On Silence- 1.

Its dark. Its wonderful. Its constantly interspersed with flashes of the mind which I watch and ignore and watch again. Its a deep breath. Its raw and pure and naked. Its now. Its courage. Its home.

Born to Dance.

I am struggling in the search for inspiration. I am struggling to find words which come extremely close to describing the feeling. Perhaps there are none. Perhaps not everything can be written down. And perhaps those are the very things that I dance out. Those are the things that can only be danced out. Only be felt in the beat of the music and the beat of my heart. Still struggling. Still wondering. Still watching. Is that a tear I find tentatively forming? I feel. I feel. I feel. I feel. I feel. I dance. I move. I feel. And in the midst of the sweet madness, everything disappears. There is no one watching. And no one to be watched.

Lone Dancer.

I am a lone dancer
Moving and swaying and breathing
and being the dance
Suddenly, another fellow dancer joins the dance I'm in
We are moved by the same rhythm
Together, we are creating a dancing symphony
We are no longer 'we'
But just moving energies in sync
It is exhilerating

My dance was the sweet notes of a piano
And his, the soft strumming of a guitar
And together, we are such a joyful melody

But one must not forget
That even when the guitar stops playing
The sounds of the piano
Are still as sweet as ever
And I keep breathing, swaying, moving, being
I am a lone dancer.

Hazy lines. (working title)

It is just past seven pm and it’s raining outside. I am sitting in my living room surrounded by orange pillows, tall candles in hand painted jars, books about planning spontaneous holidays, an old cd player, a paper hat from last night’s dinner party and a sympathy card from a well meaning friend.

I am sipping on it slowly, just like he had taught me. I am slightly overcome by its subtle, sweet taste. It reminds me of flowers in a meadow and walking barefoot on wet grass. Eyes closed, I breathe in its flavour and fullness before each sip I take. I peer through the glass bottle and watch my imagination turning dark green.

The email had said she loved him.

I smirkingly wonder if she knows that he has a tiny birthmark on his left foot, that he loves pumpkin ravioli with fresh basil and that he stops snoring when touched on his belly.

But looking within, it’s easy to see that envy is nothing more than an attempted substitute for raw and quivering sadness.

I think about why it had taken us so long to look through the fantasy beings we had become for one another. I think about why I had chosen not to notice that his laughter had lost its wholehearted tinkle. Why hadn’t we acknowledged the fact that both of us had taken off on journeys of our own, and neither of us had left behind a little post-it note on the fridge explaining why and where we were going.

The thing about letting your tears flow freely is that if you let them flow long enough, not only do they stop of their own accord, but they also leave you with unusual clarity and sometimes a sense of wonder.

This time, I am left wondering about the beginning that is hidden in this seeming end. Because I have come to realise that all endings are full of surprising beginnings.

The phone rings. I say yes and also suggest the restaurant.

I am looking forward to meeting a new person today.

Dancing for myself.

I always envied Billy Elliot. I envied the way he discovered dance and then spent the rest of his life rejoicing in that discovery. I envied that firm, empowering expression that spread across his face every time the music flowed through his body like electricity and his feet tapped against the ground, solidly, passionately, dictated by the rhythm.

I envied Billy Elliot until the day I realised he lives in every one of us and he certainly lives in me. The realisation took place in that precise moment when my toes were stretched; my feet above the ground and my hands were cutting through the air like a bird in flight.



I spent three hours last Saturday evening dancing for myself. There were probably about thirty other people in that room, but each of them was immersed in a dance of their own. We were together in our aloneness.

I danced openly, fluidly, creatively. I didn’t know whether I was dancing or whether the dance was me. I danced for everything that was good and everything that was bad and everything that was somewhere in between. As I danced, a thousand thoughts and feelings that had been hiding somewhere within suddenly erupted. I welcomed them all. I danced through them all.

I was flowing. I was in staccato. I was chaotic. I was lyrical. I was still.

I danced. One movement to another. One moment to another.

And in the middle of the dance, I discovered a place within me which I didn’t know existed, but a place to which I will return for a long time to come.

Mental picture memories.

I once read that the best memories are often not captured by the camera.

I think there is much truth contained in that statement. It seems rather ironic that in the midst of a beautiful moment, we find the need to suddenly pull out a small, digital device to help us record that moment, freeze it in time and attempt to render it eternal. I think the need to capture everything worth remembering on camera has a lot to do with man’s love for permanence and the desire to make things last ‘forever’.

This is by no means meant to be an assault on photography.

It’s just that I sometimes wonder whether special moments would be more special if not interrupted by the need to huddle up for a group photograph and smile into the camera as proof of what a wonderful time was being had.

Do you think you would spend more time and effort in creating and later recalling memories if you didn’t have an ‘easy-recall tool’ in the form of a photograph?

Given that such thoughts have occupied my mind, I guess it was rather a blessing when my friend forgot to bring her camera to our retreat in Wales last weekend. I must admit that my initial reaction was one of sheer disappointment. After all, it wasn’t everyday that the four of us spontaneously decided to drive away from the city and spend the weekend in the midst of the Welsh countryside.

However, I quickly got over my disappointment and decided to attempt a slightly different method of capturing my memories of this weekend. Instead of using a camera to take photographs, I would use my mind to create mental pictures of special moments. In other words, I would focus on being in the moment and living each moment as strongly and completely as I possibly could. In doing so, I hoped that the memory of those moments would be firmly etched across my mind and hence stay with me for a long time to come, without any physical evidence such as a photograph.

It seemed slightly odd at first, but pretty soon I was doing it all the time. Take for instance that lazy Saturday afternoon when the four of us were huddled together on the bed, watching films, drinking hot tea and every now and then, glancing at the window opposite us to appreciate what nature was up to- the rumbling grey skies, the pattering raindrops and the bare trees awaiting the advent of spring.

Another mental picture I strongly recall is that long walk we took along a rather isolated beach. I remember closing my eyes and trying to smell the salt in the air, because that is a smell I closely associate with home. I remember learning something about a friend and being amazed at how interesting it is to discover new things about the people close to you. I remember minutes of talk beautifully interspersed with moments of silence. I remember feeling that looking at the ocean often puts things into a strange sort of perspective.

Yet another vivid mental picture I have is that of us walking through the enchanting city of Bath. We strolled past majestic houses, charming churches and streets lined with inviting, little shops. We enjoyed and appreciated the sunshine; our elusive friend whom we knew wouldn’t stay with us for very long. We watched a delightful comedy act which filled the street with laughter. I remember thinking that if a few men dressed in pink tutus could evoke such unadulterated laughter from all of us, perhaps the pursuit of happiness is much simpler than we think it is.

I must admit that without photographs, my world, or at least my bedroom wall would be a much duller place. But if I were to look back on the times when I have been the happiest, the saddest, the most excited, the most vulnerable, or in other words, times when I have experienced any sort of emotion in the extreme- none of those times have been accurately captured in the form of a photograph. So while it might have been nice if my friend had brought her camera to Wales, I don’t think my memories of this fantastic weekend are any less strong because she didn’t. In fact, they might just be stronger.

Sunday Morning Pancakes

Sunday mornings and pancakes go together beautifully.

I remember groggily walking into the kitchen on a Sunday morning (generally, a morning very close to being blended into afternoon) hopelessly hungover and praying to find pancakes. And a lazy, slightly mischievous, but mostly relieved smile would wipe across my face when I saw them there. They were always there. Neatly stacked up on our chequered table, almost like they appeared by magic. I liked to imagine elves creeping into our kitchen at midnight to make us pancakes, while we were away drinking and dancing and generally behaving badly as you do on Saturday nights. Of course I knew the pancakes weren’t the magical creation of kindly elves. But it was hard to imagine Anna battling a brutal hangover and waking up at some inappropriately early hour on Sunday, just to make sure I got the perfect pancake breakfast I loved so much. Pancakes with Anna defined my Sundays for a whole year. I looked forward to them, talked about them with other people and even marked them in my diary, as you do with all important events.

Anna liked hers with sugar and lemon. I had mine with bananas and chocolate sauce. Sometimes we exchanged and sometimes we both had them with fruit. Our pancake sessions generally lasted about two hours and in that time, we discussed any number of relevant things. Details from last night’s party, the weather forecast, the predicted direction of our careers, why the neighbours shagged so loudly, why Anna missed her mum so much but refused to call her, how we didn’t care that we didn’t have boyfriends and what would happen if we just packed our bags one day and left for Argentina without telling anyone.

The Argentina plan was generally discussed last because that very thought, that very slightest existence of possibility, would whisk us away in to a world of fantasy from which it was rather hard to recover and come back to the realities of our seemingly mundane existences.

But I knew that Sunday was different. And I knew the conversation wasn’t over once we had landed at Buenos Aires airport.

I knew from the way Anna looked at her nails as she talked to me and from the way she laughed a bit too wholeheartedly at my rather juvenile jokes. But most of all, I knew because of her eyes. Because her eyes suffered from an inability to conceal. Her eyes always wanted to give you the full story.

‘Cancer.’ she blurted out, in the blunt, cut-to-the-chase manner that was so characteristic of Anna Campbell. ‘They reckon I have another year.’

Her manner was calm, somewhat unmoved. But her voice was tense and ever so slightly shaken.

Ten minutes later and I was still silent. Why was I silent? How come none of the thousand questions bursting in my head made their way through my mouth? How come I didn’t hug her, or burst into tears or display any sort of emotion for that matter? I just sat in my chair, numb.

She looked at me and smiled. It was a smile I knew. A delicate but firm smile. A smile which told me she had accepted and moved on, so I had better catch up. A smile which said she didn’t want to talk about it, but she would listen if I felt like talking.

A smile which gradually became bigger and bigger until I realised there was something else I didn’t know about.

‘I talked to your boss’ she said, as she put down two tickets to Argentina on the table in front of us.