Yesterday I had the most beautiful, nourishing conversation with Sam Reid from Field Zine which will be available in the next ten days. I was struck by the depth, generosity and brightness he carried into our conversation; he carried light with him and it was light I recognised from the small bit of time I have spent where he lives in the Downs. It got me thinking about light (it is my deepest obsession so it’s a joy to think of it at all but to talk about it with so good a person was divine.)
We spoke a little of a question I ask in Cacophony Of Bone :
what does it mean to consider light? I’m going to write a little about the journey this book took from early pre pandemic planning, through lockdown, pregnancy, one country move, extreme PND, another country move to the book I hope many of you will hold on your hands soon! Preorders , as I know I keep saying, make the world of difference. Order yours here for UK, here for Ireland and here for America.
For now, though, what I will say is that this book only exists because of a single shaft of light.
So yes, light is an incredibly important element to this book.
Time is, too, and what it means to be a woman— a female mammal— at this time of such crisis. What it means to be a human on a planet we share with kin of so many forms; those that — like us, mate, gestate, lose, grow, shit, bleed, reproduce, raise, die— every single day. There are things that I experienced during the time of which I write — that first year of lockdown—that I know I only experienced because I went out in search of a particular kind of light. Light I felt part of.
Today I’m over on the lovely Alice Vincent’s Savour talking about Cornwall, on the day I make my way back; my first trip there alone since way before my life and the world changed beyond words. Whenever I feel lost to myself; when I find myself at a tricky, heavy part of my journey through matrescence— I look back at pictures of Cornwall. At the places I love so dearly, the blues like no other blues, my own self— face so calm— body looking like my own in ways it very rarely does to me any longer; mostly, though, I’m looking at the LIGHT. Light that returns me to myself, no matter how changed that self may now be.
Talking of the changed self in motherhood (which we SHOULD be doing, why aren’t we talking about it all day every day no matter who we are ?) this book has given me so much these last days I don’t even know where to begin. It is the book that will change the entire landscape of this journey of matrescence for humanity. Frank, informative, tender, honest and full of hope; it has soothed, challenged, educated and healed me. I am so grateful Lucy has written it. Preorder here .
So yes, I’m on my way to St Ives now, to listen and learn and share what (m)other hood looks like for a diverse group of people and I can’t wait. I’ve just read this amazing article and am full of thoughts of creativity, caregiving and coffee…
“Something was beginning to happen to me. It was the hours I now spent with my son—so many, so alone together, that it was no longer possible to skim by on the surface…
I had the strange feeling I wasn’t only here in this moment, with its crying and cold mud and frayed nerves; I was somewhere else too, an inner world known only to my son and me: a secret, mysterious place we built through every moment we shared. This place was a labyrinth, by turns claustrophobic and sweeping, cramped passageways opening onto grand vistas, a thousand ways to lose yourself in it. Its terrain was beautiful, also dangerous. How deep did it go, and where did it lead?”
This is the longest I’ve ever been away from our son. The only time I’ve been on a different landmass from him.
I’ll place my postpartum body into the arms of the sea, I’ll wander aimlessly, I’ll hug friends and I’ll gather light.
I’ll remind myself, if mother guilt tears it’s ugly head, that our ancestors raised their young in large, diverse groups. Mothers let their babies be held by the community so they could forage, grow, make and heal. We are not supposed to raise our young in isolation, alone, indoors, in silence.
We are supposed to sing, to make, to explore, to swim, to climb, to connect, to share: we are supposed to grow. In community, held by others— as we step into this new self.
We are supposed to gather light. X
Stunning -- thank you.