I lift my leaden legs from a stupor they’ve lingered in for far too long, reminding myself: action over stasis. But of course, after only a step or two the rain begins to fall in fat heavy drops. An easterly wind blows in from the North Sea and slices my bones, stops me dead before I’ve really even begun. You can do this: move, don’t think. I shoulder the discomfort and take a step, then another, my frayed walking boots (the ones that I’ve had since I was eleven) sinking deep into a gelatinous muddy dip in the track. My route is fragmented as it (and I) unravel.

Though the journey is my own, I’m reminded of those who have travelled before me seeking faith, peace, joy, acceptance. Did they too stubbornly resist help for a time? Were they confident they could traverse these paths alone? Did they ever find their truth?

I turn back to my guiding compass and read aloud Blackie’s words*: “Don’t be proud: even if your path is a solitary one right now, the Eco-Heroine’s Journey is co-creational at heart, focused on building relationships - with other humans, with plants and animals, with the land itself. Accept the help which is offered; make friends and allies wherever you can.”

Cultivating connections, though, is not easy if your mind is clawing to retreat back into the darkness. Even though I can see how far I’ve come, how the night no longer shrouds me as it once did, others still see me in those shadow-places and are uncertain if I will ever leave. Their faith and patience have waned over time, their frustration masking the powerlessness they feel, and they doubt me; I understand, of course I do, but I’m going to prove them wrong.

The unopened box of medication sits squat in the bathroom cupboard, ready for action. I made the phone call, picked up the prescription, paid the fee, but now I don’t want to take this final step. I resist.

My therapist’s unanswered texts flash and ping and dissipate. I made the appointments, talked, cried, reflected, but now I don’t want to follow this track. I resist.

I write a(nother) list. Things I need to do to get better, what I need to do to be well again, and then I scrunch the paper in my fist and thrust it into the recycling bin. I resist.

Instead.

At dawn I rise and take the baby monitor outside (he’s four now, but I’m still not ready to lose that piece of armour yet), stretch my arms to the sky, then sink to the earth. I crumple into the soil, body flat, feeling the damp tendrils of summer grass between my thumb and forefinger.

Later I open my laptop and begin to write, of nothing and everything.

Later still I open a book, one that has no relevance to work or parenting or gardening or anything. A novel I can fall asleep in.

It is everything I already know, everything that was already there biding its time beneath my skin, crawling to escape if only I had let it. I pick up my phone to message a friend and see I haven’t responded to their last text three weeks ago. But they’re still there waiting on the other side. I look up at my husband and see how he has become worn with this life, with holding me up each and every day as I have sunk into nothing. But he’s still there too, with faith that I can make it through. And finally I see my son carefully making a train track by my feet. I’ve tried to shield him from my pain, but sometimes it has seeped through, and I ache with this knowing. But he smiles so brightly, grabs my hand and drags me down to see what he has created with overflowing excitement.

I lift my feet and step away from the sofa to join him. One step at a time.

*from If Women Rose Rooted. See the introductory post for this journey here.

Burmese monks know that it is time to get up when it is light enough to see the veins in their hands. Muslims base their getting up on the passage in the Quran that defines daybreak as the time when it is possible to distinguish between a dark and a light thread. In parts of Madagascar, questions about how long something takes might receive the answer ‘the time of rice-cooking’ (about half an hour) or ‘the frying of a locust’ (a quick moment).

In a world without clocks, it is natural cues or events that give some sense of time. Each day sees the sun and moon rise and set. The tides rise and fall. Seasons come and go, and return again. Planets move across the sky and come back to their starting point. It is a world of endless cycles but essentially changeless.

This organic relationship to time goes hand in hand with a far more relaxed approach to punctuality and appointments. It is more important to see a family friend than to keep an appointment or to make it to work. The prioritisation of affiliation or relationships is an important characteristic of event-time societies. Time walks in these societies, while in the United States and Britain it either runs or it flies.

But increasingly, in most of the world, from the moment we wake, we live our day by the clock. In Technics and Civilization (1934), the US sociologist Lewis Mumford described the mechanical clock rather than the steam engine as ‘the key machine’ of the modern world. The changes it brought were revolutionary. In The Wealth and Poverty of Nations (1998), David Landes, the great historian of clocks, wrote about how clock-time brought order and control:

[T]he very notion of productivity is the by-product of the clock: once one can relate performance to uniform time units, work is never the same. One moves from the task-oriented time consciousness of the peasant (one job after another, as time and light permit) and the time-filling busyness of the domestic servant (always something to do) to an effort to maximise product per unit of time (time is money).

Until the Industrial Revolution, ‘jobs’ as we know them barely existed. People did whatever needed to be done, and then got on with something else. In the transition from the biblical task-orientation of event time to contemporary clock time, workers were turned into disciplined industrial labourers through an Industrial Revolution that used the clock to organise factory work. Instead of being paid for the task, workers began to be paid for their time. The clock became a measure not only of time but also of money, which put a premium on accuracy.

Many people now feel they are short of time, and that they have less time available than previous generations. We are torn between the attractions of event time and the efficiency of clock time. And in many societies we have difficulties in finding enough of either. For full-time employed mothers, the second shift starts as soon as they come home, and can involve up to eight different tasks a day: cooking, cleaning, washing, ironing and so on. Men who do housework usually manage two tasks at most. Time-sickness, the feeling of being harried and hurried continually, is the disease of the age. Lack of time has become a common complaint. For many of us, there are not enough hours in the day to do all the things we want.

There are two easy ways to solve the problem, and one harder way. First, we could stop watching television. This would free up three to four hours a day for most of us. Second, we could stop buying so many goods, and more especially services. This would save some time. We would not need shops opening round the clock. Third, if we purchased less, we would not need to earn as much and so could work fewer hours. We could do all these things, but there is about the same chance of that happening as there is of pigs flying.

So how do we find the time we feel we need? Time is not a commodity that can be created. What we are doing with the 24-hour society is what we always do when we come up against a scarce resource – we find a new supply. In Night as a Frontier (1987), the US sociologist Murray Melbin made an analogy between the shortage of land in the Old West and the shortage of time now. When time is the scarce resource, then the night is the source of supply. So in a 24-hour society we try to colonise the night – just as the Egyptian pharaoh did, and the Greek historian Herodotus described it. When told by a soothsayer that he would have only six years to live, the pharaoh promptly ordered that fires be lit in his palace every evening so that night would be turned into day, and his six years became 12.

When time is scarce, then the night is our resource. By colonising the night, we don’t create time but we do start to use the available time more effectively, freeing ourselves from the coiled grip of the time squeeze.

The 24-hour society is more than simply extending shop-opening hours and all-night mass transit. It is about restructuring the temporal order. Eventually, it will lead to a different construction of daily activities, freeing people from the restraints and deadlines imposed today by rigid adherence to clock time. We will move into a more flexible and free-wheeling approach, coordinating activities on the fly.

There are some who would go much further than the 24-hour society, and completely rethink the use of time. One half-serious suggestion is that we should switch to 28-hour days. Monday would be eliminated, on the basis that everyone hates Mondays. The working week would then be four 10-hour shifts with a 56-hour weekend. Thursday might be a problem, being dark most of the day, but, as the originator of the idea has suggested, Thursdays could be used for roadworks.

But there is a price to pay in terms of our biology. Our bodies function in accord with a natural rhythm that comes from the Earth rotating on its axis once every 24 hours – give or take a few minutes. We aren’t made to live our lives in artificial light, waking to an alarm clock and sleeping to the blue light from a smartphone.

Nearly every living thing on the planet, including us, generates internal circadian rhythms that are synchronised to the solar cycle. These rhythms of life both enable us to optimise physiology and behaviour in advance of the varied demands of the day/night cycle, and stop everything within us happening at the same time, ensuring that biological processes occur in the appropriate sequence.

The great circadian disruption through which we have lived since the invention of the electric light is bad for our physical and mental health. The 24-hour society will present further risks. Exactly what, though, should be the subject of public debate – preferably after a good night’s sleep.

Circadian Rhythms: A Very Short Introduction (2017) by Leon Kreitzman and Russell Foster is out now through Oxford University Press.

Leon Kreitzman

This article was originally published at Aeon and has been republished under Creative Commons.

TW: this post mentions health anxiety and shares some details of a traumatic birth

I’ve wanted to write this post so many times. It’s been sitting in my drafts since the end of 2020, but somewhere inside I knew it wasn’t time, that I didn’t yet understand this stage of my eco-heroine’s story (first post here if you’re not sure what I’m talking about!). In If Women Rose Rooted, Blackie calls this third stage ‘The Cauldron of Transformation’ and writes:

“let yourself fall… Stay with the dark anyway. Don’t fight it; don’t try to manage your way out. You will simply postpone the inevitable, and it will come around again. Don’t fear the dark: it’s a natural part of the Journey… Be still. Listen. Let yourself disintegrate.”

And yet, despite this advice and my own logical knowing, I did see it as a fight to be won, a problem to be managed, because that’s how I’ve always handled whatever life has thrown at me. I have never allowed myself to truly feel into the darkness because I fear it. The idea of letting myself fall apart feels foolish: why would I willingly let go of the structures and support systems consciously put into place as a method of protection? Why would I walk out into the unknown without my backpack and supplies?

But of course when the journey changes, when you find yourself travelling in different terrain, that bag you packed is utterly worthless. You can keep throwing yoga and meditation and daily walks at it all you like, but what I’ve come to learn is that unless you know the reason for your fear of the darkness, unless you can truly understand what brings this about, none of your supplies or management techniques will work long-term. They will stem the bleed but never heal the wound.

Understanding our personal darkness is what this stage of the Journey is all about. Sometimes there are more questions than answers, but that’s ok. It’s a process of knowing and unknowing, of learning and unlearning. Blackie prompts, “What are your dysfunctional ways of being, your patterns?” For me there are so many, but here’s one.

My son loves to learn about hurricanes. He is fascinated by their impact, the level of destruction, and seeks to understand what it is that causes such extreme weather. Earlier in the spring we talked of the eye of the storm, how strangely this is the calmest place in a hurricane, even though you might imagine it would be the most intense, being in the centre. On the surface people often believe that I deal with problems with a level-head, that I have the strength to carry on no matter what, and when the problem is actually happening, in that very moment, they’re right. When I was trying to rock my nine-month-old son to sleep after his second operation, when I gave a reading at my Grandad’s funeral, when I was giving birth: these moments were some of the hardest of my life, but I was in the eye of the storm, and I remained calm (for the most part), strong, focused, because what else could I do? The moments we see as being the pinnacle of the problem can often be easier to deal with, because we have no other option.

My son was born with a cleft lip and palate, and after his diagnosis when I was around 22 weeks pregnant, I fell apart. In the second half of my pregnancy I was in the eye wall of the storm - the part of the hurricane that surrounds the eye and causes the most destruction. I convinced myself that everything that could go wrong would go wrong, and I tortured myself with what if catastrophising. On the morning of our 4D scan to check for further abnormalities (of which thankfully there were none), I sat, heavy, on the floor of the shower and let the water and my tears drain away. I don’t know how long I sat in there and sobbed, but I know it was the longest shower of my life. I saw only darkness ahead.

Just over three months later I was entering the hospital to give birth, and despite all my previous fears in that moment I was strangely calm because I knew what I had to do - there was no other option. Despite a long labour, painful birth and traumatic after-birth (I passed out with blood loss and was wheeled down for emergency surgery), looking back this wasn’t the moment that really left its mark, because this was the eye of the storm, the focus amidst the chaos. When I realised this in a therapy session, I couldn’t quite believe it to be true, because surely the birth, the blood loss, almost dying, had to be the worst part of it all? But it wasn’t. It was fear of the unknown that hounded me down, because I have always, always, wanted to know what was coming next.

Knowledge has always been something I was taught to seek. And I was good at it too, so I kept going, acquiring facts and figures, understanding how things worked, filling my brain with acronyms and words and ideas. I took this part of myself into adulthood, searching to increase my awareness of life and the world around me, and in doing so realised that the more knowledge I acquired, the more secure and certain I felt, and the further away I was from darkness. I could begin each day with the certain knowledge of what it would entail, and that was hugely comforting for me. But knowledge and Knowing are two different things.

I had amassed a treasure box full of knowledge, and despite always protesting that I didn’t want to teach in a school, I moved from student to teacher with relative ease. I played the game, shared my knowledge, built a life based on its understanding. But it’s all well and good crafting a life in this way until something big comes along and knocks your treasure box over and scatters all the pieces. What good is knowledge then? What good will all those facts and figures do? I clung to them in despair and Googled percentages of other abnormalities associated with clefts, possibilities of what might lie ahead: I had knowledge, but not Knowing. My health anxiety manifests the same symptoms, and at every twinge and pain, every ache and discomfort, I crave knowledge and seek it no matter the cost. But what I really need is Knowing.

In Untamed, Glennon Doyle writes this of Knowing:

“Eventually I sank deep enough to find a new level inside me that I’d never known existed. This place is underneath; low, deep, quiet, still. There are no voices there, not even my own. All I can hear down there is my breath. It was as though I’d been drowning and in my panic I had been gasping for air, calling for rescue, and flailing on the surface. But what I really needed to do to save myself was let myself sink… The Knowing would meet me in the deep and nudge me toward the next right thing, one thing at a time. That was how I began to know what to do next. That was how I began to walk through my life more clearly, solid and steady.”

In the eye of the storm, I have Knowing. Giving birth, supporting my son after his operation, holding my husband’s hand tightly when his Grandad died, I had Knowing. It is Knowing that holds me up when everything else around me falls, but it doesn’t come easily. When I connect with my Knowing, I already have the answers. There’s no fear or deliberation: I act rather than think, and I know that this must be my approach moving forward. I must leave behind the stasis of fear and catastrophising, of always wondering what if and never being able to reassure and comfort myself, never trusting I have the answers.

But how can I be still and listen? How can I tune into this Knowing when I’m not in the eye of the storm? Now I’ve identified it, how can I shift the pattern from knowledge to Knowing? I guess that’s the part that comes next.

It’s a strange concept, knowing oneself. You almost have to imagine you’re a character in a novel or film to become aware of yourself as, well, you, but then of course you run the risk of seeing yourself from the perspective of others, through their eyes rather than your own. I think that’s probably what I’ve been doing for much of my life. Always considering what others think of me, how they will judge me, what they would tell their friends about me, and on reflection it’s a pretty narcissistic way to move through life (though knowing this doesn’t make it any easier to get out of the habit).

This past year in particular, I have been moving through a journey to know myself through my own eyes, actively seeking to drop the expectations of others. It has been - and continues to be - a process of observation, transition and alignment. In today’s post I thought I’d share a few observations on the journey so far.

1. My energy levels are influenced by many things, but mainly the lunar cycle, my menstrual cycle, how much sleep I’ve had, and the weather. In a way I always knew this, but precisely how they influence was for a long time beyond my grasp. Now I know that after one night of fractured sleep, my energy levels are pretty much the same, but any more than that and I struggle. I also know that I sleep poorly around the time of the full moon, and in the luteal/autumn stage of my menstrual cycle. I can surge ahead and get lots of tasks done during the waxing moon and the follicular/spring stage of my cycle, but once everything begins to wane, so too do my energy levels. There’s more - so much more - but the key thing to point out here is that this is an ever-evolving process. I will never be ‘done’ because our lives and cycles and energy patterns ebb and flow each year, so while I can build up a picture, I need to be constantly observing to be able to align my tasks and approach accordingly.
   
   

2. I need to listen to my body. I’ve just shifted into the luteal/autumn stage of my cycle, the moon is waning, and the year is falling too (we are now in mid-autumn) - all of these combined create an atmosphere of low energy and all I want to do is sit in front of the fire and take things slowly. Instead of pushing myself to record a workshop, which is top of my to-do list, I’ve shifted some things around and am instead sat on the sofa writing this post. Giving myself permission to do this and listening to what I need right now is incredibly powerful. I’m still working, I’m still doing things on my list, but I’m choosing to do them at a time that aligns with my energy flow.
   
   

3. It’s easy to get lost. There are so many different factors to consider, so many different people out there saying… you must do it this way… follow this exact blueprint… I have the answers for you… It can all be very tempting, but ultimately you are the only one who can make this journey, you are the only one who knows the route. Of course, we all need a little support along the way - for me this has come in the form of being a member of certain communities, taking courses, reading books and so on - but these have all merely been guides, and I’ve steered clear from anything or anyone that has tried to lead me down their own path. To journey towards self-awareness requires a focus on the self, and it’s so important to retain this as others cross your path.

I’d love to hear from you if you’re on a similar journey, or if you feel the call to begin. Let me know by emailing contact@creativecountryside.com

“It is possible to refute the Call… but life is not about being safe and secure; life is about growing, learning, transforming.”
SHARON BLACKIE, IF WOMEN ROSE ROOTED

If you read my last post in this series, you’ll know I have chosen to embark on my own version of the eco-heroine’s journey, inspired by the structure set out by Sharon Blackie in If Women Rose Rooted. I’ve already taken stock of my position in the Wasteland, and now I’m moving on to the Call. In reality, the Call has come many times for me before, but each time I have chosen to ignore it, making some excuse about why it wasn’t relevant, why I couldn’t deal with it right then. A few weeks ago, the Call came again, and I felt its power and urgency like no other time before. This Call demanded I take action before it is too late.

Unlike previously, the Call came in many different guises, in seemingly all different elements of my life. It is as if one phase of my existence is drawing to a close, the phase where I close my eyes and don’t acknowledge or accept the present moment, choosing to linger in the past or skip ahead to the future - this phase seems to be ending; it needs to end. The Call is not just a shout or scream anymore, it is a piercing cry that ruptures the fabric of my being, urging me to alter my path. It comes from Dan (my husband), my parents, the world around me, but I can ignore all of those, and have done in the past; this Call also comes from my soul, a deep understanding that it is time.

It is time to heed the Call to take control of my own life, to accept that sometimes I will get it wrong, but that I can apologise, learn from it, and do better next time: expecting perfection is not the answer, though it is certainly what I’ve come to expect from myself over the years. It’s time to listen to the Call, to open my eyes to the injustices that occur on a daily basis all around me, that do affect me and what I believe in, no matter what perhaps I once believed. My quest, then, is two-fold: to become more aware of the present moment (and all that entails), and to take control of that moment (without succumbing to fear).

This time, I’m not turning back.

I've never been particularly prone to pouring my heart out. Even as a child I kept my thoughts and emotions closely guarded, perhaps allowing one or two to see what I was really thinking or feeling. At the time it wasn’t something I acknowledged, it was even something I was aware of: the natural choice was to keep quiet and stay unnoticed.

In my therapy sessions earlier this year, I discovered this perpetuated the ‘good girl’ mentality I had grown up to hang my character on, which saw me through much of my teenage years and early adult life. I was the one who got the good grades, I was the one who behaved and always followed the rules, and I was never, never unprepared. I had to be the good girl, because in my mind there was no other option; who’d want to be the bad girl?

And then there came a moment I couldn’t have known was coming, and for the first time I felt the wind rush beneath my feet, I looked down from this great height and began to plummet, and there was nothing I could do about it.

The good girl mentality continued after the fall, but it had been broken, and I didn’t know how to fix the shattered fragments of what had been left behind. Again, I kept my mouth closed, resisted opening up, because that was weakness, that wasn’t the character the world had come to know.

Then one day, around eight or nine months ago, I realised that in doing this, I had become afraid of happiness. I actively prevented myself from feeling any kind of positive emotion, because I was scared that I didn’t deserve it, and that it would be balanced out by something negative, something unwelcomed and ultimately - the biggest fear of all - something unexpected.

Over the past few months, I’ve shared tiny snatched moments of my story, and that has been enough. I’ve never shared details of the trauma I experienced just over three years ago that triggered this healing process, and right now I’m still not ready to do so, but what I do feel ready for, is to allow a little more honesty to seep into my words. Choosing to begin this journey awoke a primal urge to share this truth, albeit from a distance. Nothing I have shared comes from the raw place of fear - though of course, this still lingers beneath the surface - it comes from the desire to arm myself with alternatives: strength, passion, courage.

This isn’t the approach that my teenage self would have recommended, and in fact I’m sure she would have made a judgement on this new-found openness, and yet perhaps this is exactly what would have set her free all those years ago. Perhaps this is how I can change my own path, with support and the knowledge that no matter what else, I’m not hiding behind that good girl any longer.

To explore and learn more about nature writing - “writing that honours the connection between the natural world and human experience, that understands them as part of a whole, that reckons with the complex forces of place and landscape in human lives” - necessitates a consideration of our own relationship with nature. For some, nature is ‘out there’, something Other than ourselves, something to be viewed from afar, tamed, even controlled. For others, we are not apart from nature, but a part of it, shaped and formed by it, influenced and guided by it on both a conscious and subconscious level.

According to activist and writer Satish Kumar, “If we can have a holistic view of soil, soul and society, if we can understand the interdependence of all living beings, and understand that all living creatures – from trees to worms to humans – depend on each other, then we can live in harmony with ourselves, with other people and with nature.” It is this approach than many new nature writers adopt, but in the evolution of nature writing, it is rare that this type of relationship with the natural world can be identified, and it is our changing perception of the world that has greatly impacted this genre of writing, resulting in what is now often referred to as new nature writing.

In Granta magazine, Jason Cowley suggests that new nature writers “share a sense that we are devouring our world, that there is simply no longer any natural landscape or ecosystem that is unchanged by humans. But they don’t simply want to walk into the wild, to rhapsodize and commune: they aspire to see with a scientific eye and write with literary effect.” As a result, work is written in first person - the writer must be present in the story - and are often focused on local or parochial landscapes. We are beginning, finally, to enter into a different relationship with nature - that we are part of nature, that yes, we can view the natural world through a microscope and discover fascinating things, but that we must also understand we are a part of this cycle: what we see has an impact on humanity, and humanity has an impact on what we see.

Writer Lydia Peele offers this insightful viewpoint to close: “The new nature writing... rather than being pastoral or descriptive or simply a natural history essay, has got to be couched in stories... where we as humans are present. Not only as observers, but as intrinsic elements... we’ve got to reconnect ourselves to our environment and fellow species in every way we can, every change we have... it is our great challenge in the twenty-first century to remake the connection. I think our lives depend on it.”

Writers, bloggers, course creators, makers and creatives in general are, above all else, storytellers. In the small business sphere, people don’t just buy the thing you’re selling, they buy the story behind the product or service: they buy your story. You are in control of what that story is, how much of it you want to share, and the form it takes. That might be the ‘about’ page on your website, a post you wrote about where your inspiration comes from, the podcast interview in which you shared your creative process, even your Instagram bio. Ernest Hemingway is said to have written a story in just six words - “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” - proof, if it were needed, that it’s not about writing reams; brevity can be just as powerful.

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“Stories matter because humans are narrative creatures. It’s not simply that we like to tell stories, and to listen to them: it’s that narrative is hard-wired into us. It’s a function of our biology, and the way our brains have evolved over time. We make sense of the world and fashion our identities through the sharing and passing on of stories. And so the stories we tell ourselves about the world and our place in it, and the stories that are told to us by others about the world and our place in it, shape not just our own lives, but the world around us.”

SHARON BLACKIE, IF WOMEN ROSE ROOTED

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Writing and sharing our stories is also an essential step to connection, with ourselves (increasing our self-awareness) and also with our communities. Some of the narratives we weave are unconsciously done; we don’t give thought to every single word choice in a verbal conversation, for instance, or perhaps in every reply on social media. Some narratives are just for us, the stories we tell ourselves about the world and how we feel. Many of these stories are fictitious, or may blend the boundaries between fact and our constructed reality. There are some, however, that we consciously tell, with careful thought, structure and meaning behind what we’re trying to express. These, too, may be fiction - the fairy tales we tell our children, the anecdotes we share about a film we’ve been watching - but usually the stories we craft come from a place of truth, of honesty, of integrity. These are the stories that others believe and repeat, the stories that have power to invoke change and transformation, kindness and humility. These are the stories that are lying in wait for us to tell, if we are brave enough.

Sometimes, being a storyteller is an act of radical defiance. We can’t all tell our stories with ease. I am in the privileged position as a white, heterosexual woman that if I tell stories, I won’t experience the resistance, even violence that many in this world are subjected to. For women journalists in Muslim countries, for instance, sharing stories can result in being silenced and harassed, or even imprisonment, as well as “online harassment and blackmail, defamation of character, unwanted advances in exchange for access, and the expectation to ask softball questions of officials, among other problems.” (source) In an article for the New York Times titled ‘Black Journalists Are Exhausted’, Patrice Peck writes: “it’s an especially peculiar time to be a black journalist. The pandemic has laid bare many of the same racial inequities that generations of black journalists have been covering since 1827 when the Freedom’s Journal birthed the black press. While this pandemic is unique, the waves of trauma crashing down on my community are not.” (I encourage you to read the whole article here.) Storytelling may be the crux of humanity, but while it occupies that space it also exposes the truth about our world and its injustices, which make telling, sharing, or transforming our stories much more complex and problematic for those who experience these on a daily basis.

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"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you."

MAYA ANGELOU

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Stories can be the same, but storytellers are distinctive. We may feel as though everyone out there is peddling the same tale, but that doesn’t matter. No-one else will be telling it quite like you, and it is this unique approach that gives storytelling longevity. Christopher Booker argued there are only seven basic plots - overcoming the monster, rags to riches, the quest, voyage and return, comedy, tragedy, rebirth - and that each of these can be identified in every story ever told, but somehow there are almost 130 million books that have been published in the world. To tell our stories, then, it follows that they should come from our individual selves, and knowing ourselves is the first key step to this. How are we to express our story if we do not know who we are?

I encourage you to start with your own story, and tell it to yourself with honesty. It may not be an easy story to hear, and you may never wish to share it with anyone else, but if you have clarity in who you are and in your voice, the next step - sharing this story with others, crafting new stories (whether personal, professional, or somewhere in between), reading the stories of others - will follow much more easily.

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Other resources you might find helpful:

A History of Storytelling Through Pictures - particularly relevant for any makers out there; storytelling doesn’t have to include words.

Storytelling as a Relational and Instrumental Tool for Addressing Racial Justice - read the short introduction, even if you don’t have time to read the whole thing.

Can Science Explain Why Why Tell Stories? - an article from The New Yorker from 2012.

Time To Change - a series of blog posts from people struggling with their mental health during the pandemic - “By sharing our experiences, together we can end the stigma.”

“The Journey is about accepting that we each have a responsibility for the way we live our lives, for our footprint on the planet… It’s necessary first of all to see and understand the big picture - but then we need to zoom in, and focus on our own particular part of it.”
SHARON BLACKIE, IF WOMEN ROSE ROOTED

If you read my last post, you’ll know I have chosen to embark on my own version of the eco-heroine’s journey, inspired by the structure set out by Sharon Blackie in If Women Rose Rooted. Today takes me to the Wasteland, the start of the journey, and a moment to take stock of where I am right now. In essence, this stage asks the question: what is broken, and what needs to change? I’ve chosen to use some of Blackie’s questions as prompts for this post - that won’t necessarily be the case as I move forward, but responding to questions at this stage is a lot easier than simply diving in. This post does not offer suggestions or solutions, rather it points out what is already happening in my life and in the world. It wasn’t easy to write, and it’s not a piece full of joy, but it is honest and from the heart.

The Bigger Picture

“What are the ecological, social and political injustices in the world you live in?”

I’m not going to lie - this feels like a vast and intimidating place to start; there are so many. 2020 in particular has highlighted injustices that I previously wasn’t even aware of, or perhaps didn’t appreciate the extent of the problem. My first thoughts go to the anti-racism course - Do The Work - I’ve been working through from Rachel Cargyle. Before Black Lives Matter came to the forefront in May and June this year, I naively believed the natural world to be available to all, that everyone - no matter their race, age, gender - could find solace in the Earth. What I failed to fully appreciate is that everyone does not inhabit the Earth on equal footing, and if that is the case, how can everyone interact and engage with it in the same with I do?

In an article titled ‘Why Every Environmentalist Should Be Anti-Racist’, Leah Thomas argues there is “very clear data that communities of color have been most exposed to poor air quality and environmental conditions”. That’s just for starters. What about the bird-watching incident in Central Park? What about the fact that “Black and Asian people rarely visit rural Britain” because they don’t feel welcome, they feel “disowned”? Being in the Wasteland requires me to acknowledge these injustices, begin to understand them, and to take action when I can. I’m at the very start of this journey to unlearn and relearn; I acknowledge there is a way to go, and I want to take it one step at a time, to fully understand and absorb rather than skim over the facts.

There are many more injustices, of course, that are wound up with my own place in the Wasteland: climate change, the treatment of animals in captivity and throughout the world, females being underpaid. Unravelling these injustices (and many more) and learning about them will no doubt be part of my journey - at the moment they feel like big topics weighing me down because I know I’m not doing enough. It will be a lifelong learning process, and it will no doubt move at different speeds - slower with ‘big’ subjects or issues, or if I’m struggling mentally, perhaps - but currently I am acknowledging all these exist in my world, and therefore my Wasteland, and they all affect me in one way or another.

My own part in the Wasteland

“How is the Wasteland manifested in your own life?”

Currently the Wasteland hurtles me back and forth between anxiety and depression, sometimes settling in both at the same time, but rarely allowing me to occupy the moment. Anxiety forces me to catastrophise the future, and depression forces me to fixate on the past. I’ve suffered with Generalised Anxiety Disorder for a number of years, but it is my Health Anxiety that has caused me greater pain since my son was born in 2017. Depression is something I’ve only recently acknowledged, but I think it’s been there for a while, lingering and hiding beneath the surface. I experience the two differently though, with anxiety showing up each and every day, and depression only emerging in surges every few weeks, or every month or so. I’m not going to document the intricacies of either my anxiety or depression, but suffice to say they are both still present, and I am ready to learn new ways to approach them.

“What kills or confines all that is vibrant and alive in you?”

Fear. Last year I came to the realisation that I am fearful of allowing myself to be happy, because what if? I am fearful of so many other things too: of illness and death, of not being a good enough mum, of asking too much from my family, of never amounting to anything, of the injustices and shadows of the world being reflected in my own life and choices. Things I am sure most of us have or will feel at some point - I know I am not alone here - but it is the constancy of the fear that I know I need to change. Blackie shares: “Fear might then become an opportunity to display courage… Understanding, and transforming the potential for darkness in ourselves gives us wisdom – a wisdom which informs our actions, our decisions, and our interactions with others.”

Each day for the past month I’ve begun with a ten minute yoga practice, and when encouraged to choose a word for the day, select ‘strength’. Perhaps ‘courage’ should replace it?

“In what ways have you been cut off from the wellspring, from the source of life?”

Through unhealthy fixation on a myriad of different things, and from an inability to find faith in life. From trying to do too much too soon. From worrying, not living.

Seeing all this mapped out on the page feels strange and uncertain, but also like I have laid myself bare. I have shared my whole self with the Earth, spread out what is broken on her scorched soil and acknowledged I want to leave it behind. I imagine the soil cracking, opening, ready to absorb what I wish to release, to process and reform.

I choose strength, not pain. I choose passion, not aggression. I choose courage, not fear.

“This path forces us first to examine ourselves and the world we live in, to face up to all that is broken and dysfunctional in it and in our lives. Then it calls us to change - first ourselves, and then the world around us. It leads us back to our own sense of grounded belonging to this Earth, and asks us what we have to offer to the places and communities in which we live. Finally, it requires us to step into our own power and take back our ancient, native role as its guardians and protectors. To rise up rooted, like trees.”

SHARON BLACKIE, IF WOMEN ROSE ROOTED

It’s been over four months since I posted on Instagram, and over two months since I sent out a newsletter or wrote a blog post. In all honesty, I’ve felt very lost.

Community and feeling a part of something wider has long been at the heart of my work, but in a time when people have drawn together even more, sought solace in the online world, and in connection, I rejected it. It felt as though my roots had been lifted from the Earth; I didn’t know how to re-plant them, and to begin with, I didn’t really want to either. Instead I wanted to watch as they became more and more lifeless, with a strange sense of unease and a melancholic disposition I couldn’t seem to shake. I rejected communication, with anyone. I sat in the depths of my anxiety and depression, and I didn’t want to climb out.

Things that had helped in the past no longer had any impact. Being in nature might have cleared my mind a little, but the clouds rolled in continually, and the fog never lifted. I’d never before felt as though every single moment was consumed by it, as though I’d never make it out.

I can’t pinpoint the moment of change, the second I decided that enough was enough, that I was strong enough after all. But here we are, at the start of the journey, facing up to all that is broken and dysfunctional, ready - finally - to begin.

My dad has long believed that what is missing from my life is faith, and although I’ve nodded and agreed, I’ve been at a loss as to where to find it. I’m not religious, and although the Earth has long been the guide I’ve been drawn to, I found it difficult to fully see how my integration and connection with nature could help me on this journey. I know through my work all about the healing powers of nature. I know all the facts, what I should be trying and persevering with, and yet.

Something was missing. An element I should have recognised sooner, considering my love for organisation, for rhythm and for some kind of structure: the path to guide me on this journey.

If Women Rose Rooted has sat on my bookshelf for a while. I’ve read probably a third of it, and this week decided it was time to pick it up again. I flicked through the pages to remind myself where I was up to and what chapters were ahead, and I ended up on the last few pages, in the postscript titled ‘The Eco-Heroine’s Journey - A Guide’. My intuition screamed: this is it. I hadn’t even read the first paragraph when I knew this was what I had been searching for. Blackie advises, “I offer you… some specific tips, and some questions to ask yourself which I hope will help you get started in thinking about how you might tell your own story.” As a writer, the lure of carving out my own story at the same time as moving through this journey, was not only appealing, it felt necessary.

For the first time in a long time, I felt compelled to begin a new post, to share something of myself with the world. I have no agenda here, other than recognising this as a place to keep me accountable on the path, a place to document my thoughts and experiences. It will, I have no doubt, be deeply rooted in the natural world, in the Earth, and in the cycles and seasons we see play out each year. Other than that, I’m not certain of anything, but perhaps that’s a good place to start?

As suggested by Blackie, here are the stages I’ll be working through:

1. The Wasteland - “sweep aside the veil which prevents us from seeing the world as it is: to understand what is broken, and what needs to change”

2. The Call - “life is not about being safe and secure; life is about growing, learning, transforming”

3. The Cauldron of Transformation - “Don’t fear the dark: it’s a natural part of the Journey… Out of the darkness comes strength, and focus. There is always another rebirth. But it always begins in the dark.”

4. The Pilgrim’s Way - “pick yourself up, and find your way to the path. Put one foot in front of the other, and walk: a pilgrimage begins with one small step”

5. Retrieving the Buried Feminine - “Creativity is an authentic approach to life: an openness, a spontaneity; a determination to nurture rather than destroy.”

6. Restoring the Balance - “understanding, appreciating and embodying the qualities which fall into both categories [masculine and feminine], and bringing ourselves - and the world - back into harmony”

7. The Heroine’s Return - “Wherever you are, for however long or short a period of time you stay there, it is important to learn to belong… Walk your streets, explore your woods, and always, always take account of the small beauties.”

8. Becoming Elder - “Pass your wisdom on. Think about telling your own story.”

I have no idea how long it will take to navigate each stage - some days, some weeks, some perhaps months - and I’m under no delusion that this will be a simple process. But I’m ready to begin, and to share. My plan is to write a post to accompany each stage; some might be written in the midst of the work, others once I feel ready to transition to the next stage. I’m just going to take it as it comes.

First, a post on The Wasteland, which will follow shortly, to explore my current position in more depth. I look forward to taking you on this journey with me.

Photo by Debby Hudson on Unsplash

My husband works for a brewery in Nottingham and making the 3 hour round trip from our home in the Lincolnshire Wolds can be exhausting at times. Sometimes he spends the night near work instead, and with evenings spent in a variety of their pubs he has met a diverse set of people, and made many good friends along the way. One such friend is a thespian in his seventies, who can drink you under the table and still be up at 7am to cook breakfast like it never happened. When he began to isolate all those months ago he decided to start writing letters to all the friends and family he could not see and speak to, and we have received such a missive every few weeks since.

Always, the letter is attached to a card or postcard featuring a beautiful image or illustration he thinks we will like, and it is filled with talk of his garden or how he spends his days, all written in his delightfully conversational tone. This connection to the outside world that does not involve technology has been a wonderful contribution to our (and his, I’m sure) sanity as the weeks turn into months and we forget what the freedom we once took for granted felt like.

Letters were once the only way to contact those you were separated from, and even though we can now do so at the click of a button, there is something different to be found in a letter than in a call or a text. The words are more considered, and a story unfolds rather than a back and forth. The writer reveals more of themselves, and despite it only being ink on a page, we feel MORE connected, not less.

Lockdown is easing, and our friend tells us in his latest note that he is looking forward to seeing friends at the pub again soon. Normality may even return to some extent, but the comfort these letters have brought us all will not be forgotten so soon.

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Jessica Townsend creates slow and sustainable fashion at House of Flint. Follow her behind-the-scenes on Instagram here.

Photo by Basil Smith on Unsplash

136,505 people have signed up for the Wildlife Trusts 30 Days Wild so far, which encourages us to do one wild thing a day during the month of June for the sake of “health, wellbeing and the planet”. The task of carrying out one “random act of wildness” a day invites us to spend more time in the outdoors and in nature. June may be nearing its end but I think many of us have put this notion into practice long before the month even began. The advent of lockdown combined with a burst of warmer weather has left many of us desperate for a few moments outside each day to breathe some fresh air, and see something other than the four walls of our homes.

As lockdown begins to relax I hope this is something more people take into their routines beyond June. Spending time in nature can be so nourishing and the whole world could do with a little more nourishment right now.

This period of isolation has been fortuitous in one way, as it has coincided with some lovely weather and allowed us to fully appreciate those small pockets of time we can spend outside. But we must remember that periods of summer sun are not the only times we can enjoy the outdoors. After a few rainy days I have been reminded of my favourite way to relieve the stress of the day: standing beneath the raindrops with my face pointed skywards and feeling the rain hit my skin. This simple act somehow relieves any tensions I’ve been holding onto and refreshes even the most tired of eyes (which is certainly how mine have been feeling lately!).

It’s easy to see rain and immediately retreat indoors, but next time a shower strikes, why not take a moment to stand beneath it and see how you feel. Seek out that small moment of calm that can make the world of difference.

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Jessica Townsend creates slow and sustainable fashion at House of Flint. Follow her behind-the-scenes on Instagram here.