Two steps down, one step up

There's no place like home.

Autumn: the months of September, October, and November (ish). Never - we were taught by sniffy, English parents - to be referred to as “fall” and yet I’ve come to almost prefer that name. Or more specifically, “The Fall”, because I see it happen every year.

There is a difference. Far from lasting three months, here The Fall lasts just two or three days. The leaves have turned, the sun has lowered, the migrant birds are gone and one day, the wind picks up. Walking down the lane here, I feel like a witness to Japan’s cherry blossom as it fills the air. Orange, brown, red, the leaves dance off the trees; two steps down, one step up. Spiralling into puddles and the wet earth.

It seems to happen shortly after visitor season closes at the historic property next door . No longer full of tourists’ cars, the road and verges are almost empty except for us few residents, and peace returns, celebrated with a twirling, tawny, ticker tape parade. Then - The Fall complete - we return to normal British programming, and “autumn”.

There is comfort and pleasure in recognising the rhythms of a place. Warming down into the roots it proves we’ve grown; feeding that wild part of us with a visceral connection to weather, temperature, daylight. Becoming part of that rhythm brings us home.

Home is something I’ve been contemplating a lot recently. I’ve been finding my way back…

…to my body, which has - after many months of waiting and tests - completely resolved an issue that had been causing me much anxiety. It’s a deeper awareness and gratitude for this soft animal, the challenges I meet here, and the miracle of my breath.

…to my family. Something happened in my heart - perhaps the presence of grief - that has made me fall even more in love with my partner (fun fact: after more than 22 years together, we’re getting married!), our daughter, and our little weird family. Where they are, I am home.

…to my ancestors. To continuing studies, after a decade away, in shamanic practice, this time specifically Celtic (in as much as we know much at all about those times - both my teachers are hot on historical accuracy and not some fantasy cosplay version). As a sun lover, I might dream of Mediterranean coastlines or desert landscapes, but my roots are here in these islands and further north. In the old ways made new. 

…to writing. Here. A few days ago I was at a tattoo studio, getting some ink added to my ear. The guy who tattooed me asked what I do and time froze while I debated whether to go with my usual, apologetic, awkward, “Nothing. I stopped work to homeschool my daughter and now I don’t do anything”, or to start claiming a future. The future won. “I’m a writer,” I said. Turns out that he is too. “Mostly just to exorcise my demons.” Hands up, who’s been there. Yup. 

He told me of all his disappointments and rejections; his search for The Genre; the way he’s teaching his five year old daughter that writing is a way to care for yourself. I asked him if he wrote on Substack, and Reader, he’d never heard of it. Fortunately for him, I’m well-informed. I told him how it was developed to help writers earn. How it has its own social media. How supportive people (including the Substack team) are, and how inspiring it is to be around all shapes and sizes of writers. I saw a light go on in his eyes and I hope he went straight to his phone and opened an account. Because for some of us, this place is also home.

And as I find my way back to all sorts of home, there amidst all this belonging and all this love is Gaza.

Since the beginning of last month we have witnessed - most of us at a safe distance - the horrors of what is happening in Israel and Gaza. It is not lost on me that people in both places have had their homes destroyed, their families too. Children, taken from their homes. Babies, buried under their homes.

For the people of Gaza, there is no longer a recognisable home. A peaceful connection to land has been blown into a million bits. The ability to feel safe in any way is gone. The very earth has been deeply wounded beneath the blood of its people. Today I saw the purposeful burning of 1000 year old olive trees. The symbolism cut like a knife. 

The Israeli government; Hamas, and the foreign powers both openly and covertly funding and supporting the genocide for their own gains (Rishi Sunak I’m looking at you) can surely not believe their actions will inspire anything but more hate and in some, a thirst for revenge that could burn for generations. So many of us - the people they claim to represent - do not want this. We are watching in horror. The energetic ripples of the violence and trauma visited upon our fellow humans are inescapable, even as we sit in safety.

It’s hard not to be sucked into the darkness, but with the great good fortune we have in being physically safe, comes a responsibility to resist. Living a good life, with love, patience, compassion, joy, tenderness, and a promise to stand up for the weakened whenever and however we are able…that is an act of resistance, that ultimately, can bring us home to our humanity. 

Here, in my place, we just moved past November 5th: Bonfire Night. Guy Fawkes Night. All across the country were fires and fireworks that sound increasingly like bombs (but I do love them). It was an easy step to thinking what it must be like to be living under constant bombardment, hearing screams of terror not squeals of delight. This is the whole human, isn’t it? Equally capable of creating the beautiful firework for celebration, and the lethal explosive for destruction.

How do we learn to integrate the two? How do we let the tension between them keep us strong? We can’t look away. We can’t run to comfort all the time. Growth is in the discomfort. We don’t talk about growing pains for nothing.

It would be - and is - easier for me to focus all my attention on The Fall, and the natural beauty of this place. On the ease and love we feel in this family. On the safety and strength of this body. On the purely spiritual aspects of shamanic practice. But I know I would be living half a life. I would be half a human.

Some days I remember I’m 60 and wonder if I should start to feel old, because I don’t. And when I think about this work of integration I realise I am young still. I am new at this. Until the last couple of years my life had allowed me to look the other way and pretend that my homes, all of them, have no dark corners. Seeing them now, witnessing them and holding them close has allowed my roots to only grow deeper. 

May we all be granted a chance to know home.

Everything is on fire,
but everyone I love is doing beautiful things
and trying to make life worth living,
and I know I don't have to believe in everything,
but I believe in that.

- Nikita Gill