Glimpsing freedom

On slow, cosmic days, I find my way out of that cramped, noisy, dirt-shod room filled with ghosts and echoes. Out of the deafening fog churning and churning day and night. Where clocks tick, tick, tick into tomorrow, always tomorrow, at breakneck speed. Back to the door with no lock, no chains, no captives. Back to the spiralling, humming space; where life flows, through light and air, through ever-moving waters. Back to the sweep and curve of the corridors, the stairways, the tunnels. Back to the weight, the mass, the blend, of steel, wood, brick, stone. Back to the cauldrons, the furnaces, the engines, that burn and pulse, that transfigure and transform. Down, deeper, and deeper, deeper down, through dust and dark, breathing in every corner, every crevice, every whip and sting of the place. Passing places long-forgotten, unseen, roughly hewn, old with age and neglect. At times I find my way blocked, confused; a maze of dank and damp, of sharp-edged carapaces, so that I retreat. Other times I find my way with ease, through dark and dust, till I can go no further. Till I see, till I feel, the warm, steady light of that lamp-lit place, deep inside it all. Where the air is clear and crisp, the fire always burning, the view fresh and clear. From here light and air ripple out, flinging open doors and windows, flushing out the dust, the dirt, the cobwebs; guiding the whole, whirring, working thing back together. Bringing back that slow, easy, rhythm of a machine in perfect motion, in perfect harmony. Bringing the whole house, my body, back home.

This coming home is a journey, and a power. Coming home to the places that creak, that crack and whine, worn tired and thin by wind and rain, by age, wear, and shocks. Coming home to those dark, lonely corridors that only we can find, only we can visit. Coming home to our quietest, bravest power: the power to tend. To tend to those places that hurt, that ache, that yearn to be seen. To let the light of that inner space, that inner refuge, grow rich and strong, so that, with its quiet, peaceful hands, it can touch the dust, the dark and let it be released. Let it be held, heard, understood. Because it is in these moments, these quiet moments of remembrance, these quiet moments of tending, we glimpse freedom. This is the fruit, the precious fruit of our coming home.

At first, this glimpsing freedom, this fruitful tending, feels as rare and distant as a comet. Perhaps you return to find the wallpaper peeling and damaged, the walls leaning, doors warped, mould on the windows left to grow for too long. There’s regret, sadness, sorrow, and pain bubbling up through the floorboards and pipes. There may be hurricanes and storms, waves rushing and breaking again and again, shaking the whole house to its core. Or fire and flame, the dry, hot, rage of a house left alone, abandoned for too long. We may need help from able bodies and minds to help calm the storm, the fires, the waves; to retreat to a place of safety until we find our moorings again. But every time we return, every time we tend, our power grows. The storms may come again, and maybe this time, or the next we can learn to let the storm pass. Because when I return, sink back into my bones, my feet, my toes, let the storms and rain clouds pass, I feel like myself again. Depressurised, spacious; free to spread myself out, reinhabit my whole, battered self like when I was young. It feels like time travel; like plunging again into hot, soapy baths, sugar-filled kitchens, trips to the seaside and piles of fresh, fragrant laundry. It’s like that song you’ve been aching to hear for so many years; that bends and stretches moments into long, lustrous, rivers of sound.

In these moments, I find myself walking down the street awake with wonder, my senses fresh and new. Every detail, every fragment, vibrant and sharp. Figures in posters, on graffiti and bus stops leap through the city; traversing buildings and museum-sides with unbridled force. Numbers on street signs and platforms, on billboards and pavements play and merge in a cryptographic dance. Trees and buildings sway, the sun glinting through metal and glass, clouds passing softly overhead, mirrored in skyscrapers and shop windows. The sing song call of street vendors and market sellers adding a syncopated chorus to the constant, steady progress of cars, buses, trains. People coming together and parting in waves, leaving small, happy acts; a smile, a giggle, a long, cherished embrace. I see it all, have space for it all; this, the tidal pool, a snapshot of the whole, brilliant, bright universe in the blink of an eye.

In these glimpses of freedom, life creeps closer and closer. I can turn, with every bone and breath, towards this moment and the next with a steady, loving gaze. Safe and at home in my body, safe and at home in my skin, I can expand, extend, let that fruitful light shine strong, shine bright. To tend is to hurt, to face the wind, the rain, the storms. To tend is a strength training, an art; to hold the full weight of our cells, of the dark, the dust and to bring it to the light. But with practice, soft, tender practice, we can build this bridge to freedom. We can truly take our clothes off and dive in, to every Christmas morning, every shout of Halloween in the dark, every soft embrace. This is our power. Our quiet, precious power.