Creating a memoire was transformational and integrating. A process of curiosity that unleashed a new form of creativity. Through consistent journalling and practise I found writing and painting flowed hand in hand, supporting the flow to crescendo into a treasury of joy and hope; distilled through natures life cycles and seasons. Finding a structure to hold my life story enabled me to fly higher beyond myself to the birds eye view.
I grew up with sand between my toes and sea air in my breath, influenced daily by the flow of tides, weather and seasons.
The glassy calm of the turquoise sea, where I swam in transparent water, viewing a magical world below. Silver shoals of fish, pebbles shining, forests of seaweed below my feet, as shafts of sunlight magnified the particles.
Above, floating on my back, I soared with the seagulls flying so high. The enormity of the sky reflected the potential for change at any time. Moonlight danced on the water, creating magical reflections in the bay at night.
Rowing with oars dripping as they lifted, leaving a gentle wake behind me. Quietly I travelled on the sea next to the land, enjoying a distant view of my home and the twin villages nestled on the shore, fortified above and forested out to Penlee Point. Maker Church stood tall on the edge of a bigger bay: Plymouth Sound, the historic port of shelter for galleons, naval ships, and containers.
Gales shook my home at times, in surges as the wind blew against the shutters. Creaking like a galleon we battened down the hatches and weathered the storms. Mostly it was calm and protected but an easterly wind brought in the full fury. Sadly, sometimes small sailing ships were turned into matchsticks below on the beach. It was shocking to see the destructive power of the sea, engendering a healthy respect and awareness of signs of changing weather and wind directions.
There was a flotilla of colourful fishing boats moored in the bay. Fishermen set off early, returning with a flock of seagulls, picking up the scraps as they landed their catch. Lobster pots were piled on the bound, where the generations would gather to mend pots and fishing nets. Beautiful, iridescent mackerel were plentiful and shared freely.
I began a daily habit of meditation early in the morning that was pivotal in writing poetry. The quiet stillness was a part of the process; with an uncluttered mind the flow came from a deeper source. Immersing myself in freedom released my voice.
Fly Home to Your Heart by Kate Harris
Available from: www.Kateharris.co.uk Waterstones.com Amazon and local book shops in Totnes.