I’ve always been more comfortable writing about my work than talking about it. As an introvert, there’s something comforting and safe about being able to hone written words to say exactly what I want to say (or as close as I can come within the limits of my vocabulary). This is something I can do quietly, alone, and the messy first drafts (and second, third and fourth drafts) can be hidden away from public view. When I present my words to the world they are polished, and if not perfect, at least moulded and crafted and in some kind of order that I’m content with.
When my good friend and creative collaborator Naomi Woddis invited me for an interview for her podcast The Two of Us, along with the excitement and pleasure at having been asked, I felt a certain amount of trepidation. The Two of Us is a brilliant podcast exploring connections between art, mental health and wellbeing, and along with my imposter syndrome kicking in (standard), I also wondered whether I’d be able to articulate myself through my voice rather than through the written word. Could I explain my work, would what I say make any sense? I usually take a long time to mull things over and come to a conclusion, would I be able to answer questions on the spot?
I’ll leave you to decide how successful I was at this! (you can listen to the podcast here, or on whatever platform you usually listen to podcasts). And while it took me way out of my comfort zone - and with hindsight there were definitely questions I might have answered differently, more articulately, more clearly - what I’ve taken away from the experience is something I’m treasuring. Like really good conversations do, it’s got me really thinking. This is very much down to Naomi’s skill as an interviewer - each question felt like a whole world to explore, and many of them are still percolating and resonating. And interestingly, it’s the questions that I didn’t immediately know the answer to, that I feel like I fumbled my way through and put myself through the wringer about afterwards, that have provided the richest food for thought. So I thought I would return to my old friend, the written word, to explore some of the thoughts and ideas in more depth. And maybe I’ll let myself off the hook regarding the polishing, and let the rambling, questioning, unfinished thoughts take up the space I often struggle to allow them.
At the end of last year I read a brilliant book called ‘Losing Eden: Why our Minds Need the Wild’ by Lucy Jones. The book explores the connections between nature and wellbeing (something I feel I have always innately, but perhaps unconsciously, known), and one aspect that really spoke to me was the importance of awe for our wellbeing. Scientists have found that the experience of awe has numerous positive effects, among them increasing happiness and lowering stress. In her explorations of awe, Lucy muses “Awe-inspiring experiences of nature, such as visiting the Grand Canyon or white water rafting [are] not available for the majority of the human population… Is awe a luxury today?”
One of Naomi’s questions from the podcast was how I experience an inner sense of wildness. What wildness means to me in my interior landscape, rather than the exterior. My answer was around authenticity - tuning in to how I’m feeling and honouring that. Some days that might look classically ‘wild’, and I might want to throw paint around or swim in the river or run barefoot on the beach with the wind in my hair. And other days it might be a much quieter, subtler, more introverted kind of wild, which sees me reaching for a notebook, or, often, my camera, and spending time alone, quiet, thinking, reflecting and noticing.
Sometimes my inner wild sees me (and my similarly nature-loving partner) getting up in the small hours of a cold October morning, and leaving the house at 6am to drive an hour and a half through the drizzly dark to a coastal nature reserve in the hope, but no certainty, of seeing something magical, and arriving, and walking, and sitting, and waiting. And waiting. Eyes glued to the glimmers of movement in the gradual lightening of the grey late-autumn dawn. A ripple, a flurry… stillness. Hushed breaths and murmurs. And then… a rush of sound such as I’ve never heard, and a soaring, a swooping, a mass of thousands upon thousands of birds moving as one, shape-shifting and swirling and taking my breath and squeezing my heart and filling my eyes with tears at the sheer wonder of it. The sheer awe. Almost not wanting to lift my camera, not wanting anything to create a barrier between me and this moment of pure magic.
