and went to the woods
Standing under the shower, with sunlight dappling through the trees above me, and my feet rooted to the smooth slate stepping stone, I felt peaceful for the first time in… I don’t know. Forever.
Through that stone, I could feel the Earth breathing.
The breeze that tickled through the willow screen and made the leaves above my head dance brushed away my own cobwebs and I breathed deep and long and closed my eyes… and nearly toppled over because the stepping stones are not quite level and my proprioception is akin to that of a tired toddler and I was feeling slightly lightheaded.
I guess my lungs and brain aren’t used to me actually breathing properly and this sudden quiet took them by surprise.
SURPRISE, BODY! SURPRISE, MIND! YEAH, I’M STEPPING AWAY FROM THE WORLD, BISHES!
And it was bliss.
Joe and I booked a 3-night stay in a tiny house in Pembrokeshire that is totally off-grid. I couldn’t find a signal even if I wanted to, which I did not, but my anxiety on that first night told me I should be connected to everything anyway.
It was a lie.
Anxiety lies.
And we never realise it until we step away for a few days, somewhere quiet, somewhere away from the violence and mayhem of the world, and just be.
We don’t have to actually have a holiday to do this, either — we are lucky enough to be able to do so, but anyone can do it anytime: switch off, go find some green, and just be.
Put down the devices and the news and the constant churn of capitalism telling us to want more more more and stay informed and be aware (but not what to do with that awareness, except turn it into anxiety).
Because when we do that, when we can stand in an outdoor shower listening to the birds sing and the trees rustle and the water patter onto the stones, and watch the sunlight dapple onto our faces…
When we can do that, we can breathe.
And when we can breathe, we can feel and think and create.
That first morning in the shower, while Joe was away foraging for breakfast pastries, I cried. As the weight of constantly being connected, of all our stuff, lifted, I remembered: this is all we need.
Space to have an idea, think about that idea, and maybe do something about it.
Space to read a book instead of an angry little social media post.
Space to have a conversation and figure out what I believe about something, instead of having my opinion fed to me by a media with an agenda.
We can’t create art
(whatever that art looks like, and your ideas can be art so don’t even start with that)
while the world is screaming at us.
I can highly recommend unplugging yourself from the matrix and breathing deep.
If you possibly can, take a shower outside in nature.
Even better: go swimming in the sea (we did that too).
And see what happens to your ideas.
That thing you’ve been trying to write — maybe it’ll wake up.
Let me know what happens.
p.s. When you’ve taken your breath (hopefully many more than one), and you’ve decided you’re ready to write that book, let me help.
You don’t have to do it all now. Let’s just get started at this workshop I made, which will give you everything you need for starting your book to feel easier than it did before: