In which I share a profound realisation
I had written a very different newsletter for this week. I had it all lined up and scheduled to go, and then something happened. I started watching an Australian drama called High Country and at 9:00pm, I logged on to completely rewrite this week’s missive.
I do not know Australia. I did not know it even had a ‘high country.’ This landscape is mountainous and beautiful, like parts of Canada or Alaska or as if Scotland took steroids. It seems to be quite isolated - everyone in the community knows everyone else and there is a slower pace of life.
It reminds me of a very different show I loved back in the 90s, called Northern Exposure. If you never saw it, you missed a treat. It was about another remote town filled with quirky characters who all knew each other a little too well. Back then, I dreamed of moving from New York to Alaska, but that never felt like a real possibility. I lived 30 minutes outside Manhattan. I spent my weekends in art galleries and museums, and got my weekly shot of nature from a walk in Central Park. Surely that was an ideal life?
But by the time we moved home to the UK in 2012, I had tired of city and suburban life, while not being completely ready to let it go. I chose my new home based on two things a) it was surrounded by hills and fields and sheep, BUT b) two large towns were only 10 minutes away by car. I was still in the clutches of the idea that city life mattered so I told myself it was important that I could get to two large cities within an hour, and that I had a fast train to London not too far away. The best of all worlds!
But did these things really matter to me? I thought they did, because they matter to other people. And yet I never go to Leeds or Manchester (I can’t think of anything I’d like to do less!) And the last time I went to London was over a year ago. I stayed in a nice hotel and went to the theater. It was fun and interesting, but in a way that felt somehow empty and unimportant.
You see, all this time I have been discounting my love of Northern Exposure. And I have been forgetting my own childhood. I grew up in a village, but one that was well-connected by train and road to a large city. My happiest times were family holidays, when we drove 2 hours north to a remote Yorkshire Dales hamlet, where we camped in a field next to a river.
There were no sounds of traffic and no rail connections. We camped with my extended family, but my favourite times were spent by myself by the river. I fished for sticklebacks. I tried to build dams. I paddled in fresh cold water. And sometimes I just sat and poked around in the river with a stick. I loved every quiet moment. I felt a connection to the trees and the grass and the rocks and the water that was truly profound.
Recently, I acquired a property in a quiet part of Cumbria, two hours north of my current home. This is not a holiday home - it is a place where I hope to hold retreats and workshops. I have been up there quite regularly supervising work on the house. It is in a tiny hamlet with little access to “culture.” You can’t pop out to an art gallery, or see high quality theater. The nearest sizeable shops are an hour away. One of my friends called it “the back of the back of beyond.”
Two weeks ago, I attended a coffee morning, held in the local church. The sun was making a rare appearance, so everyone sat outside, overlooking the beautiful valley they call home, and I started to meet my new neighbors. They were all interesting in different ways. They were all open and friendly and welcoming. They offered help and advice and told stories about the previous owners. I felt both stimulated and completely at ease.
After I left, I went home and fed the chickens I inherited. We had a little chat (with me doing most of the talking), and then I walked through the wood that belongs to the property. At the bottom of a steep hill, I came to the stream that runs across my land. All around me was silence, punctuated only by birdsong and the rustle of leaves in the breeze. Without really thinking, I took off my shoes and paddled into the cold water, just as I did all those years ago in Swaledale. As I felt the water between my toes, I also felt a soft settling in my soul.
Now as I watch Hill Country, I am starting to make the connections. The joy of those childhood holidays; the yearning for a life in a remote Alaskan town; and my feet in the cold water of my own stream. I am a country soul... this is where I belong. I can let the rest of it go ...
A close friend of mine died this week from an aggressive form of cancer. He was only 61 and he was the kindest person you could ever hope to meet. He went from feeling a new pain in May to dying in July. This is not the first time that a friend has died this way.
It can happen at any time. Our time here can end at any time.
So I am rewriting this week’s newsletter in order to ask you: Have you followed your own threads?? Are you living the life your soul desires, or are you living a life based on what others think is important?
I think answering this question is the work of our lives, especially as artists. We simply can’t make authentic work if we are not living authentic lives. It can take time to get there, but all you have to do is follow the threads and connect the dots.
if you are already living authentically, I tip my hat to you. But if you have any doubts, ask yourself: when have I felt happiest? What have I longed for? What TV shows or films have resonated deeply with me?
Being honest with yourself is the first step to making it happen.
And we all deserve for it to happen :)
