Anyone For Polo daahling?

Ah the great British Summertime. How I love the grey skies and endless downpours. It reminds me of why we’re such a resilient nation...

On Sunday just past, we took a stand in the ‘Luxury Shopping Village’ at the Veuve Cliquot Polo finals at Cowdray Park. The expression “it seemed like a good idea at the time” springs to mind.

The day dawned brightly enough after a Saturday of torrential rain. In the wee small hours I trawled the internet, determined to find a weather report that corresponded with my requirements & succeeded in locating one that forecast 10% chance of precipitation for most of the day.

That’ll teach me. 

Actually the whole day taught me a lot.

My first lesson came at 8am as Chris, our glamorous friend Dorothy & I unloaded box after bag of stuff from our borrowed van (thank you Charlie!) in the horizontal rain. 

Imagining balmy weather, 20,000 wealthy polo supporters with shopaholic tendencies and a stand full of impulse purchases, I had prepared mountains of (rather heavy) stock for sale.

I cursed myself for my absurd overoptimism & lack of reality as our 3 metre x 3 metre stand filled first with stock & then with rain. And I ran around panicking, trying to find waterproof items for the front displays while Chris told me to pull myself together & Dorothy quietly soldiered on.

Once again I feel bound to admit to my bad behaviour. (I try, honestly I do.) Unfortunately my Positive Mental Attitude deserted me (and this despite the fact that it was me that booked the stand in the first place - I’m blushing as I write.)  

Sadly I was more PMT than PMA, more Pat Butcher than Pollyanna, and I proceeded to girn and greet until the stand started to take shape - thanks mostly to the forbearance of my trusty helpers.

The end result was rather Aladdin’s Cave meets East End market - sort of what I was going for. But more panic set in when I surveyed my fellow Petworthians‘ elegant ‘room settings’ tastefully merchandised with a few choice items.    

As the rain squalls increased in violence & frequency, a trickle of visitors started to appear. Already striving to avoid the mud forming in puddles around the grounds, they scurried up & down the streets glancing halfhearted & apologetic into the stands before disappearing out of sight.

By this time Heidi & Dorothy’s sons had appeared with a welcome cool box full of wine. The idea had been to ply potential customers with a wee glass as they shopped. Instead the cool box became a first aid kit, fortifying us as we dripped and dribbled beneath the angry skies.

All was not lost however. We had brought with us some wellies & brollies left over from a previous Sale. As word got round that we were the only stand selling waterproof footwear we were inundated with women in pretty frocks & mud soaked shoes. Squabbles ensued as they fought over the few remaining pairs.

Like a scene from Cinderella, our customers crammed their feet into boots too big or too small until we finally sold the last pair of size 8s plus two pairs of socks to a petite girl with size 4 feet.

One drenched family purchased a birdcage umbrella to shelter their three small children. I watched as they huddled inside it, shuffling off like a giant, rose covered jellyfish.

And the comedy rain continued to pour - I swear someone was on top of our stand emptying whole bath loads’ of water at a time onto our heads. The tarpaulin on the front of our stand was up and down like a whore’s drawers with us steaming gently inside.

Ah but isn’t that the point of events like this? The good old British spirit came to the fore and visitors and traders alike decided that, whatever the weather, we were going to enjoy ourselves.

As the rain downed and the mud rose we sang and danced and laughed at the absurdity of the scene. Girls in short frocks and sensible boots mingled with ladies in maxi dresses and bare feet. We have never seen so much ruined footwear in one day - Italy’s cordwainers must have been throwing their hands up in horror. And like days of yore those in platform wedges rose above the mire and sailed past, feet still relatively clean.

At 3pm the first match began and the clouds parted above the pristine emerald polo fields to reveal a perfect glimpse of sunlit England. The sleek players and sleeker horses galloped and thwacked to the delight of the now steaming crowds.

With the sun came other exotic delights: Dear Georgina from Guilt Lingerie had booked a model to promenade our High Street. As this glorious golden beauty negotiated the mud in crystal encrusted wellies and little else, the male population gave their own impression of the sun breaking through, beaming & sighing as if the world were now a better place.

And it was! Crowds cheered, families squabbled, couples laughed. And a crowd of youths, as good looking as an Abercrombie & Fitch advert frolicked and chatted in giant striped babygros. I swear, huge all-in-ones with zips that would please a bondage expert, ‘designed to be worn in leisure time’ I’m told - yes well...

At 6pm our friends and us sneakily decanted our stand into the back of our, now exceedingly muddy, van and vamoosed it out of there. Unloaded and cosy in front of The Apprentice final, I silently thanked the loved ones who had kept me going through the long day; thanked the husband who stood by me in my (often suspect) decisions; thanked my fellow Petworthians for their good humour & community spirit. And thanked God that I was now warm and clean and able at last to put it down to experience.

PS: My lessons in realism, magnanimity, community spirit & appreciation were hard learnt that day but I was pleased to have been given the chance to so. 

Nearly a week later I bumped into one of my neighbours from the day. I can’t tell you how pleased I was to hear from her that she too had had a sense of humour failure!

Oops, more to learn then... 

My Sister

Last night I watched a brilliant movie - “In Her Shoes”, a story about two sisters played by Toni Colette & Cameron Diaz. I laughed and cried in turn. Nothing new there then, given my propensity for leaking.

But I cried not only at the plot and the delicious Ms Diaz but because I have a sister just like her. My sister Kirsten is the Cameron Diaz to my Toni Colette - tall, blonde, willowy, beautiful, sassy - everything you don’t want in a sister (too much competition!) and everything I love.

Kirsten is my adopted step-sister, to give her her official title. But she has been in my life forever. My first memory of her is when her parents (her dad later to become my step-dad) brought her home just a few months old.

I remember my first glimpse of her when I was 7, lying on a changing mat, tiny and perfect in a little white dress and white shoes decorated with pompoms. She was born stylish. Over the years we grew up together sharing holidays and weekend trips on Loch Lomond. 

When many years later our parents married we shared a bedroom on visits and grew closer, with me envying her spunk and beauty and loving her all the more for sharing it with me.

I’m the middle girl of three - a brother on either side instead of the still-born sister I should have had. Don’t get me wrong, it suited me just fine that way. I ruled the roost and forged my place as the only sister with two brothers to boss around, especially loved because of the older sister that wasn’t to be.

And yet I never resented Kirsten, no, I loved her as if she were my own flesh and blood. As we grew older together we spent more time in each other’s company. On graduating from Glasgow School of Art she moved to Edinburgh where I lived with Gavin and Max, working as a graphic designer and playing the perfect Aunty, drifting in and out of our lives looking gorgeous and with a string of delectable boyfriends in tow.

When Gavin and I split up it was Kirsten who saw me through it - plying me with wine and taking me out, playing her favourite Indiana Jones movies and making me laugh. We danced together and flirted together. She had a line in put downs that would impress Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada and is still to this day the most spectacular drunk I’ve ever met.

On nights out clubbing Kirsten wore the most vertiginous heels making her over 6 foot tall - and making me the perfect height for leaning on as the evening progressed. A complete health nut, when drunk she would insist on purchasing deep fried king rib suppers from the chippy washed down with cans of Irn Brew. Eating these while walking was a performance in itself and on making it back to her New Town flat she would frequently pass out on the floor still clutching the remains of said supper and eating it cold when she finally woke up the next day. 

Oh how I admired her style. KIrsten always knew how to work hard and play hard and I lived vicariously through her for all the years I tried (and still do) to be good and behave properly.

It was Kirsten who I went to when depression finally gripped me so tightly that I couldn’t move without crying, Kirsten who trusted me with her most precious secrets, Kirsten who turned to me and shared my bed when her boyfriend suffered a blood clot on his brain. Just as sisters should be.

Then she moved to Sydney, Australia - striding out into the wide world where I’d never had the courage to venture. I wasn’t the best at keeping in touch - a Luddite with computers and no real clue about emailing, caught up in my own dramas back home.

But when she returned for holidays I would happily travel to wherever she was to spend time with her - that’s what sisters do.

And then my mum died and Kirsten returned to be with her family. Once again we shared our old room and she fought off her jet lag to support us all though our grief. Together again.

It was Kirsten I asked to be Maid of Honour at my first wedding and Kirsten who called me from Australia on the morning of my marriage to Chris.  

And yet as I sit here in the wee small hours we haven’t had any contact for years. It happened so gradually that I didn’t even realise it had for a long time. I’d arrange to see her on her visits and she’d be too busy. I’d have birthday presents returned from Sydney because she’d moved house and not told me. Eventually she returned from Oz and I booked a flight up to Scotland to see her only to be told bluntly that she wasn’t interested.

It broke my heart to be rejected by her. I asked for an explanation and never received an answer. I wracked my brains for reasons, and over the years have thought of many - times I let her down, times I broke her confidence - wondering if our differences had rent us apart.

Several years ago when life became intolerable and it seemed as if I had lost many of the people I loved, I sought professional help, looking for answers that never came. Had I been so deluded for so many years? Was I a complete stranger to myself?

I didn’t find those answers but I learnt to accept these losses by listening to my therapist’s wise words: “Laura, you are only ever 50% of a relationship, you cannot control the choices and feelings of the other person”. A hard lesson indeed but one that I have practiced over and over as the years have passed and my sister has become a stranger to me.   

Kirsten is married now with a baby daughter of her own. My step-dad and step-brother keep me informed of her life and I have learnt to accept that the next time we meet, many years from now, will probably be at my step-father’s funeral.  

I no longer try to contact her, I fight my desire to know what went wrong and strive to accept that I am not a part of her life. This is my life lesson.

And I thank Kirsten for the good times and bad times we shared, for enriching my life for so many years and for being true to herself. Perhaps if we had been blood sisters it would have been different, perhaps not? It doesn’t matter, I am grateful all the same.

Gone Fishin'

You may have worked out by now that Chris is a bit of a hunter-gatherer. He loves to shoot rabbits & make them into casseroles (delicious) and catch fish to cook fresh.


Since we've been in Montana he's been looking longingly at every stretch of fast flowing water and sagely pronouncing that "these rivers smell very fishy". So on our trip to Cody, Wyoming last week we stopped into a fishing shop and asked about the best time of year to fish here.


"Every month but June" was the expert's reply. Oh dear. This June has been particularly tricky because they've had a very snowy winter & wet spring so the rivers are high and muddy. No fishing then...


Ah, but Chris isn't so easily put off. There appeared to be one possibility: The Bighorn River, a convenient 2 hour drive from the ranch. And so I found myself goin' fishin' for the first time.


Now I'm a woman and an optimist. I pictured a lively scene surrounding said river: Perhaps a few bars & restaurants, some shopping opportunities and the chance for me to relax with my books and laptop while Chris indulged his love of fishing - perfect (not).


When we arrived at Fort Smith on the Crow Indian Reservation it amounted to a collection of trailers, a few cabins, some fishing tackle shops and a lodge. Added to this, I'd completely got the wrong location and was looking for the Bighorn Lake, which turned out to be 100 miles away in Wyoming.


Keeping my disappointment to myself, we drove up to a mountain resevoir, ate a hamburger and returned to Fort Smith to prepare ourselves for the fishing trip. Having revised the situation I decided to accompany Chris on the river (since there wasn't anything else to do). 


Arriving back we found a steady stream of keen fishermen back from a day on the river. Chris was in his element talking flies & casts and the ones that got away. I realised why we were there (for him) and settled down to enjoy the stories of these men who'd travelled from all over the States to fish the Bighorn River.


It turns out this river is one of the top 5 places to fish in the world! What luck to find it so close to where we're staying.


The friendliness and curiosity of the Americans we've met is one of the best things about our visits to Montana. The Montanans especially are open and genuine with a directness that is refreshing in this day and age.


After a very stuffy night's sleep (the Mosquitoes were biting so no open windows & the air conditioning unit sounded like a V8 engine) we awoke to a steaming hot day. The temperature was set to rise to 100' - phew.


I leapt out of bed having spotted a real coffee shop. I've only had one cappuccino since we arrived in the States and I was beside myself at the prospect of another. At 7am I joined two lovely ladies from Idaho who had decided that "if you can't beat them, join them" and were fishing with their husbands. 


Having 'visited' with them for a while it was soon time to meet our guide - a delightful man called Jim who'd been fishing the river for 25 years and who's kids all loved to fish too. Off we set, packed lunches in hand, for a day traversing a 12 mile stretch of the Bighorn.


And what a pleasure it was to be out on the water and sharing the enthusiasm of these avid fishermen. The banks were lined with Cottonwood trees and sweet clover, we saw Herons and Cranes and a Sea Eagle, and the gentle breeze off the water kept us cool and the Mosquitoes at bay.


Chris spent 6 hours standing in the hot sun casting & 'mending' and catching fish. I don't think I've seen a bigger grin on a man's face, and when he caught  a succession of Brown Trout and Rainbow Trout I thought he was going to expire in ecstasy.


A total of 8 fish were caught (and at least 20 lost) by the end of the day. And no fishing trip would be complete without the one that got away: a 2 feet, 10lb Brown trout that bit through the line - perfect.


On returning to the ranch we were fortunate enough to have Buffalo Mike Montana (so named by me because he's called Mike, comes from Montana & cooks Buffalo once a week in a Dutch oven, just like the cowboys of old) offer to serve up Chris's catch. 


Cooked in the embers of a campfire, the Trout tasted like heaven.

Life In The Saddle

Sunday 26th June 2011

Okay, so you know I was saying I hadn’t done much riding? Well, how about the expression - “too much of a good thing”? Today I spent 8 hours in the saddle. “Woah” I hear you say. Woah indeed! Yesterday we rode the mountains for 6 hours through the most breathtaking countryside I have ever experienced. Mountain prairies strewn with wild flowers, pine forests clinging to steep slopes with a river winding through them - blissful.

Thinking that I’d top up my riding with a couple of hours round the ranch, I signed up for a ride out with Barry, an explosives expert who helps out occasionally. Now his day job should have given me some idea of what was in store...nooooo.

We left the ranch at 9.30am and arrived back at 5.45pm. By which time I was exhausted and stressed to the point of tears. I’m a shopkeeper for God’s sake! An energetic day for me is running up and down stairs finding shoes for customers!

It started badly when the horse I was on (“Gentle Ben”) decided to bolt on me ten minutes into the ride, along a canal bank. On being given instructions by the explosives expert: “Yank him round to the left real hard if he tries it again”, we proceeded on our ride with Gentle Ben (was it an ironic name?) biting any horse that came within a mouth’s distance of him. 

The choice of route had been left to Barry, and he was basically making it up as we went along. And along we went - over endless prairies littered with Sage bushes, up rocky promonteries, across awkward coulees - and on and on and on...

The scenery, in its way, was just as dramatic as the mountains of the day before. But instead of thinking “The Sound Of Music” think “High Plains Drifter” - all arid, rocky shelving hills and endless scrubby plains. I truly felt like an extra from a John Wayne Cowy as we wended our way across this barren landscape. 

By the time we stopped for our packed lunch & a toilet break I had had enough. Now three hours into our epic journey and exhausted from trying not to let Ben bolt, I begged Barry to head for home. “Sure” he said, in his usual laid back manner. And proceeded to take us back the scenic, five hour route.

I should have known there was something amiss when the horses strained to go right as we were heading left. These animals know what their doing and have an unerring sense of direction. Which is more than can be said of Barry. “We’re going to head back along this ridge here” he said, pointing to a stupidly high wall of rock. “it might be a little testing gettin down but we’ll be fine”.

My heart sank. I have to confess to having a bit of a fear of heights. Ladders make me nervous, our roof-terrace makes me nervous! Traversing steep slopes on horseback made me want to pee my pants. But more of that later...

Now to give you a clear idea of the terrain we were scaling, understand that these hills are made of igneous stratus rock (Chris told me that). So they’re like sandstone layers which over the years have eroded to form rocks and sand. A little slippery under foot then.

Up and up and up we went until the majesty of the Montanan countryside spread out around us as far as the eye could see. I took a deep breath and tried to register the dramatic beauty of it all. But my mind was elsewhere. “So I’m guessing that if we’re up this high then we have to go down as far on the other side?” I asked, hoping for an answer that never came.

“Yup” was the monosyllabic response from Barry while my travelling companions laughed at what they imagined to be an ironic question. I was serious though! I was desperately hoping that this steep ridge would miraculously taper out to a gentle plain on the other side, with the ranch twinkling welcomingly in the (not too) distance.

Fat chance. 

We proceeded to descend, with the horses slipping and sliding at an 120’ angle. I knew enough to put my weight in each stirrup and breathe - harder than it sounds when you’re terrified out of your wits.

But we made it and I relaxed a little, sure that we must be on the homeward stretch. How wrong I was. Crossing another endless, scrubby plain we reached another rocky outcrop high above the landscape. How did that happen? I thought we were descending!

On asking how far to the ranch, Barry pointed to another ridge in the far distance where a tiny white barn stood. “See that barn? The ranch is on the other side of that”.

I could have wept. Literally. Remember I told you about my friends at Jenners and how we used to discuss being airlifted from the building on stressful days? Well if ever I needed a rescue helicopter, this was it. Knowing that there wasn’t a hope in hell of that happening, I resorted to continuous, tuneless whistling. The need to breathe while doing this seemed to calm my nerves, with the added bonus of irritating all around me. (Yes, by this point I was behaving like a fractious child!)

Jane, a fabulous woman from Manchester who spends so much time on the ranch that she is regarded both as family & staff, saved me from complete insanity by suggesting I sing. This also helps you to breathe and relaxes the horse. And so we continued across another plain with me singing a raucous version of the Oompa Loompa song from “Charlie & The Chocolate Factory”.

An hour later we reached a dusty road - the first sign of civilisation in 6 hours. Barry decided that this was a good opportunity to let the horses have a bit of a run. Off went the other guests and, yes, Ben wanted to join them. Encouraged by Jane to give it a go, I decided to be brave and follow suit.

Ben immediately began to trot and I practiced my “posting” (a rising trot). Within seconds he had speeded up to a lope (a canter in English). Picture the scene: Me with my Stetson clamped to my head, bedraggled & exhausted, singing the Oompa Loompa song as I hurtle along, feet pushed deep into my stirrups and my butt slapping rythmically on the saddle.

And I have a tip for you ladies: Do not try loping if you need to pee...you will.

Buoyed by my first successful lope, I yanked Ben to a stop and decided to give it another go. Still singing I started him up again only to find myself quickly devoid of stirrups and holding onto the horn of my saddle for dear life. When I finally stopped him I found Jane in fits of laughter. Dear “Gentle Ben” had managed to kick Barry’s horse as he rode alongside me, while in full lope. Well at least it wasn’t anything I’d done wrong.

As we finally neared the ranch I reluctantly admitted that, while mostly hating the whole experience, like all challenging situations, I’d learnt a hell of a lot. 

Dear Chris was waiting for me on our return and thankfully helped me to unsaddle my horse. (Saddling your own horse is a great motto, but equally important is knowing when to accept help!) Sitting me down with a glass of wine back at the ranch, he asked me about my day. Whereupon I immediately burst into tears. Eight hours of concentration and stress had built up to leave me a blubbering wreck. As they’d say around here - “Cowgirl up!”

Feeling like Goldie Hawn in “Private Benjamin”, it wasn’t until I’d washed my hair and put on my new, blingy cowgirl jeans that I was able to laugh about my experience. 

The lesson learned? (Apart from trotting, loping & how to control an errant horse.)

Be careful what you ask for - the universe will provide.

A Cowgirl's Life

Thursday 23rd June 2011

It’s Thursday and we’ve been on the ranch for 5 days. I’d like to tell you that I’ve been in the saddle all week but the reality is that I’m sitting here, eating jelly beans, in my shorts having only been on a horse twice.

I don’t care. While the rest of the guests are branding & gelding calves, I’m gazing at the snow capped mountains and lapping up tales of Cowgirl Heroines of yore from a little book called: “Cowgirl Smarts - How To Rope A Kick-Ass Life” by Ellen Reid Smith.

I haven’t bottled out (although de-bollocking calves isn’t my first choice for fun). I’m just having one of those monthly days when standing upright seems like too much effort. So instead I thought I’d sit down and share Montana with you.

The view from the veranda of the ranch house where we’re billeted is breathtaking. In the distance, past sweeping, empty pastures and rugged stratus hills, lie the Beartooth Mountains. Part of The Rockies, this string of pointed peaks stretch North and South as far as the eye can see.

Last night a spectacular thunderstorm lit the sky. From beyond the Beartooths huge dense black clouds roiled, as if stirred from above by angry Gods. Sheet lightening shimmered from cloud to cloud while thunder boomed & forks of silver blue struck the earth all around us. There is good reason why Montana is known as Big Sky Country. I have never before witnessed such a dramatic son et lumiere show.    

The evocative sound of trains in the distance & the sporadic bark of the ranch dogs are all that disturb my peace. Scattered herds of cattle and horses dot the endless landscape - not a human soul in sight. Ah, how different to good old Blighty.

I was reunited with my old friend Diamond on my second day here. When sent into the pen to halter him, he stood quietly and waited for me. I had forgotten over the months back home just how magical contact with these beautiful beasts can be. As I held his gentle head and slipped the rope around his neck, I remembered why (at the age of 45) I had fallen in love with the Wild West. 

On our first ride out we traversed some fairly vertical terrain. This isn’t as scary as it sounds if you understand that it’s the horse that does all the work. Remembering what Skylar taught us - 30% of your weight in each stirrup and 40% in the saddle; be relaxed but aware at all times; give the horse lots of rein; maintain a balanced centre of gravity - all helped me to ride out with confidence.

Thankfully I also remembered that steady Diamond likes to take a run at creeks, steep slopes (up or down) and anything remotely tricky. So while galloping up a rocky incline was a little disconcerting, I didn’t end up with my butt in muddy water!

The little book of Cowgirl Smarts that I found in our room has given me plenty to think about as I soak up all things Western. How about:

“Saddle your own horse’ - in other words - do it for yourself! There’s no point complaining when you fall off that someone didn’t tighten your cinch properly, it’s too late!

“Ride high but stay grounded” - no I don’t mean have long legs or a short horse. This means ride with confidence & optimism, but there’s a fine line between confidence & arrogance.

“Ride beside your man” - whether he’s the breadwinner or you are, it’s better to be a partnership than to be out in front or trailing behind.

Ride em cowgirl! 

Elvis The Universe & Everything

Hello faithful several. We're off to Montana on Friday. I'm running around like a headless chicken trying to plan ahead for our return in 3 weeks time. And since I've already confessed to an inability to multi task, I'm leaving you with something I prepared earlier.

Do you remember me telling you about my 'bathtub epiphany'? Well this Journeys Therapy session was the precursor to that. I wrote this last May. It's a little longer than my usual blog (I know, they're quite long enough!) but this is possibly all you'll get for the next few weeks - me being rubbish with technology as well as multi tasking. (Please excuse the language in advance.)

*************


Letter to myself, 5 years from now.

Monday 19^th April 2010

“Dear Laura, 

I love you. I forgive you. I understand now where you want to go. I’m standing here in our dream spot, feeling the peace and certainty that you imagined so often and longed for so often, and I feel free.

I feel strong and powerful and light and boundless and filled with joy, and filled with energy and creativity. And I say to you Laura, in this present moment, I say let it go. Let it all go. Fly. You’ve got wings and all the power that the universe has to offer. It’s all in you – trust and let go and fly.

Remember your special suit? Your soul suit! Isn’t it beautiful?! That suit is a part of you, protecting you from confusion and doubt and fear. With that suit a part of you always from now on, you can forget about your demons, about doubt and fear. That suit protects you and ensures that you live your life from a place of love and forgiveness:

Starting always with you – love you, forgive you, the source, all loving, all powerful.

Flap those great big shiny wings and shine! Sing, dance, shout, throw things if you like! Be who you really are. Don’t be scared, love is all there is. Love yourself every present moment and just see where it takes you.

Enjoy!

All my love,

Laura xxx”

                            **************************


“Now Laura, I want you to relax. Take a few breaths and close your eyes.”

“Close my eyes”? I could hardly open them, I’d been crying so hard. I mean really going for it. Ugly, you know what I mean - all snot and red swollen eyes. I had a pile of soggy man size tissues at my feet, growing ever bigger.

“Picture a staircase and you are at the top. Now I’m going to count backwards from ten to one. I want you to imagine that you’re descending the staircase and with every step you are growing more relaxed.”

Oh, I know this one. This is easy, the old staircase imagery.

“Ten...nine...eight...feeling more and more relaxed, calm...seven...”

Oh shit, it’s not working. I can’t relax with this knot in my stomach. Come on, try to focus. Six, no I can’t get there. Shit. Five, she’s going too fast.

“And you’re standing on the ground. In front of you is a large thermometer marked from ten , most alert,  to one, most relaxed. Where are you on the scale?”

“Six.”

“Can you go any further down?”

“No.”

“Oh, ok.”

How can I get more relaxed when I have to answer stupid questions about thermometers?! No, stop, try to relax Laura. Come on, breathe. Ok, ok, now what?

“Now I want you to focus on your body. Where in your body do you feel a blockage? A pain?”

Shit, I don’t know - nowhere, everywhere? Shit. I’ve got this big knot in my stomach. I so want this to work. I so want to have a huge, amazing spiritual experience. I want to be cleansed. Not much chance of that in this state.

“Here.” I press my fist into my solar plexus. 

“Good. Now we are going to relax down through various levels. When you reach a level with a strong emotion, make a note of it and tell me. If there are people at various levels then tell me about them too.”

I’m nowhere! Help! I’m sitting here with my eyes closed and my nose running and I’m just here – behind my eyes - nowhere else. I can’t sense any different levels, I can’t see anyone. I can’t do this!

“How are you doing Laura? Is there anyone at the different levels?”

“No.”

“Ok. You have arrived at the lowest level...” 

Have I?

“I want you to look down at your feet. What shoes are you wearing?”

Oh fuck.

“Red tee- bar leather sandals.”

“How old are you?”

“Five.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m on the front drive of my old house. I can hear my brothers behind me, it’s hot, the tarmac is melting. The air sounds full of heat – echoey. I’m looking down at the melting tarmac and I feel happy, really happy.”

“Excellent. Now can you see anything that might have caused this pain?”

“No.”

“Ok, well let’s just rewind a little...anything?”

“No, I just feel happy.”

“Ok, what about if you go forward a little - anything negative?”

“No.”

“Right...well, why don’t we just start from the top...”

I told you. I’ve failed it, failed The Journey. I can’t believe it. I’m fantastic at all this meditating and hippy stuff. What’s the matter with me?!

“So let’s begin again, shall we? Counting down from ten to one and descending the staircase: ten... nine... eight...seven, six, five...”

Fuck, here she goes again! Like a steam train! Ok, I’m just going to have to fake it, just get into the spirit of it and forget that I’m just sitting here behind my eyes wondering what the hell’s going on - or rather, not going on.

“Feel yourself descending through the levels. Can you feel changes inside? Tell me where you feel them and who you are seeing along the way.”

Here we go again.

“Can you let yourself drop through to the next level Laura? Can you let go?”

No I bloody can’t. No way am I letting go here - nothing to see, nothing to say. Go away and leave me alone. Come on, move along, nothing to see here.

“Tell me what you see? Look down at your feet and tell me what you see?”

Oh piss and blood, let’s get this over with.

“I see brown Startrite sandals.”

“How old are you Laura?”

“I’m five.”

“What’s going on around you?”

“I’m in my school uniform. I’ve just been to the dentist and had two teeth pulled out. I’m with my mum. She takes me to visit my step dad - only he’s not my step dad then. Tom’s a friend of the family - he and his family live at the end of our cul de sac. We go to his office. I can see stairs and then a glass partition. Tom tells me how brave I’ve been and gives me a silver sixpence. I’m really happy. Mum seems to be really happy too.”

“What happens next?”

“I’m at home, my dad’s just got in from work. I’m showing him my sixpence and the gaps in my teeth. He’s angry, shouting at my mum - I don’t understand what’s going on.”

“How do you feel?”

“I feel confused, upset, I don’t know why he’s angry with me. I don’t know what I’ve done.”

“Good. Well done Laura.”

Phew, I know that memory - it came up a couple of years ago during a therapy session with Lindy - it’s nothing new, nothing important.

“Now drop down through this level to the next. How do you feel?”

“Nervous. I feel all knotted in my stomach.”

“Can you go down another level?”

“Yes.”

“Let yourself sink through this level - keep going.”

“Ok Laura, now we are going to enter your body and locate the source of your pain.”

“...and now we’re standing at the entrance to your body Laura. Do you have your mentor with you?”

“Yes.” 

Elvis is standing next to me, resplendent in one of my favourite jumps suits - white with fringing on the sleeves and yoke, each one tied off with a different coloured glass bead. When he moves even slightly they sway and click - and he’s always moving, never still - just like me.    

“Now climb into your magic chariot and let it take you to the site inside where the pain is strongest.”

Cool, let’s make that chariot Elvis’s sleek, sexy black Cadillac.. Whoa, steady on, you’re not on Highway One now!

“So Laura, you have arrived in that part of you where you feel the pain. What do you see?”

Oh fuck, here we go again. Well it’s my gut so I guess it’s pretty dark and slimy.

“It looks dark and cavernous.”

“Do you see an entrance? What is that like?”

“Dark too - blocked, closed.”

“Good, good. Now look around you. In the centre of this space is a campfire, giving out flames of unconditional love.”

Cool, a campfire - Elvis is going to feel right at home. And I can see it now - I can see the interior of my gut now. I was right, it is dark and dank and the walls are running and slimy and the entrance is crowded and inaccessible and it smells like rotting garbage - yuck.

I can see the campfire too. That looks more inviting - just like a cowboy campfire - all Red Indian smoke signal flames and dusty surround. Elvis certainly seems right at home there sitting loosely on a log and staring around him.

“Now Laura, who would you like to bring with you to the campfire?”

“Oh, I suppose my mum, and my dad, and Tom my step dad - oh, and Max.”

Might be handy to have him around since one of my main reasons for coming was the guilt I feel over leaving him.

“And how old are you Laura?”

“I’m five - the age I was when I had my teeth pulled out.”

“Now, in front of you is a screen and on this screen is the movie of you and your parents. What can you see?”

“I can see me and my dad - angry.”

“How do you feel?”

“I feel angry, and confused and small.”   

“What do you want to say to your parents?”

“I don’t know.”

Shit, here we go again - I can’t do this, I feel stupid, what do I want to say to them?

“Just take your time and think about how you felt back then when you were five.”

“I want to tell them that it’s not fair. I want to ask my dad why he was angry.”

“And why was he angry Laura?”

“Because my mum took me to see Tom and they were having an affair. I want to shout and tell them that they should have thought about me. I want to tell my dad how confused I was by his reaction”

“And what do you think he’d say to you Laura?”

“I think he’d say that he was sorry - that he didn’t mean to hurt me, that he didn’t think about my feelings.”

“And do you want to say anything to your mum?”

“Yes, I want to tell her that I’m angry with her. I want to tell her that she shouldn’t have put me in that situation and that she should have thought about it first.”

“How did your dad’s reaction make you feel?”

“I felt bewildered. I didn’t understand what was happening. One minute my life was perfect, I was happy and life was straight forward - the next minute I’m excited and proud about how brave I’d been and then my dad’s shouting. That’s not the way it’s supposed to be: naughty = shouting, good = praise. Suddenly life wasn’t what I thought it was and it made me afraid and unsure of where to go.”

“Good, good. How do you feel now, seeing this event up on the big screen?”

“I feel calmer, I can see that they were dealing with their own emotions and that they’d forgotten about me.”

“And what does the five year old Laura feel now you’ve told your parents how you feel?”

“I feel released, I understand now, I forgive them.”

“Excellent. Now, do you have anything more to say to your parents?”

“No.”

Well, that’s interesting, I hadn’t thought that that memory was anything special when it came up a couple of years ago. I just thought it was curious that I’d thought I had no memories of my mum’s affair from that age and yet it had been there all along.

“Now, what about Max? What do you want to say to him?”

Oh, I’d forgotten about him, forgotten I’d brought him in with me. I can see him now, sitting next to Elvis on a log. They’re not talking to each other - just watching us. God they look so alike. It’s uncanny seeing them side by side, like father and son.

“Em, I don’t know...I don’t think this Laura has anything to say to him. He wasn’t even born when I was five, I don’t know him.”

“You can be any age you like Laura. What age would you be if you were speaking to Max?”

Hmm, I’m thinking. I’d so completely forgotten about him that it takes me a little while to focus.

“I want to talk to him at the age I was when he was one, yes, about one year old.”

“You mean when you were at the age he is now, twenty two?”

“Oh...yes...”

“And what would you like to say to Max? Take your time, relax, feel the flames of unconditional love warming you by the campfire.”

Ugh, that hurts - ooff, like a fist in the stomach. I can see myself now, standing by the campfire, Elvis and Max side by side, silent, expectant, and my mouth goes dry. How can I find the words?

“Breathe honey, remember, just breathe. That’s it sweetheart, you can do it.”

And I do. I think of Elvis up there on the Vegas stage, his cheeks filled with air, expelling slowly as he stops for a moment and takes in the audience, sees them for the first time and remembers why he’s up there. I can see the fear pushed out with that long breath and his wry smile and slight shake of his head as he wonders what he was making all the fuss about - I can do this.

“I want to tell Max how overwhelmed I was by the love I felt for him. I want to tell him that nothing had ever come close to the strength of emotion I felt for him back then as a baby. It was like being punched in the stomach, like being wrenched from my life.”

“Good Laura, good.”

“I was so young, only twenty two - just a child - just a child like you. I didn’t know who I was yet, I was still trying to find my own identity. I was so sure that I knew what I was doing and that I was so grown up. But I was just a child, floundering around, drowning in all this love. The feeling was so strong that it hurt - right in here”.

I’m pressing my fist into my gut, leaning forward in my seat, rocking back and forth trying to ease the pressure, the pain. The tears are pouring down my face and I’m scrabbling around on the floor for the box of tissues, eyes still closed, seeing myself back then, feeling those overwhelming waves of love and fear.

“I was terrified Max, so scared by the strength of this love I felt for you. I had nothing to compare it with, no files. I felt as if I was being consumed by it, as if there was nothing left of me.”

“Good Laura, good, you’re doing really well.”

I look at my son, sitting by my campfire and I’m back there, twenty two, a student, a new mother, scared out of my wits and wishing I could run away, run from everything. Max was such a beautiful child - black brown eyes and blonde hair, olive skin and Elvis’s mouth - his duck lip, as Gavin used to call it.

I feel as if I’m drowning, slipping under, and the more I struggle the more I convulse and swallow down the seafoam, slithering salty wash - swallowing down my tears, my fears.

“That’s it Laura, take a breath.”

Elvis is nodding, I can see him, still on his log, his eyes kind and encouraging. Max is staring at me - waiting.

“I was your age Max - a mother, a ‘wife’, promising everyone that I would return to college, get my degree, make something of myself - promising myself. I was scared - my feelings for you were so strong that I didn’t know if I could keep those promises, if I could divert my attention from you - ever.”

“Good Laura.”

I feel raw. I feel as I did when I was suffering from depression - flayed and naked and exposed - baring my very soul.

“I want you to know that I didn’t run - I stayed as long as I could. I stayed until there was nothing left of me. And then I ran.”

I’m sobbing - wrenching, ancient tears.

“I love you Max. I’m sorry that I left. I did the best I could. My fears were made real - it wasn’t you that I ran from, it was the crushing weight of life - so many responsibilities and not enough support. But you were still there, every moment, every breath filled with you, my son. Just a child, still a child.”

I feel like a child right now - like the five year old realising for the first time that life isn’t linear, that life doesn’t always make sense. I’m lost and scared and looking for a place to hide - somewhere safe and warm and obliterating.

“It’s a shame that Max isn’t here to hear your words Laura.”

Oh he is. He’s sitting right in front of me staring at me, silent. I’m breathing heavily now - deep breaths in and out. Just breathe.

“Do you have any more to say to Max?”

I have no more to say to anyone, I’m spent.

“And what does your mentor have to say to you Laura?”

Oh, I’d forgotten about Elvis for a moment. I’m grinning now casting a sideways glance at him as he sits quietly on his log. He turns his head slowly towards me and smiles his lazy smile. “Uh huh huh.”

“Oh nothing much  - just telling me to love myself and forgive myself.”

“Look at your screen again Laura. What do you see?”

I’m exhausted, dead on my feet, tired from the crying and the talking and the understanding. But I look up towards my silver screen, flickering in the campfire flames and I watch. 

I watch myself at 22, a young mother full of hope , full of love, struggling to learn how to mother my child when I still need mothered myself. I watch as I lift Max high in my arms and laugh with him. The image is light and clear and filled with love.

“Just a child myself.”

“Yes.”

“Now Laura, I want you to take all of the different selves that you have met today by your campfire and integrate them all. I want you to remember some of the balloons that we discussed earlier and to use them too.”

Balloons? What balloons?

“There was self esteem and forgiveness and confidence...”

Oh yes, now I remember. I picture myself there by my fire, moulding the pieces together like a Plasticine model, making myself whole.

“The thing is, I don’t seem to be able to protect myself from the negatives in day to day life. I can’t seem to filter them out.”

“Remember Brandon’s visualisation - the crystal dome which lets love in and keeps bad things out.”

I do - I picture me beneath this dome and I feel trapped, awkward.

“I keep banging my head on the dome. It won’t work, I need something more flexible, something more like a skin.”

I can feel it now, a crystal layer, a skin of light and movement, a suit: A jumpsuit - a  beautiful silvery-white jumpsuit, just like my hero, my mentor. Elvis is smiling at me sideways. I’m smiling too. I want to laugh, laugh at the absurdity of my situation, laugh at the private joke between Elvis and me, laugh at the serious woman beside me.

“Yes, a suit - I will wear a suit to protect me from the negatives - a sparkly suit.”

Now Linda’s laughing too.

“Yes, I can see that, good! Now Laura, have you amalgamated all of the different selves in your suit? Now you can leave your campfire and travel back to today where I want you to write a letter to yourself. I want you to write a letter as if you are writing to yourself five years from now. What would you say to yourself?”

Oh, ok. I’m still standing by my campfire. Elvis and Max are standing close beside me. As I watch, they put their arms around me and we stand together in silence as the flames crackle and warm. I see myself at five wearing my Elvis jumpsuit - white with red snakeskin trim to match my red Startrite sandals. I’m looking at my feet and giggling with excitement. And Elvis is there beside me in his matching suit.

And I exhale - an endless breath out, out into the universe, out into the day - today.

“Now Laura, I am going to count from one to ten. As I count you will become more and more alert until by ten you are feeling fully awake and will open your eyes.”

“One...two...three, four, five...”

I can feel myself rising, lifting from within myself, hear the outside world and sense the heat from the sun, magnified through the curtained windows.

“Eight, nine...ten.”

I open my eyes with difficulty. They feel gritty and swollen with crying, unfocused and uncertain of their surroundings. I blink and stretch the lids, forcing them to readjust, to see again.

“Now Laura, I’d like you to take this piece of paper and pen and write a letter to yourself. Just write whatever comes into your head, don’t dwell on your thoughts, just write them down. What would you like to say to yourself five years from now?” 

Feeling groggy and slightly foolish I take the pen and start to write. Will Linda read it? Am I expected to show others? I decide to plunge in, jump, and I write - the letter you read at the start of this chapter. No, not to be read out loud, read by others - a letter to myself.

My arm is stiff and the pen feels awkward in my grasp. I scribble as fast as I can, still unsure of the purpose, of the readers - embarrassed again by my Britishness, smiling at the thought of Elvis and me in matching jumpsuits.

“How do you feel?”

Putting down the pen and paper I stretch, arching my back and shaking my limbs, twisting my neck one way then the other. 

“I feel exhausted.”

“Well we’ve been sitting here for three and a half hours.”

What?! I look down at the heap of soggy tissues, at the sunlight seeping through the   heavy floor length curtains.

“I feel released.”

Linda’s smiling at me. I wonder if this is how everyone feels after such a journey. Do I feel differently? I should feel released after crying and talking about myself for three and a half hours. What happened? Anything? No matter, I will take this experience as I find it and enjoy my jumpsuit visualisation, read my letter to myself again and try to remember what I discovered there by my campfire with my parents and Max and Elvis.  

Linda and I chat for a few minutes while I get myself together. I’m restless now, eager to get outside into the sunshine. I’ll send Chris a text so that he knows to pick me up me now. Mmm, twenty minutes from Brighton, time to collect my thoughts and have a fag on the bench I spotted outside the church opposite.

As I return from the toilet the doorbell rings. It’s Chris, appearing like the shopkeeper in Mr Ben - as if by magic.

“Did you get my text?” I’m surprised by his presence, confused.

“No.”

“How did you know that I was finished?”

“I worked it out.”

“Oh, weird.”

I thank Linda and move into the afternoon light, following Chris, dazed and disorientated. His younger son Josh is waiting by the car - jigging about in his usual perpetual motion.

“Before we drive back just let me sit for a moment and collect my thoughts.”

We cross the narrow road and I sit gratefully on the bench beneath an apple tree. Josh is beaming and Chris is asking what happened, how I am. My eyes ache from crying and I’m still blinking in the light, as if struggling to surface.

“Can I get them dad?”

Josh is dancing on the spot, fidgeting beside his father.

“Yes of course, here’s the car key”. 

Seconds later he’s back with a plain plastic carrier bag in his hand. Josh sits down beside me and starts pulling out an assortment of stuff, bought that afternoon on Brighton Pier. A bag of fudge, some sticks of rock, a white belt with no buckle...and a small, tissue wrapped parcel.  

Opening his present on the church bench, I reveal a beautiful oval enamelled buckle. Red and gold and sparkling in the sunshine. It says “ELVIS”. 

And I laugh out loud, I laugh at the synchronicity and at the tow haired step son who has given me this gift.

Everything is alright.


(See The Journey by Brandon Bays for more info on this therapeutic process.)