call… but no, it was Martin, my favourite, a bricklayer by trade, the man who got me to look up when walking, who gave me an interest in the shapes and styles and textures of bricks and walls. I bloody love Martin, I do. He’s a delight. I hadn’t seen him in over a year, but we both remembered.

He picked me up to take me back as well, at the end of the day. Our conversation got a bit deeper then. It made my day, bumping into him, it really did. I whizzed on home, reasonably smoothly, and my last taxi of the day, a ruddy, grinning man from Wookey Hole, made me laugh and charged me less than the meter told him to ‘for being nice’. He made me laugh, he did. He said things like ‘I don’t give a shit what you do, my love’, while cackling over something or other. He told me stories about the streets, the farms, the people. Mostly proper chuckling though.

Back to cat love (after a bit of cat snooting, for leaving them alone), including a rumbling Grace tucked into my side all night and some head/pillow/hair marching from Tilly, but not till morning, and a very pleasing feline pile-up in the morning. I love where I live, I do. It’s mint.