Sometimes there is so much to say that you don’t know how to find the thread to start it all. Sometimes there are too many thoughts but not enough words. Sometimes it’s all such a great big beautiful guddle of deliciousness that it’s impossible to pin it down into nice, neat little sentences. Sometimes.
But not often. It’s not often you are so lucky, so bloody lucky, to have that kind of experience, the kind of experiences that’s so much of a feast that afterwards you are too full and too sleepy to tell people how much you ate and how amazing the food was.
France was a feast. I ate a lot (both literally and creatively). Beautiful home cooked food served up after each workshop which were their own little feasts of wonder. There is much to digest, it’s going to take some time.
So where do I begin? Perhaps today I don’t need to go further than the first moment, the first workshop on that first morning and there is no point in pretending that I wasn’t afraid because I was. I was afraid I wouldn’t keep up, I was afraid everyone else would be so far ahead of me, that all my failure would suddenly have a dirty big spotlight on it for all of France to see. I was afraid of the people, what they might or might not do. I was afraid that I might actually just be a bit shit and shouldn’t be there, all of that stuff. And before we begin it was a simple: you are good enough.
You are good enough, that is all and that is everything. If you want a thread to get started with then it has to be that one. And it seems like such a light little thing but you’ve got to have your hands empty before you can pick it up. You’ve got to put down all the other stuff, whatever it may be. For me, it’s that big ugly not of feeling that on some level I am just not acceptable as a person, that on some level I’m not like the others, the rules don’t apply here, that somehow I’ve fallen outside the line and I am actually not good enough. But you can’t work from that place. It’s not possible.
And in that first moment on that first morning in that first workshop I am already hoping that I won’t make a total tit of myself and start to cry. Later I find out I am not the only one.
And of course it’s just the start, the edge of the journey and over the next six days of work I will fall very much in love with it all. And then it will be over, and I will have to come home.
And now we are home. I am home. But not quite. Home in terms of my family, my old house, my town. Home. But creatively not so much. And it’s back to the looking, trying to find what that place might be. It’s the same old search but now I have a bit of a map. I have an idea of what it is I’ve been looking for and that is a gift in itself.
In a couple of weeks all the routines will be back in place and everything will be as it was before. Except that maybe I have a little key now and maybe I’ll find a door that it will open and maybe, just maybe I’ll step on through and be able to say, yes, this, now I am home.