Two years ago I travelled home to England in what was to be one of the hottest summers in British history. At that point I hadn’t returned for over five and a half years so, as you can imagine, I was more than a little proud to finally introduce my home land to my daughter, the place where the roots of all her bed time stories began, the land she had seen me cry for, the home I had feared I would never see again. (Thank you Covid!)
The trip was more than just a homecoming or holiday for me. It was an opportunity to say goodbye to the land I had never intended to leave, not in the way that some people do anyway. I had been a backpacker with a return ticket after all. Not once did I choose to leave my home and make a life on the other side of the world. I’m sure that might sound strange to some, but I can honestly say I never made that choice. I have always just reacted to life as it happens, making what I believe to be the best decision in any moment. And nearly 13 years ago, I chose love.
You can imagine then, that this returning was BIG. I was an emotional wreck, both revivified by the land and grieving for the last days that were arriving too soon.
England seemed to turn everything on for me, for us, that summer. She made herself effervescent and irresistible, full of the summer cliches of my past; Pebbled beaches and rust coloured sand, beer gardens and cold pimms, long balmy evenings reading under the apple tree, wild ponies on windswept moors. Seriously. It was more than just idillic, it was unbelievably mystical and full of moments I’ll never put into words.
Now that I’ve set the scene, I want to share with you a moment from that time in England that I've carried close ever since. It was an instance that got me thinking about the various ways in which we lose ourselves as we age. But more precisely the moments of shattering, when a part of us, or parts, take flight like a migrating bird in the Autumn wind, carrying the last essence of summer away on its wings. Perhaps you think immediately of trauma, of the wild, heavy nature of those soul breaking experiences. This was not one of those situations.
One afternoon towards the end of our trip, I decided to drive by my primary school after hearing that my beloved art teacher was still working there. Upon arriving at the school I was immediately overcome with emotion. It was the same country school, nestled in the hills of the South Downs, surrounded by tall trees and a woodland playground of dreams. It didn’t take long for me to spot him marching between classrooms at break time. He had a walk that was impossible to miss, a bounce to his step and a head of copper hair, with only the slightest tinge of grey.
Did I mention it had been 25 years since I left the school? I was a blubbering mess. He had been my favourite teacher and that school had held me as a family does. With only 150 pupils, every face had a name and every teacher knew that my parents were going through a difficult divorce. When I was 8 years old that school was a sanctuary, and the teachers, my friends.
Needless to say, the art teacher recognised me and offered to give us a tour of the school. I was eager to show my daughter the woods that were our playground and the fields that overlooked the poppies in June. At some point on our walk through the trees, he asked what I was doing now and if I was working in the Arts in some way. English, music, art and drama were my subjects you see. I was obsessed and encouraged, self-assured and unashamed back then.
What a privilege to have been seen in that moment of my life.
When I replied that I was doing none of those things, the shock on his face, or perhaps it was disappointment, was heartbreaking. Either way, he had touched a cord I had long ago ignored and now, I couldn’t help but begin weaving stories like the fine threads of gossamer veins on a butterfly wing. I retraced my fingers across the delicate moments of my past, searching for the shattering. The moment when a part of me flew away.
And so the story below, which I’ll be sharing in two parts, was inspired by The Wild Swans fairytale by Hans Christian Anderson, whereby a woman is forced to weave shirts out of nettle fibres in order to save her brothers who are turned into swans by an evil witch. Some versions of the tale can be rather dark to be honest. But it remains a firm favourite of mine due to the many ways it can be interpreted.
To me, it’s a story about losing ourselves, a moment that splinters our soul in some way. Sometimes big, sometimes small, always significant.
It’s a story of courage and hope and how we can choose to turn towards the pain, instead of away.
But the essence of the tale is how we all experience these fracturing moments, moments that leave holes we may not notice for a while, if at all.
In time, should we chose to, we’re able to pull those parts back in close, weave them back together in a way that makes us whole again, whilst still holding the wounds that tore us apart in the first place. And perhaps one day we can even speak to those moments with reverence for what they gave us.
Because we are made of our stories. And as
said, Storytelling is the meaning of our lives. It’s how we make sense of things, how we connect with each other and how we remember. It is also how we want to be remembered.Please enjoy part 1 of the story below. As always, I’ve recorded an audio version for those who prefer.
Knitted Wings of Winter
I watched them leave from the window of the kitchen. They carried the last of the summer warmth on their wings as they flew into the clouds, into that hole in the sky, the place that allows them to move between worlds, between time. I clutched the tea in my shaking hand. It always shook then, not like it did in the beginning. Not with the same violent undoing, but enough to make me notice. A sudden jerk of my hand and the cup slid from my fingers and smashed on the cold hard floor by my feet. But I couldn’t take my eyes off the filling skies as more and more birds took off from the beach only metres from my front door. They were launching themselves with such purpose, whether it was their first migration or their fifth. They were following an instinct to leave, a call to follow a map marked out in the stars. I could only wonder how they knew when to leave. Or if they would ever return.
I looked down at the ceramic mug scattered on the floor and the amber-coloured tea pooling between the tiles. Blood dripped from a small cut on the top of my foot but I didn’t feel any pain. Only warmth, as the slick red thread of life ran down the side of my foot.
Yarrow leaves called me from the garden on my way to the shore. I placed the leaves in my mouth and chewed them into a poultice for my foot. This was a wound I knew how to heal. A superficial cut that needed only plants and a salty breeze. As I walked barefoot down the path to the shore, I kept my eyes on the horizon, the copper sunrise and cobalt sea. The haze of the surf dancing on the sand, secrets of the moon hidden and revealed with every rise and fall of the waves.
I sat on the edge of the water, not caring that the rising tide would surely make me wet, for I was already soaked through, a sodden mess of grief. A wet pile of damaged goods. And then I saw them: The far eastern curlew with their long-curved bill angled down to the sand, searching for that last meal, taking from the lands all that they could before they travelled north. Soon they would be fed on starlight, satiated by the skies and an instinct to arrive.
I’d been watching this threatened species of waders all summer long. Although wary of me at first, they soon became accustomed to my quiet moments in the sand. And when their mournful call echoed my own keening at sunrise, I found comfort in knowing that my grief was being witnessed, held by the rocks and the shells, the sea and the peaceful shorebirds that welcomed me in their home. Because people can only hold so much of someone else’s pain. This, I discovered that terrible summer. People can become the greatest pillars when we need them to be. But eventually, our tears and leaning begin to crack their foundations, and they realise they can no longer witness our undoing. I did not hold a grudge for those who left me, for I was too far gone to notice the air rush out through the closing door. And I still had the birds you see. Until that day at least.
As the last curlew left the shore that morning, I saw her gaze down upon me with a love that only an ancient soul can give. She looked down from the glowing skies and with the slow beat of her wings I felt a flood of permission wash over me. Permission to follow her into Winter, into the void I had been too afraid to enter, a darkness that obscured all light and hope. Follow me she seemed to say. Lose yourself in the darkness and trust that I will bring you home in time for spring.
That night beneath the first Autumn moon I pulled a bag from beneath my bed. Inside were balls of thread in crimson, gold and sap green. Some were made of nettle fibres, others of hemp or bamboo. They had been collected over the years but were now a tangled mess, a knotted trove of story, memory and truth. Beneath the bed, I had also placed a suitcase filled with the finest cloth I had saved from my travels overseas; Linen from Italy, cotton from India and the finest silk wedding veil passed down to me from my grandmother.
Follow me, the voice returned as something pulled me to my feet. I gathered the thread and cloth in my hands and took them to the chair in front of the small hearth in my living room. As the evening grew cold, I covered my legs with the pearlescent silk veil and began cutting the linen and cotton into squares the size of my outstretched hands. Hours passed like that, in front of a small fire lit with pinecones from the forest and driftwood from the beach. Soon I had a mound of cloth cut into squares and only the silk veil still covering my bare legs.
Then I pulled the nettle fibre from the bag and tried to untangle the end from the beginning. For hours I pulled at loose threads, only to find it would tighten elsewhere. It was only ever a tease, a glimpse of what freedom could be like. As I worked, frustration arose. Another knot, another wave of rage. But in time the tangled mess had more give and I could pull on a thread that allowed for a complete and welcome unravelling of the whole bundled mess. I laughed joyfully at the web of thread loose between my fingers, now red, sore, and blistering. But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. More hours passed as I untangled the balls of bamboo and hemp. More tears fell as I teased out the knots, unwinding them until they were perfect serpentine coils next to my seat.
Part two coming next week…
You have me captured from the moment you start writing. A beautiful story and one I can relate to in my own ways. I must also say, I still remember the day you recited the selkie seal story in circle and left a few of us in tears. There’s a magic in your story telling. Thank you x
What a treasure of a read! I appreciate your retelling of a favourite fairy tale of mine, grounding it here in the Southern Hemisphere. Xx