Turning Corners...

Out walking the other day, I came upon a particular place; a cottage set on a gentle slope. Behind its soft, red-brick construction, there was a rise of woods, standing as a protective barrier, keeping out the rest of the world. In front, was a garden of graceful composure, a beautiful wilderness balanced by a talented gardener’s order, their orchestration of mother nature held a masterful lightness.

Beyond the garden, where the footpath dissected the land, was a wide body of water, a river estuary, deep and blue, moving under the influence of powerful currents. It was frankly idyllic and it made my heart ache – an actual, uncomfortable, physical sensation. I yearned to belong to this sanctuary. To exist within its peace and safety.

It made me realise how consistently I live within a defensive fight mode. It made me see again the tension I hold my heart under. The mistrust I shroud myself in, the tight grip of control I maintain. It made me realise how hard it is for me to believe in love – really believe in it. To relax and surrender.

There are many ‘rational’ reasons I have for this lack of belief – one would only have to read my back story, illuminated in some small way by these letters and, to a certain extent, the stories I have published and hope to publish. I don’t want this piece to be an analysis of those reasons. I want to ponder how easy it is to forget that such places of luxurious surrender do exist - and how stupid I am when I forget I have constant access to them - that I haven’t lost the key.

The tranquillity of this cottage is an echo of myself. The experience is already within the space of me. Waiting for me to remember. The key to access it is compassion and tolerance, for myself, mainly. I say horrible words, do hurtful things, make mistakes large and small. I also do the exact opposite too – I create beautiful moments, say delightful words, do loving actions and manage to be just what I need to be in the world to make those around me feel better for it. But it is my failures which hug closer, my mistakes which more readily haunt me and cause my tension.

So much righteous morality swirls around the world. So much heated outrage. So many shocked, hurt feelings, quickly followed by taking sides and, especially nowadays, highly-publicised virtue-signalling of which ‘team’ has been chosen. Queuing up on these battlelines, we posture our ‘rightness’ versus their ‘wrongness’ and hand out condemnation, whilst mirroring behaviours which got us all heated up in the first place. One polarised opinion goes to war with the opposite polarisation, both parties only finding agreement in there being absolutely no possibility of any colours existing other than ‘black’ and ‘white’.

That cottage was not flat black and white. It was rich with colour, with texture, complexity and hidden secrets. My heart’s experience of it could not be simply defined. It was a place of beauty and longing, and that experience was painful. Heart-aching. Think about that. It was the ache of it which woke me up to the possibility of there being a message within it. I have taken time to consider this. I think I am meant to be more mindful, each day, of my tendency to punish myself for the pain of my history. But also, that I may easily access the experience of sanctuary - of love and safety.

I need to look into the detail, the difficulty, the confusion, and breathe, gather enough courage to calm myself. Look past the pain and my reflexive need to be ‘right’ and them to be ‘wrong’. That’s the message that turning that particular corner on my walk and seeing that cottage laid out before me had. Writing this letter to you may allow me to be better at remembering this. 

Rachel x