Underwater No-one Can Hear Me Scream
I'm glad the sea doesn't care about me or need me
‘What happens if the sun and the moon mix?’ are the first words I hear on a morning as crisp as a fridge-fresh cucumber slice placed on tired eyes.
It is the first morning of a holiday, and my brain is still whirling from all the pre-departure admin (and, of god, there is just so much). I hadn’t slept much for several nights.
It takes a long time from me to wind down; my brain-cogs are greased lightening, hypervigilant and high alert. But the puzzle of that question, addressed to me by a freshly woken child, was welcome grit that ground those cogs to an almost halt. All wide-eyed and ready, the intensity of their wonder made me want to match it.
I looked up from my coffee and noticed the chalky thumbprint of the moon dissolving into a glass-blue sky.
Still, as we rolled from day one into day two, I still found it hard to just relax into it. Not being sufficiently relaxed on a lovely holiday is not a bad problem to have. What is slightly more of an issues is that not finding respite from the constant chatter in my head and my inability to tune out sensory data leads to an overwhelm that isn’t healthy.
There are too many kids on the beach and I can help keeping an eye on them all.
And then, that wide-eyed child begs for a snorkel. I feel daft for not thinking of it sooner: I love to swim, I love to dive.
I spend 8 and half Euros on a child’s snorkel, that the child never wears, but which I wrestle over my hair onto my face at least once a day thereafter.
It is weightless, effortless escape. As fish nibble and rasp at the rocks, I hover in place, entirely unreachable, unseeing, and unaccountable. I follow a line of dark rock - volcanic litter - on the seabed, mere metres from the shore, teaming with transparent-bodied fish with garish yellow eyeshadow that flickers and glints in the sunlight.
Away from the shore, away from my own limpets, away from the place I am often the master and the conductor and the sustainer of little worlds. To a place where I am alien, useless, ill-suited and unwanted.
The task of mothering (a joy for sure but so consuming, so greedy) sometimes feels like it will swallow me up entirely. The vastness of the sea? The sea doesn’t even care enough about me to try to swallow me up. It simply sloshes me about with the rest of the detritus that washes into the water from land.
Such relief.
I can’t offer open seas or floatation tanks, but I can offer you one-hour a month of expansive creative thinking time in the form of my Thread & Thought sessions.
Each month we gather on Zoom, I give a welcome and a warm-up exercise. Then we look at an art work, individually, and together. I’ve been teaching art history for over 15 years, so am able to guide us through this. And then we sit quietly and create in response to some creative prompts (most of us write, but you’re welcome to paint or draw or play the piano). Then there is the option at the end to share something, either you’ve made or been thinking about in relation to the theme.
In addition to the above, I share a handful of short reading recommendations based on the monthly theme and I also send out all the prompts after the session for future reference.
The June session will explore how the body can become archive, voice, symbol, and map.
It’s not too late to join, simply sign up here as a paid subscriber for access to the Zoom link and all the materials. We will meet on Thursday 5th June at 8pm UK time. xxxx