Practice Journal

A year of ‘practice journal’ notes from Autumn 2020 to Autumn 2021.
These are written responses to both indoor and outdoor practice, the words are held within the roots of drawings that have now emerged into the wide container of ‘Stillness of Horses’.

Detailing the emergence of a work during ‘Walk of Life’ Mentorship www.walkoflife.co.uk

The journal writings were gathered in a series of four note books, hand made using the folded off cuts that remain after tearing A1 sheets of paper into squares to hold the drawings. I write in pen, uncensored, visceral writing, some verse-notes and some drawings appear within the pages, all emerge in response to discoveries and exploration within the shifts in both physical and internal weathers and out of the places on the earth I move amongst. The words arise from practice both free and scored. This unfettered expression through the medium of words that emerge from physical movement and a quality of presence while amongst the elements feels deeply alive. I have the uncanny sense that the words write themselves and I am often surprised by the content when I read them back.

The responses emerge from an amalgamation of my personal field of experience within the landscapes of studio and natural environment and from imaginal realms that together bring a particular quality of materiality to the words on paper. Writing alongside practice connects me to the presence of unseen realms held within the wider field of the work, through this I align with a level of experience akin to a sense of dreaming while awake. The writings becoming a source of many threads of ongoing inspiration. The writings emerge through undertaking both solo and witnessed practice and out of times of practice alongside the five others while undertaking the Walk of Life mentorship. I have named the context of the journal entries because I feel that it may be of value to know whether I am working alone, alongside others or being witnessed. I sense that these different contexts add a particular quality and sometimes a rigour to my practice. I value and am inspired by working alongside all others, both human and non-human beings. To witness and be witnessed in the process of bringing new work to light, is a gift. A colleague described being witnessed and working alongside others as ‘a relational cooking pot’, I feel this quality also. Practicing within a shared field generally supports rather than distracts from my enquiry, it find that it awakens other possibilities. Alongside this, I deeply appreciate the support and sense of acceptance I receive from non-human others, the spirits of the places on the earth where I practice. On occasion I will have walked a distance to a place that calls me to pause my walking and ‘enter’, I seek permission to work in these places and do not take a welcome for granted.

In laying bare these writings, it is my intention to make visible my internal field and dialogue alongside physical movement and experiences in ‘place’, as they fuse together generating a vibrant multilayered ecosystem of word and image.

The entries given here are in chronological order, in each I have named the place and context of the movement session from which they arose.

1 October
Manaton hall
shared practice
I sense that a door is opening, eddies of physical memory travel through my body. I feel an old line running from my head, neck, through my right collar bone, across my body to my left hip, it is calling for release. I feel the capacity for wide movement, awake in my body, alongside new potential that I feel curious about, it feels mostly unknown. Memories flood in to my mind of past practice, I hear the sounds that Helen sometimes emits as we work, reverberate in my systems, remembering, reminding me to stay present to myself and all other. Although I feel that I am on the surface within my movement, I also feel the depths stirring again. I feel grateful for this as I feel conscious of the magic of becoming older inside continuous deep practice, I can feel the potential to break the subtle rules of ageing and the capacity to make new ones that are true and alive.

15 October
Manaton hall
shared practice
Rumbling disturbance in my left foot, with the feeling that it may seize up, I feel unpredictable seizure threatening bringing rumbling of thought ….. bringing in old memories of practice and feeling a sense of disturbance
through the ways of others in the space.
I find myself chatting with my colleague in the middle of practice, disturbing their/our flow of movement while waking to the unpredictable edge of my own field, the places where I like to chat, potentially disturb others, catch myself out, ride over others, over ride others, way of subtly holding space, do I ‘hold space’ to keep myself in check?
I am preparing to travel deeper into the spaces between, to follow what I cannot see, to listen to what I cannot hear, to feel what is invisible to me. All these ways my heart knows, when I am aligned. I see that the ancient pathways are still
alive within me and around me. The unknowable mystery I name sun, warms my face while I sit upon the floor made of wood, the mystery named tree.

18 October
Beer, in a very small cave
mentorship
We will sing
We will remember
We will listen
We will see
We will hear
We will speak
We will return

At the back of a small cave the ‘the being’ is unfolded from its wrappings. I feel their emergence deep in my heart, the tumble of them as they enter into the light. They, once tree, memory of stone and bone, hairy limbed, feathered, are seen.

19 October
Beer
mentorship
We go backwards heading into the day before, into the time before we emerged., to remake the emergence. I call in time to move into reverse, slow things down, so to more fully experience what has gone before. From the back of the cave, a small wood made being speaks into the dark. The cave walls are covered close to, in deep red velveteen lining of sea weed, a ricochet of pebbles sloping upwards narrowing, narrowing, crushing inwards, deeper under, mumble tremble. Above, aged falls of chalk are biding their time, they rest inside death and change or change and death, call in death, releasing fear, heat inside draws it together. The aged ones come alongside, they smear themselves upon me, climb over my chest and enter my lungs. The breath in and the breath out are sung by mosquitoes singing the dark. Aeons above me, aeons of life in chalk are held above me pressing themselves closer and closer together as they prepare to let go and bury my body in their embrace. I am squeezed amongst the pebbles, become new conglomerate. I let go of light and begin to swim upwards through the chalk, breathing backwards spine chilling opening up and out. Weakness and slowness fill my ears, tumble through my pores, mumble sweet nothings while the nothingness opens into light and colour and shape. I call to feel this beginning, this renewal, to not imagine, to not squeeze or shape the unknown into something familiar or unchanged. Slither on, slither through, a smelter of sand and heat empties me again into a cauldron of renewal. I wake to all that is leaving and let the remnants of my heart speak. ‘Stop now, begin again, stop now begin again. Look…. see what’s here, let it be, receive it as a memory and a quiver, a flutter, enter the day dream, eyes open, head first, do not name what you see or hear or remember, move now into the nameless place where all is alive, all shimmers in its own truth, filled with life in the way it emerges through this and this and…… this’.

5 November
Bone Hill
solo practice
With Bonehill Rocks at my back I walk up the steep rise to Honeybag Tor. I could see above me the oft met, beautiful deep bay stallion with his brood of grey mares. I have come across this group of Dartmoor ponies in each others company in all weathers both with and without their yearly young. I have sat in different places, still, for long periods of time and watched their ways. Meeting this small and mighty Dartmoor stallion always excites me. In the summer months his coat shines like polished mahogany and his mane and tail are long and thick with testosterone. On this morning the mares around him were ready for him. Walking on a well trodden path close by, I felt awed as I paused to witness their mating, the impulse of creation so strong that they seemed oblivious to my presence.

12 November
Honeybag Tor
solo practice
They are close, five grey mares in company of each other standing, dozing, as horses often do, their whiteness shining out of the russet colours of the winter bracken. Intermittent sun brightens the whiteness of the mares becoming points of light upon the moor. I am familiar with this brood of mares, I look for their stallion, he seems not to be in their company. The grey mares stand in slumber, heads drooping slightly, eyes part closed, their stillness captures me and I enter my own amongst the great boulders that are lying in their own eon long quiet. All slumbers amongst grasses and old bracken shivering in the breeze as it travels around us. The doze stretches on as the stillness holds us in place on the hillside. A mare quivers awake, leaves her slumber and wanders away slowly, following a familiar pathway dropping steeply downward. Some way on, she pauses, where she pauses, bracken gradually takes the shape of stallion, he, rich deep bracken coloured has always been amongst the mares, his stillness hid his shape from me, I saw only bracken.
I watch from the nook I inhabit, calling myself to enter the stillness of horses. I am washed through, washed over with the stillness of the horses.

19 November
solo practice
oak green moss green
the mystery we call tree
the mystery we call moss
rock green moss green

Winter buds hold still their emergence amongst the chilling wind and rain, sun glistens the curtains of water as they fall to the earth. I feel that I am unable to open my eyes or my heart wide enough to see, to receive, to let go of myself enough in order to fling off the container of all that I have mis-learned. I long to fully see what I see, I long to feel what I see, I long to hear what I see, old ways play around my edges, I feel ancient ways that have always existed in my bones are awaking. I strip to the bones of myself and I call to remember. Here, in this place, where life sits amongst itself, I roam through, life sits amongst itself and I feel blind to it, fleeting glimpses touch my heart and then I close again, always too fast, always outside. I call myself to stay longer so that the fleeting can reveal itself. I feel you here and I know that you are calling to awaken my blindness, my deafness.

26 November
River Dart from Newbridge car park.
solo practice
Oh! the glory of the bright sky over the frozen and defrosting earth. Heading up river the song of moving water calls mosses to grow themselves over every available surface, it sponges itself into the water that is part moor. Water here becomes everything. If I lie as still as a rock or grow at the pace of a tree, I too will become a growing place for moss, nostrils, pubic moss, mossy legs and under arms. For now, I move fast, so fast, feeling joy in placing feet along precipitous walkways, joy through clambering, climbing, jumping, sitting, sliding down steep drops, hanging over the deep dark movement of water. Sun drops its shine from the skies. Finding the perfect angle to fill the water filled valley with light, illuminating the utter beauty of itself from afar, slanting very specifically into the valley, touching tree top, sliding incrementally down trunks of oak, reaching in to the bed of the river lighting the rocks below the surface through the peat coloured liquid.

3 December
Walking by the River Dart from Dartmeet
solo practice
Dart running fast. Walking with the flow of the river and fall of the earth towards the sea. Here East and West Dart meet. Pools of water gather on the earth where sky water has fallen and as yet remains on the surface. Strange growths gather amongst branches overhanging the river. As I look at them more closely I see that they are the remaining high water markers of surges of water, surges that flurried by, carrying grass, moss, twigs and leaves captured by overhanging branches creating plantlike, bouquet like collections amongst the end twigs of the over hanging boughs.
Rising above the river a chaos of moss covered rock and boulders, pile toward the sky. Here rock and tree become indivisible, writhing as lovers beneath their coverlets of moss and lichen. Limbs entwining in fierce slow passion. I
hunker down, bed myself into the crevices between rock and trunk and root, into the dry nooks, some time animal shelter. I pickup the scent of badger and roll myself amongst its fragrance. I lie still, mouth open receiving the rain and through the swelling and falling drips, I drink in their tinctures of oak and moss and fern.

10 December
Branscombe hall
witnessed practice
I follow myself through the hall, limpet, lame animal, breath, grief, all emerge. I feel the great and mighty oceans held inside me, as my body expresses herself in unknown ways. Sensing the pathways through the empty hall as though a landscape filled with trees or hills or pools of water, I let myself speak the layers of unknown that I need to hear without needing to make any sense of them. ‘The being’ accompanies me, laying in their basket bowl surrounded by the scents of plant and tree and animal, such beautiful scents of life, ‘the being’ seems asleep, but always they are awake to our shared dialogue, awake to them through the subtle feelings, moves and shapes of my body. We are story telling together, they through my body express the way, I listen and follow the way.

12 December
Manaton hall
shared practice
I dreamed of mislaying my phone, my bank card, my car, at the beginning of a week where I am letting go of meeting up with others to make sure that I don’t have corona virus over Christmas so that I am able to join my family! At the same time I have been hearing the call to empty myself out and to be alone in this time of the darkest nights before Solstice and before the beginning of the slow return to light. I find great gifts in empty myself and listening into the dark. Moving in the hall today, I feel drawn to pull the available light and sun into my body, ask the light to soak into my skin and to fill my bones before I enter the dark. Movement is slow and drift like from floor to standing, stillness and soft walking, stones flop at the other end of the room where my colleague works, our landscapes although alongside, don’t overlap. I tumble in and out of dream layers awake to movement, sometimes amongst the minutiae of transference of weight as I stand, sometimes as somnambulist, sleepwalking within and without myself, between hither and thither, in and out of layers of the dream. As I come to rest I feel sensations of sleep, surf around me. My neck muscles feel stretched to an ache that’s been about for a few weeks, it slides from my head across my body.

River Dart from Badgers Holt, heading downstream towards Luckey Tor
solo practice
The winter land is filled with mists and the sounds of its existence, a movement between seasons. The air filled with the chill of moving water, the dark waters of the East and West Dart coming together, ‘water coming together with other water’. The skies are filled with fine mist of cloud or rain, water droplets are gathering on the ends of twigs and thorns. The mists catch the light of the sun, shining it back into a spectrum of colours that we call rainbow. I drift about in the pauses, incoherent to myself, in motion. I am absorbed travelling from rock to rock along the path, wary of slippage potential of foot on slippery root rather than foot on rock. I have a sense of remembering this place, the rocks named Luckey Tor loom ahead emerging from the mist, although they are not as I had remembered them, a re-remembering arises as I climb high and sit dangling my legs over the edge, my body radiates through me sensations of the steep drop. I contemplate a fall from or a leap over a wide gap between rock and rock.

17 December
Chinkwell Tor
solo practice
Songs begins to emerge. I feel the call emerging from between the dark empty spaces amongst the rock formations. I stop, listen to the call and hear the echo in my bones. I follow the call to a hollow between rocks and as I enter shape myself into the hollow’s shape. There is little room to move, I settle myself into rock time. Sounds around magnify and focus my attention, filling my ears. Gathering water drips, the fall, sounding the rock lying beneath its lichen covering, drips are singing the shifting tones of each surface. Wind passes over me, funnelled by the angles of the passage between the forms of rock. As my breath slows, I feel that I expand. Whir of bird wings close by, moves the air around me, fanning my skin. Within the
hollow I am hidden, becoming as rock to the air bourn creature, invisible indivisible. Drawings of rock portals come to my mind.

14 January
Sharp Tor
solo practice
From here I see different perspectives of the moor in all directions. I see meandering tree filled valleys below holding the course of the River Dart. Strong winds travelling over the top of the tor, push and hustle me. Rocks seemingly immovable are shredded grain by grain by the rain and high winds. Small wind sculpted hawthorns speak of the predominant direction of the winds, their lower parts showing evidence animal grazing that work the trees like the most patient bonsai artist, I breathe slow time into me. I lay under the shapes resting into the wet grasses, I take the shapes into me, so that later I may place something of their expression through pencil onto paper. As I lay on the earth, I give gratitude that as elder ‘becoming’ I maintain the fluent languages of lying and rolling and crawling and falling, without these, my place on earth would be a very different one.

21 January
Scorhill stone circle
solo practice
Day comes after a long night of rain, earth is saturated, River Teign and the brook waters running into it are high, although much higher markers of rushing water lie in overhanging branches. Having walked with the song of the stone circle, I hear the running water, lower in the valley calling to me, there’s a beauty of water coming together with other water that’s wilfully wild as it follows the fall of the land to join itself in a widening rush toward the sea. Layers and layers of me are called up by the wet earth and rushing water as I lie upon the old stone clapper bridge close in to it all. I feel the pull, as it swirls beneath me filled with bronze flecks of peat that burnish the water into shimmering gold. As I lie with the moss covered rocks that are edged by the swirl of the river I feel sung amongst its song. I flow inside the layers of myself following the flow of the songs.

27 January
Sitting with the home-ground spring
solo practice
Seeking connection to the source and origin of water, listening with all my heart. Feeling the cool moving air and water in a synergy of energy and movement, water emerging from the earth and water emerging from the sky and transpiration from plant, human and animal. Song is calling, emerging to the beat of my heart. Water pulling thoughts from my head and out through my ears, the reverse of hearing. Listening pulling and pushing out the old thoughts that are now transformed into the energy of the song, through movement. The continuum of the song of the water, for ever changing, forever awake. The precious, unknowable life giving force of water all around me and within me. All of me is in motion, heightened awareness in movement amongst and all and all.

29 January
Wistman’s Wood
shared practice
So much water flowing over the surface of the earth, the wide, now well trodden track towards the small ancient wood indicates the sheer numbers of people who have come this way. Arriving at the edges of the wood, I feel unable to enter, I see that rock surfaces and trees usually clothed in moss, are flailed by the feet of numbers of human visitors. I feel a strong response in my body. I walk to the far side of the small ancient woodland. Still feeling that I cannot enter, I sit on the earth at the edge to take in the dramatic changes in the wood since my last visit some years before. I feel grief arising, huge grief arising and a strong need to leave this beautiful sacred place to itself. I weep and weep and feel a real sense of not knowing how to place myself as woman as mother as grandmother alongside all of the change all of the shifting occurring everywhere around me.

30 January
Horsham Steps and Lustleigh Cleave
solo practice
Much rain is falling from the skies onto the already saturated earth. I descend the valley side from Manaton to the boulders of Horsham Steps. The river is running hard and strong, pouring over and between boulders that the waters usually run beneath. Being amongst the power of the water is wondrous! I sing the song given to me by the spring far upstream of here, where the water has been given a different name, and still runs by me now. As I sing, women come to me, circles of women, the power of women to be kindled through love, kindness and wild ferocity, through following the power of the ancient lines, the water is singing of this. Walking away from the songs of the river and deeper into the wooded valley, the call shifts. From behind the trees the upper sides of the valley beckon, I see rock faces looking down from behind the trees. The rock faces call out as up I go to meet them, climbing amongst their forms and facets. Up and up, between, through and around. The trees become shorter the higher I climb up amongst the moving mist of rain travelling over the tree tops and closer to the upper edge of the tree line. As I scramble upward, I am reminded, by a quality of the place, of walking up river near Nissedal in Norway. There is a sense of a thinning veil in the land here, that at any moment that I may step through into another realm.

As I traveled up the river in Norway, where there was no room to walk beside the river, I travelled amongst the flow of the river jumping from rock to rock, while freezing water rushed around my feet. Higher and higher I traveled clambering up the sides of small falls of water until I came to a place where there was a steep fall that there was no manageable way up. Here I removed my clothes and stood under the descending water, excited and repelled by the freezing water, staying under the fall well beyond my imagined limit. As I dressed, I felt that I had moved through something and that although things appeared to be the same. As soon as I began to retrace my steps I felt I was in another land entirely, I felt as though the rocks beneath my feet were in motion and at anytime I may slip through between here and there, never to return. Each footstep became a gargantuan effort of grounding, each foot fall requiring all of my awareness and will power to be present.

Today, high on Lustleigh Cleave, I recall the experience, I can feel this around me, this opening on the brink of a portal to another realm. This time I see that the portal is within me, and that in truth I travel through the portal time and time again, the portal that I often search for is within as well as without.

31 January
home-ground
solo practice
I crawl into the magical place under the blackthorn where deer shelter and where fox rests in the earth. The inner cave of the blackthorn grove is filled with vibrant green of moss climbing over earth and rock and tree trunk and branch, a green so bright it is light, the green lights the undergrowth with the soft surface of its own growth. I have carried ‘the being’ in to this place with me, we sit quiet and still. I allow my seeing to widen and splinter into geometric vision which spreads out, I listen into the layers of existence with all of my senses. I hear the barked warning from deer in the distance, insistent, the warning continues intermittently. Later as I walk in the woods below home, I see that another birch tree has fallen during the recent strong winds, the settling back to earth for this being has begun. I sense that the collective of all trees is under pressure and is trying to find familiar ground in the changing weathers.

4 February
Bone Hill
solo practice
Rain filled skies are whipped up by the wind. Layers of waterproofs shield me from the caterwauling water. Once I reach the top of Chinkwell Tor I head towards Honeybag Tor, I then turn away and back on myself, away from my original direction and thoughts that are now tumbling and falling away amongst the gorse. I sit amongst the water filled everything, back against rock, my own weather, in amongst all the rain, is tumultuous under the surface. Maverick self wanting to change things and ways of old structures, at the same time so grateful for the age of the rocks in my company. The rocks are changing constantly while at the same time appear everlasting. In the valley below, the birds sing of the subtle shifts of the coming Spring, they are waking with the trees around them, to new beginnings that I am also ready for. It is a time of human made restrictions of our ways, in response to one of the many viruses that accompany us through life.

13 February
solo practice
Of the sound before words. The song of water.
I sing of the ancient stories of the earth
I feel all of her pain and all of her joy
I grieve for her and sing to her
I laugh with her
I am the dying and the birthing
I remember her and remember her from the soon after
I hold the stories of before within my body
I reflect your beauty I feel you in me
Heat and cold sing their songs through me
Sun and moon and stars light my way
until again
I descend and find the path through the fall of things
The falling back and into the beginning
the falling towards the end
I am shapeshifter never still
From deep stillness I emerge and then return
I am ancient and newborn
again and again and again without end
I am everywhere and I am nowhere
I am song and am song am song I am song

26 February
The River of Time
solo practice
Death is bored of your whimpering and resistance,
bored of your collection of masks
How long do you imagine you have left.
There is no more ‘to do’
You are already and you have always been
Stand fully in the wild that you are
Let go into the full magic that entered with you
The magic that has been with you for eons
What are you waiting for
WHAT are you waiting for
We shake our heads, you know that we are with you
We love you
We love you
Feel the golden threads, hold them gently, you are not separate from us
Let go
Stand with us
Stand with us

25 February
Hayne Down Rocks
solo practice
We’re up high, ‘the being’ and I, looking out over the ancient granite lands. I sense that sometime in the future once we are done working together that I will need to bury them deep in the earth, and this long before I die so that they are not left for people to puzzle over or to left to circumstance.
Old stories come in, there are presences, I ask for forgiveness for all hurt in others that my own distresses in the past may have caused. How do we dissolve our past while at the same time receive its gifts. Do we bury, burn, recycle, give away, forget, while we honour and remember and give thanks to the stories of our existence.

1 March
Branscome bay
witnessed practice
I am by the sea, drawings are scattered and held to the sand with pebbles. Drawings of macro, micro, earth, elements and ways, they appear to breathe as the wind finds its way beneath their surfaces, moving under the paper-held rememberings, and breathing new life into them. Sun is visible in the sky above, its light marking the drawings with my shadow that moves across their surfaces. I hold the drawn shapes with my shadow fingers. I move amongst the drawings acquainting myself with their stirrings. Sun lights the cliff face that is rising from or dropping steeply towards the sea, my eyes, my seeing, travels up the cliff face toward the sky, birds float above the edge. I feel the drawings around my feet murmur amongst the elements, whispering of the sea washed shore, rocks, plants and tides of the moon.

13 March
From Leighon and Hound Tor along Beca Brook
solo practice
The love of holly especially ancient holly, lures me always. The love of her strange distorted trunks and ancient shapes, the cold smooth surface of her body. She calls me again and again. Once, long ago, I did not recognise the beauty of holly, seeing only prickles. Now I hold her dear for my own protection and balance through staffs gathered, feminine, masculine, name, magical hand, the powers of the four cardinal directions are distilled within my four staffs. Here I am again drawn to the power of holly, her deep green skirts hang low to the earth, tree body grows close in to a corner place where moss clothed stone wall meets moss covered stone wall. I climb through the places where the wall has fallen, where stones are scattered. I sit beneath holly’s skirts between her limbs where years of fallen leaves have hollowed out to become soft skeletons, creating a bed. I rest here in the quietness of this place amongst the green under-lands, I am held amongst the fall of leaf and the surface of the earth.

15 March
solo practice
Hayne Down Rocks
The Railing
Up up to the high rocks. Here, looking over the timeless valley the ancient troll of my body wakes grunting and
groaning her resistance, she speaks in rough tongue and gurgle and spit and poke and roar, crouching low, waddling to the edge, hanging from the edge of the groaning earth she drops herself wild and weeping into the creak and groan, and roars into the stiff holding and controlling of mind. She lets her heart and mind roar from the centre, roar of the pain and grief and management of self. Here she leaps and to join the moving clouds, the wilding wind, the shifting rock and growing plants, she enters their rhythm, riding their beat as though a drum, a shifting drum beat, beat of the heart, scrape of a stick, a tender rolling and hissing of a song. The rumbling of her voice scrapes out over the land as if the sound is of an endless voice of water earth wind and fire. Their voices crawl out of her heart as she crouches now, low to the earth, genitals open to the surface of the earth, arse ready to shit the black stuff out of herself and back into the pool of all motion. Heart expanding into the beauty of the ravages of the troll of herself, she will never be gone, her beauty is too raging, too grasping to ever become still, to ever become quiet, she will rail, rail until the end.

18 March
Morning is bright

1 April
Two Bridges
solo practice
The days stretch as April comes in, less full of jokes, more whispers on the wind amidst an inner landscape as wild, ferocious and fecund as the energy and pulse of the green fire. Body is calling for deep and strong contact, bone to bone, skin to skin. By the river, the rocks call me. I lie with them, finding my shape amongst theirs, giving myself to them. I feel their cold winter depths as the air around us calls of new sun. I feel their coldness in my hands, my skin, my bones. I feel their cold winter depths alongside the intense fire from which they were born, my body holds their mirror in a deep quiet heat and through the roaring raging heart of the greening, of the greening.

8 April
River Webburn below Leusdon
solo practice
Steep banks alive with oak and birch trees stretch up towards the light. The trees still in their winter colours, ghostly, alert, utterly beautiful. Water sounding far below filters up through the ghost trees awaiting the touch paper of the green fire. Animal made pathways are visible heading downwards amongst the under growth. Following the tracks I descend to the river. Singing, singing with the river as she settles my heart. I watch the water pass by, remembering all those whose lives the water, passing here now, has moved through, she has given of herself always and always finding her way to the line of least resistance nourishing life, at times moving huge obstacles in her path, destroying all in the pathway of her movement, destroying life.

9 April
Hameldown
solo practice
The last lark
Up on the high moor all is quiet, deathly quiet. I listen, there is hardly a whisper of moving air other than my own breath. I breathe out into the silence hearing my lungs deflate. The land all around is dry, the vegetation winter poor rolls over the top of the moor in a monotone of scalded browns. The pathways have been trodden wide in the past months by the numbers of walking feet finding freedom from ‘lockdown’, earth here is as compounded as moonless darkness. On this day, a cold still day, there are few humans about, few animals to be seen, few birds visible. The heights of Hameldown stretch away to the west and to the east. Nothing stirs but a lark. Up and up the lark circles, singing and singing, up the bird rises higher and higher above the scorched winter ground. Cloud banks billow and fill the sky with wild shapes moving in tones of grey. Singing and singing, as she rises she sings as though she is the last lark ever to sing the skies, she sings and sings from the depth of her heart.
And then……..she dives, falls fast from high high in the sky, toward the earth.

18 April
Earth Songs. Walk of Life workshop
Lambert’s Castle
Steep drop of woodland. Cold air gripping tight to thoughts of winter as new leaves emerge from the earth and the fingers of trees begin to swell. I enter the wood and slowly find my way alongside trees, a tree. One of a few humans edging their way out of months of ‘lockdown’ and now alongside trees. A particular kind of call received in these times ‘to be outside for exercise’ has left me feeling a little numb to the non-human beings around me. The land feels ‘used’, walked over and through with little regard for inhabitants of other kinds, paths are over-trodden, moss erased from tree and rock, bluebells damaged inside the earth before tentatively emerging. Saddened and troubled I take steps to be with, to be alongside, to remember where I am, to give thanks, to listen, to gentle, to quieten, to notice.

24 April
Horsham Steps in wooded vale
shared practice
Even in the scalded dry, the water tumbles, water still gathers together with other water, still tumbles between ancient boulders covered in dry mosses. The song of the river has hit its low notes, its dry notes, its slithering notes, much water is elsewhere now….in the melting ice caps, in the flooding places and in the wide wide river estuaries where seas come
in to meet outward moving river waters rising in higher and higher places, unfamiliar places ….we hear that creatures are beginning to move away from faithful habitats.
Here the air and the land are dry all about the awakening Spring, the green fire now ignited, is thirsty for fuel and still tentative in places though willing to to turn the tide from old brown to rich and vibrant birch green. Here amongst the days where everything that will soon prickle is still soft to the touch and good to graze. The shapes created from water and matter stand about me, some oak shaped, some holly, some move feathered as bird, some to become the shimmering colour of blue bell. The air is awake with birdsong penetrating the sound of moving water that can mask human voice, does not dampen the power of the song of bird.

Emergent drawings, calling to be seen and remembered tumble through my awareness, although as yet they hold no shape. I can feel them as they touch the edges of my imagination, the buzzing circles are waiting to sing. Shadows shift down river with the movement of air, shadows becoming memory, becoming distance, evaporate as sound.

25 May
Charmouth Beach
mentorship
I am calling myself back from a sense of sliding around outside of myself. I call myself present to myself and other. I feel resistance, shut myself off, turn on numb. In this moment it feels too much to make myself available to myself, or to any form of other, whether rock, sea or human. I have a feeling of nothingness and an emptiness and a kind of stubborn fury that ties me in and shuts me away. I choose this. It is old and familiar and the kind of fury in which I brew fires in my gut, chew rocks and spit out pebbles. Near by, the cliffs are descending, bit by bit throwing themselves into the wild rush of brown and foaming water. Grains of earth, colour the water as the rain-bourne earth meets the sea. I move a little, lie with the rocks, call to set myself free but there is a grinding in me that is rusty and un-lubricated. The scent of the sea merges with my rustiness as it foams over the rocks on the incoming tide. I remember this way of being well, I feel sickened and saddened inside it and somehow feel safe in it at the same time. I feel separate, tied up tied in. I remember this place well, the memories sit deep in my very young heart.

26 May
Charmouth hall
mentorship
I walk the room with the drawings and ‘the being’ in their basket. I lay out drawings as they emerge and leave them where they fall to the floor and slide to their resting place. ‘The being’ lays inside their basket, the roundness of basket and the roundness of the drawings. I work with the ‘stitched drawing’ upon my body, lie beneath it, I feel my heart beating against the drawing. I move away from the image to then hold the basket in my lap while I sit amongst the drawings. I hold ‘the being’ in their basket as I walk on my knees, as I walk upright, as I stand in the centre of the pool of drawings, feeling their songs. I move drawings, carry some, slide some.

I travel through the room with the drawings held flat, or over my back, I lay on my back under a drawing with my arm extended out from under, my arm position reminds me of the first moment ‘the being’ emerged from the box of ‘burnt embers’, arm first. I feel merged with the work and feel its the layers.

26 May
Charmouth Beach
Cliff descending, sky, land, water entering the crevices in the soft back of the earth. Opening her pores to slough off skin, micro layers tumbling in great cliff faces of grey, falling to be sifted and sorted by the sea, suspended streaks of earth skin marking the movements of tides and moon. New washed and ancient pebbles scour the long laid out rocks, smoothing them and softening their surfaces as they slowly dissolve.

27 May
Charmouth hall
mentorship
Amongst others, I am following and being with myself. I am filled with the magic and power of the morning sun and the fiery breakfast eaten at Rousdon Kitchen where music, food, conversation, play, creative impulse, good coffee, memories, the inner and the collective come together with thoughts, objects, dreams, impulse, history, future, present, old ways, new ways. Structure of mind and body making same same same different different other otherness othering, emptying out structure of self, of space, of thought. Wide wide remembering of all possibility, the old dream in the new dream and the ancient original instructions for living life in harmony and balance with all beings, fizzing about around and between. Messages in the air and body and earth, messages coming in from past and future. There are eons of time and space in a day in the field amongst others in practice.

27 May
Lambert’s Castle
Climb. Rest. Hang. Feel. Follow. Enter. Embrace. Push. Receive. Circumambulate. Tree. Body. Moss. Body. Trust. Risk. Enter. Between. Limb. Limpet. Tree elf. Visible. Invisible. In the company of, in the company of other women in trees. Tree at rest. Tree in leaf under damp moss covering, tree cloaked in shimmering green breath of green, new green

After movement practice, during ‘verbal check in’ I say ‘nobody in the world is going to make me do anything’… although in fact I can make myself do anything, that IS HILARIOUS! I can make myself do anything and sometimes that is to ‘punish’ someone else! WILD! Stubbornness is a super power, sometimes the super power turns against the superhero and puts them in a cage of their own making. My stubbornness can be a protest as strong as the stance of the women at Greenham Common in solidarity for peace for all beings. When does the super power serve me and when does it hurt me and others? As a child I imagined that resistance kept me safe – now I see that quite often it hurtled me inside a dark cupboard to await rescue that never came because I had placed such a strong container around myself that there was literally no entry OR exit, like one of David Blane, escapologist’s, cubes of ice….no calling for rescue, no voice only a drawing in ice, unseen or seen too late as the ice had already melted, message not received.
Fortunately, I have thawed considerably and have much less need for impenetrable boxes and I have learned to swim in cold waters. I see that a quality of perfection is a residue of that old stubbornness. ‘Thank the lord’ that I also LOVE wildness, loudness, rudeness, play, chaos, vomit, mess, chaos and unpredictability, it is my medicine…..although in times these can become a great ‘circus’. I love them even if they are a deflection and I also LOVE stubbornness, I love mad and bad and yet I can still, when needed, put myself back in place, because without that capacity, I might truly be gone!

Movement stirs, awakens, transmogrifies and heals.

I sit at the edge of the room, part of a circle of movers in the writing of my present self on to the page, while others find their way into movement practice. Decompression alongside others is a deep part of the creative process. Integration is not always quietness or undertaken alone, decompression and integration feel akin to each other and that they are both related to breath, to an out breath or to a breath taken in to deeply fill the lungs while quietly flipping through the pages of a book or laughing, eating and playing.

Somewhere amongst all of this residue of living, lays deep gentleness, love, time and space. A welcoming of all that is in me and around me. I sit in the pool of it all and it is a wonder, a wonder to behold.

I find it such a relief when people are being themselves and I am being myself.

29 May
Seatown
mentorship
We are walking the coast towards the plateau of blue lias clay and the land of the great ‘doughnut boulders’ that lie in a wide curve at low tide between land and sea.

Memories emerge here of crawling across the shallow tide pools from one large boulder to another and then spying the other through the hole in a large ‘hag stone’ I was carrying between here and there, still resides in my studio. I remember that it was in a rock pool in this place where I had found the bottom of an old upturned wine bottle and then with a sense of great excitement and awe, I saw, once I had picked it up, that it was a fossilised Ichthyosaurus vertebrae….. Further memories of collecting plastics and other flotsam from the high tide line as a performance, noticing while I did so that the sea had already graded the rubbish, the detritus had been deposited by weight, the lighter the item the higher it was flung.

On this day, I enter the site slowly. Facing the sea I settle on the shingle. A basket of memory rests in my crossed legged lap, I sit quiet and wait for impulse or movement to awaken. Once I begin to move, I stay low, sliding or crawling through watery pools. In their own basket lay ‘the being’, their name held amongst the thread of life, name held inward and awake inside themselves, the measure of a name held vast in the silence of it. I cradle them inside their basket as I look for a place amongst the rocks to leave them at rest.

The shallow tide pool is warm. Rocks and seaweed are covered in a thin film of blue lias clay, leaving the pool looking uninviting and murky, with a feeling of lifelessness. I enter the warm pool at a crawl, slipping and sliding over the soft clay submerged in the warm water. Anemones sift the silt, translucent prawns dart here and there, a green crab scuttles away from my crawling. Here is life and yet I feel a deadness in the pool and hardly a stifled breath in the sea. I slither amongst the pools and over rocks, moving slowly, crab like, slippery as eel. I make my way through the slime of lias lining all the pools and covering the rocks around them, it glazes the surfaces around me, fogging and drowning the shallows in sludge which covers my body and soaks into the fabric of my clothing. I move and place the basket, circumnavigate its placing to sense if I feel able to move on alone. ‘The being’ seems alert to my movement, watchful and listening. I leave and return and move again, restless restless feeling disturbance.
7 June
The drawings are increasing in both form and number. There’s something emerging in the work about the stretch between order and chaos. I feel that I thrive in both, they are my home. The work now feels that it needs to be released into chaos in order for it to fully come alive. It is for this reason, that when I work in the field of drawings I do not plan or wish to know in advance what will arise. I feel that there are layers and layers present inside the work, layers to explore and let go into. I feel the need to explore amongst the drawings, that they have a need to rub against each other, to mark each other, be marked by weather, marked by the movement of my feet or the rub of my body, face or feel of my hands. They are not separate from me or from each other, when they come together they create a single unified field. They ask not to be framed or to be hung on walls. They ask to be in service to whence they emerged and through movement to express the stories that they call to make visible.

1 July
Manaton hall
shared practice
Dipping and dithering in and out of chat and practice and reading notices on the village board, I shift and then pull a drawing from the growing pile of images and bring it into the space. This the most vast seeming and most unknown to me of all the images, it leaves me floundering. I draw it this way, as though it is horizon, distant, distant. Thin feint horizontal lines cross the space inside a pencil drawn circle, pencil circling many times. Distant horizon as seen across the sea, seen through the porthole of a ship, it’s a field unquantifiable, apart from the sense I feel of horizon, the place where the sea pours off the edge of the flat earth. Distant horizon seen looking across a desert a shimmering mirage as if water is present in the far off distance. Pools of water seen where there is none, a thirst for distance, a thirst that cannot be slaked.

The field opens into the shimmering space between, to a place where magic can arise and where the threads can gather themselves together to become form, solid form or perhaps light or the scent of something. Are the shimmerings contained by the outer circle of the drawing or glimpsed through a fleeting concentration of seeing? I draw and I do not know. I feel the empty space, vastness filled with light, a glimmering, a glistening so bright that everything is present and everything is hidden amongst the intense light. The transmission continues, a tangible thrumming of existence. Is this a sound or a shape or a form? Is it a coming together or a scattering, a falling apart? Is it contained or wide open, glimpsed, sensed, or perhaps simply felt and not seen? How do I feel this drawing within my body, my heart, ankle, belly or in my mind? Is it a thought or a movement, is it sharp or soft, liquid or pure vibration, is it water or air? I do not know, I cannot know.

10 July
My practice notes hold threads of what is calling. Finding the story of ‘the being’ and also the next step of writing into or alongside the images. I sense that the practice notes are not words to be worked with directly in relation to the drawings, I feel that the sound and pitch or vibration of the words is somehow too ‘high’ for the drawings. I hear a call for the words of the drawings to emerge from a place lower down, deep down, earth language, to emerge from the place where the images came from, like a singing of the old ones, from a time before time.

21 July
Branscombe Bay
witnessed practice
Landing and widening. Glassy sea, lens of water rippling the pebbles, timeless slow motion of movement. The day is wide open, calm sea and hot air, the place feels like another land, a place that I may have encountered on another island but not here in Devon. I have come without reference to my current work, no ‘being’, no drawings, no talk, just the intention to move amongst what is and what I feel I have the need to express. Out of days amongst a sense of ‘floating’, I feel the need for grounding and widening, to stretch my parts out, to open my senses, my awareness, to breathe deep and to feel the touch and holding of the earth. To call myself awake to the point where my cells become porous.
The sea is a seemingly endless stream of clear calm, stretching beyond the horizon that is indivisible from the sky. Clear sea mirroring clear sky, holding a crystal clarity that opens far beneath into the bed of the sea. My eye follows the movement of a dog fish swimming below the surface of the water. Fish jump into the clear wide air. There is heron, still as an arrow poised for flight in a bow.
Inside myself I feel the stillness of the heron, I call myself awake from my toes to my finger tips, a sense of awakening that requires nothing more. I follow small impulses and sensory explorations, small sounds of water and breath and the movement of gravel responding to the weight of my body as I move. Heron moves the poised arrow of herself to another place amongst the rocks that still remain above the surface of the incoming tide. There is a feeling of vast awake. As I take in heron and let her fly through me and out through my movements, I am filled with delight in experiencing the small shifts of attention, weight and shape.
I hear a breath and a ripple of moving water close to the rocks where heron stands as sentinel, I feel my thoughts drift to seal, I breathe as though emerging from water myself, a plume of release emerging whale-like from the top of my head. Heron is in my field of awareness as I move, we are points in space amongst the rocks on land and in the sea. Tide is almost imperceptibly moving landward like the bulging meniscus of an over full bowl, water is slowly covering the hunting grounds of heron.

Four motor boats head west across the glassy sea, in time their passing is remembered in the lapping of water meeting shingle, the lapping creates a passing flurry bringing the shingle under water into a magnification and as though it is the shingle that is moving.
I am filled with all of this, again I hear a sound that I interpret as the out breath of a seal. I often call to seals along this coast, they do not come and seem far away on the edges of my dreams, but not here, not today. Today there truly is a seal, nose toward the sky, resting on the slowly incoming tide. The seal, sometime basking, at other times swimming, its back creating ripples in the glass surface of the sea making water markings of its presence alongside the ripples and twirls of fish also in motion under the surface. I am filled with awe through the heat of this day of truly another land, a halcyon day.
To enter practice and to be witnessed creates a most powerful container I feel akin to ceremony, a place to let go of time, to bring in full awareness and to let go of the everyday and any distraction of thought. To enter a sense of wonder in these turbulent times is deeply precious.

Horizon of Agnes Martin
….I look out far to where my eyes see nothing, look out far to where my eyes see nothing, further, further into the shimmering of the dessert or the ocean or the edges of the sky. Look out father, further, father, further than you can know. Look out look out….see the edges see the pool…hear the strings coming together, distant, distant far away in the time before, the strings shiver, the strings shiver shiver colours and sound and spaces the strings far away they come here now always now the strings are far away they are here always now they are here….the strings…

30 July
bank of trees above home
shared practice
The old trees are writhing in the winds, great trunks pulled by their branches into the surges of air, whipping up branch, twig, leaf. I lie in the tree amongst the movement and feel the pull and the push of the wind as I float in space between the gusts. I am held steady, waves of excitement sweep through me as the rhythms and power of air move me and around me, scattering the structure of the tree in to new and ever changing patterns, testing fluidity and strength. I suddenly feel trapped inside my body, wishing to fly with the wind, a fear swells inside me. Fear of dying. It is not death I fear but the pathway to death, the fear sometimes surfs through my mind getting hold of my thoughts, the response to them rampage around my body sending signals that skitter and disturb. I throw any semblance of calm into the winds of change.

7 September
Branscome Bay
after witnessed practice
As I drive to Branscombe Bay and see that the car park is heaving with cars and long lines of people are waiting at the machine to buy a parking ticket. I see that this is not a normal day. People are out and about, they leave lots of space between each other as they queue to buy a parking ticket. They have come to the sea for respite from restrictions of behaviour due to the viral outbreak. All feels full. I feel full. There is much that is swirling around me and inside me, too much to engage with on a busy beach on a hot day.
I meander, I rest, I eat and in the midst of it all I see heron.
20 September
I enter a time and space in which I invite the drawings to speak through me. I pull a drawing from the pile, not knowing which will emerge. I see it with my eyes, each one as familiar to me as skin, I feel each one deeply, I feel the places from where they emerged.

The being is present. One at a time the one that has been drawn from the pile begins to speak through me, although I sit on the floor with my eyes closed, I can feel movement arising, my arms and hands and upper body begin to express what also arises as sound and word. I let go and enter the portal. After each channeling, I name the drawing in line with the words and image.

Circle of Twenty Trees
I am so comfortable inside them all, like there is nothing for me to remember and I know where I am I know where they are …..if I ask or if I listen I can hear everything and there is nothing to hear, the spaces between are not spaces they are joined they are filled and they are empty and they sing. I hear them singing. I am there and they are singing and ah..I am sorry, I feel sorry, I feel such grief, I feel, I feel, I feel all the cells, I feel, I feel you.

The Vast Mare
Here is the story that I remember of a vast horse in the sky, the great vast horse in the blackness of the sky that would bite holes in its flanks to let the stars through so the blackness becomes filled with points of light, the story I read in a book by Catherine M Valente. I see the horse in the sky often amongst dark dark nights, the stars wide and open, I do not know their stories but they fall upon my head they fall upon my shoulders and open up inside my skin, for I am made of star and I see in the darkness the star, vast open layers of light between, light calling in darkness of the vast mare home to herself, the great soft coat and deep rich scent of horse, as my of own skin, horseness, horseness star light.

30 September
Bone Hill
solo practice
Great holes in the sky are pulling the moving air into themselves….wind.. I am up high amongst cloud water. It is not long before I am wet right through my waterproofs and in some places to my skin. I walk across the top of hills, buffeted by the wind, my footsteps unsteady, my hood trummelling in the wind, snapping like the sheet of a sail. I am surrounded in cloud, held, near to and far away visible, invisible moment by moment. I am awake amongst the turbulence. As animal I turn myself towards sheltered places, under and around and between rocks, places that funnel the wind but catch the rain. I am surrounded by wind songs humming to me through the rocks, I lie amongst them in the glory as dampness seeps through my clothes and I seep into the mosses.

8 October
mentorship
Movement of arrival, five other women moving in space, six of us in the company of each other. Slipping in and out, travelling here and there in time and space, present in the body, feeling both internal weather and surrounding weather, interface of body, structure, heart, thought, movement, breath, imagination, other, in the dance and of the dance, fluid and restricted, opening and closing.

Later at the base of Beer cliffs I fall into ‘vision sleep’, sound, winds, sea, drip, bird searching, flying wings, cliff shaking, green coverings, red velvet breath, nook, pebbles, water movement, shapes, cavity, fine fine bird legs, drips, cavern roof, women wanderers, Samuel Beckett pile of earth.

9 October
Beer
from cave to sea
mentorship
I imagined that I would crawl deep inside a pebble filled cave and press myself into her edges and surfaces, feel the eon filled weight above me pressing down and that I would rest in amongst the ancient pressure yet unreleased. I crawl into the entrance of the tunnel, surfaces of sea worn rock all around me, I turn then, away from what I had imagined and the dark interior and crawl out into the light. I stand in the brightness and then walk to the edge of the sea. Slipping off my outer layers of clothing, I enter the seaweed filled pools bare foot, feeling my way out to the edge with hands and feet, sometimes crawling, sometimes still as the heron hunting nearby. Great fronds of kelp offering the fans of themselves as hold fast, strong in their tethering to the rocks. Amongst their murkiness, the pools of October sea are warm, small fish dart away from my movement alerting me to their presence. As I enter a big clear pool I am filled with the joy of adventuring through the undergrowth of the sea.

10 October
Branscome hall
Golden Threads Gather Up
mentorship
Clouds open up to the sun sea shimmers in a mottle of bright and quiet sea colours of the sky. Horizon holds it’s breath. My mind is busy with thought.

Later this morning I will work with my drawings. I cannot imagine what will arise. Thoughts and images drift through my mind as I feel the call from deep inside my body. I feel the gap between the places, like a call and an echo to which I wish to open.

The pool of bright sunlight on the surface of the sea concentrates into a searchlight focus, brightens then softens again around its edges.

Perhaps I will begin with the ‘map’, the first drawing of the series and feel the way through the map to see where I am called to go, or perhaps I’ll stick a pin in the map to open up the adventure and then let myself fall deep into the echo of it all and speak or move or sing. I call it all to come through in its own way and not to be held in or held back by my very busy mind.

A search light pool of the sun moves across the surface of the sea looking into the depths of the mirror of itself.

Back in the studio, entering practice, I feel something begin to arise in the open movement session. I could feel myself energetically surfing in and out of the room, distant from myself and unable to fully enter practice. I chose to let myself fully inhabit what I was experiencing, heavy though it felt. The weight was over powering, a sense of distance and separation building as others moved around me.
As I begin to offer my work for others to witness, I freeze. I need to leave the room, I head outside. “You don’t need to come and rescue me” I say as I leave. Shutting down, I feel the need to separate, to be able to come back to myself. After some time sitting outside at the table under the tree, I was able to return and continue to offer my work. Once back in the studio, the work emerged by itself, it opened wide into the space of the room. Drawings on the floor, wide open in the space ‘the map’ in the centre. All drawings, so familiar, have come through me are at the same time, not of me, having entered through the portal of the land and my body, the earth, the shapes, the seasons, themselves, the senses, the depths, the spaces between, the stars, beyond the stars, the near to and the far distant. I speak the words collected through my journeying. I read them out and I feel that as I read they emerge through their original frequency and resonance. I speak of the layers of portal and the ‘no name’ of ‘the being’. I speak of the beginning and ending and the nature of the work as mine and also not mine. I feel that something in me came back home and that the work was opening and finding its place.

11 October
Blackbury Camp
Stick house
mentorship
Sun warms my back. October sun is filled with the promise of falling leaves. Small shifts of air caress my skin while slow currents of coolness move over my face. Around me, birdsong travels through the sunlit air, filled with the sounds of insects, the hum and the buzz of exchange and conversation between insect, bird, air, tree and plant. The life is in the air is all around me, as the air itself gives me life. I breathe amongst all life. I feel myself upon the earth, the weight of my body pressing into the surface of stones within the earth. Grasses and other plants green the surface around me in the colours of light and warmth, water and soil. I lie with the earth and rest into myself amongst the warmth of the sun, under the stag horn branches of oak tree, I gaze the sky, resting, imagining, entering the dream, sunlit cobwebs shimmer between the grasses, earth’s deep scent fills the air. Deep deep scent of time. Cosmic fabric, deep time moving.

There’s a glimpse of something that comes in behind or with something I come across….a song, an experiment, a vertebrae, a memory, an idea, a rock with a face, something waiting to be found. As though everything is present in its full potential, the potential of being seen for what it truly is – or perhaps it could be said that everything is a portal into the sacred dream of existence and if we become aware of its presence, the portal will open. ‘Dreaming while awake’ they come in with a thread attached, an invisible thread of energy, if I notice that it’s there and pull very gently, almost stroking it or breathing it in… calling gently with my breath, my soul, my will, my imagination – it may begin to respond – A weaving that has begun to emerge can only come in its particular way and time, coming in through my physical existence, coming from my ancestors, both human and non-human, and all else that has gone before. In these moments it is essential to perceive outside my own box.

The work I have made has transformed itself from the imagining of one thing into an altogether other thing, a wild, unexpected and delightful thing. I have felt myself transformed and renewed alongside the emergence of the work. To witness others exploring within unique creative fields, while I work alongside, is a jewel filled with all variations of time and possibility. Here all lays in its place, deep within and a part of everything, a vast locked secret for which the key is awareness and love.