Windows and Wildflowers: From Yorkshire, England to Brighton, Cornwall, and Back Up Again
Besides not getting the 'melt-in-your-mouth' salmon that was expected on the flight (had never reserved a meal before), Sean being hassled for a good half hour on our arrival to Dublin, breaking a sweat while pretending not to run as we nearly missed our fight(s), and having to chug nearly 40oz of water before going through security, our trip over was quite uneventful.
Travel for enjoyment, what a beautiful gift that is, making those minor hiccups nothing but an itty-bitty passing moment.
Though now that I think about it, the chugging of water provided ultimate hydration throughout our flight, running to our gates allowed for proper movement and circulation before being stagnant for so long, no meal meant more sleep, and Sean being hassled? That was just how things were supposed to be.
Once landed, we were then scooped up by my uncle, who brought us to their home just outside of Leeds, England for a good nights rest (more accurately, four). My cousin, who has spent quite a bit of time with us out in the states, came up from Brighton on her days off. We drank tea, and lots of it, went for a walk into the town of Garforth, Sean had a haircut (I cried a little--team locks!), we (shamefully) fell in love with the reality TV show, Love Island, explored nearby towns, climbed on rocks, and experience the charming way of the Yorkshire Dales.
Once equipped with a somewhat regular sleep pattern, we packed up my cousin Jenny's car, and headed south to the city of Brighton.
It's from here that I'd like to pause this synopsis and take note of something.
Lyme Disease isn't brought up as much as it once was. At least not in the traditional sense.
In our stories, yes, but it's definitely less frequented here. That said, there are times when the heaviness of Lyme carves out a significant part of my day. When symptoms overwhelm and all I can seem to think about it how to get from here to there, skipping right on over the in-between. The now.
It's been nearly 9 months (NINE MONTHS?!?) since the saga of my lack of voice began, and there was a big chunk of that time that was spent analyzing, criticizing, beating up over, and questioning every little thing. In short, I became uncertain of (metaphorically speaking) what having a voice meant.
After writing More Than (a little book of poetry), a project that took place over six months, where I'd, no matter what, write a poem every day, I felt spent. I didn't want to hear my voice. In fact, I ran away from it every chance that I got.
Which is why I'm here. Why I'm turning my back on. Why I have become comfortable, and even cozy with this reality; This world in which my voice is the written word, and I don't necessarily want that.
At my doctors appointment before I left, I was told that it was entirely up to me whether or not I wan't to speak properly again, and my gosh did that feel like a sucker punch to my gut. Again, I began to question it all, but instead of running away from, I decided to face it head on.
Where are these insecurities coming from and how can I overcome them?
For one, I'm lacking in confidence, something I will go into detail with later on. I've set goals, unrealistic goals, yet I'm still holding myself accountable for them, even though I could easily take them off the table, starting them back up when I'm home. When I'm in a position where my days aren't structured around getting from point A to point B, while enjoying the time in-between.
Second, I have a bad habit of telling myself I can't do something before I've even started, and with the second MTL Adventure around the corner, I am piling on the guilt. The "why aren't you working on this more," and "you said you'd be working on this every day while away!"
Travel forces you, as I'm only just now realizing, to make sacrifices and adjustments along the way, and carving out time between point A and B to "work" takes patience and practice. It takes false starts and forgiveness when you haven't put pen to paper in a few days, or weeks, even.
Maybe not how I expected or within the timeline I had originally thought, but it does always work out. You stick with it because you love what you do. Or, you stick with it because making changes in order to love what you do is important and worth your time.
Your time and your mistakes and those months spent pulling away from instead of walking into.
So, where am I going with this? I'm not entirely sure, but I will say this: Advocating, it's a relentless push to have your voice, and that of others, heard. It's a choice that some of get to make and it's a choice that can change. It an opportunity for those that do have that platform and are in a position to do so, to speak up.
It can be one thing, one word, or a million different actions for different causes, and with all that is going on in the world right now, I can't help but see the overlap.
The way talking about this, also relates to that, and in talking about the in-between, the hanging of laundry and drinking of tea for hours on end, I'm changing this story just enough to help shift the way I look at tomorrow, realizing that these tangents...
These real talks mixed in with the adventures?
These simple moments mixed with the complicated?
They're meant to overlap, as it would be nearly impossible to separate the two.
Ok, we're back.
We only had a day in Brighton before heading even further south, to where blind corners make up every corner, wildflowers climb up rocks, along with vines and trees, as bunnies scurry beneath the underbrush and cream tea is had while overlooking a harbor with boats of every color and size.
Charming, windswept, and absolutely perfect in every way.
Coverack was the little coastal town we spent most of our time in, when not lounging in our little hut, drinking more tea, writing, and again, watching that show I'm reluctant to say I'm hooked on. Along with the explosion of wildflowers, I also fell in love with windows. The chipped paint and white stone. The way roses effortlessly curved their way around, up, and over the top of roofs.
It felt like the beginning of something good, not that things weren't good before, this was just--different.
And even as we woke up at 3:30am to set off at four, in order for Jenny to get to work, Sean and myself make our way from Brighton to Glasgow (a good 15+ hour travel day), that feeling never left.
In fact, it was only amplified after making our way northwest to the Isle of Harris.
To get here, we wound our way through the highlands, over bridges, between masses of crumbling stone, along single track roads, and on (sometimes unexpected) ferries --- but that's all for now, as diving into the magic of Scotland is certainly worth a post (more like, novel) of its own.