The water is ice cold. It’s like being bitten. The natural instinct is to retreat. Drawback. Curl in on self – reducing the amount of surface skin touching the ice cold water.
I do not.
I keep inching forward so more and more skin is exposed to the cold. Now. My toes, the first part of my body to touch the water, are numb. They’ve taken on that false warm feeling as it they’ve warmed up and comfortable. But they are not.
Now. I’ve lost all sensation in them which is good. As if the pain had continued from toes all the way up to my thighs where the ice cold water has now reached, the bites, the incessant biting sensation of short sharp teeth would have taken over my system along with the piercing screams erupting from my lips.
Now. Instead, I continue to wade into the ice cold water. To my core. Now. I breath deeply, and bend at the waist, outstretched my arms, fingers hitting the water first to push back the ice cold water as I take my first breast stroke.
Now. My body is totally submerged and she is screaming out in protest. She is in pain but I do not listen to her. Instead I push further out, making wide sweeping stroke with arms whose elbows are howling in pain. Now. I keep my breathing steady and continue to glide through the water as if my body is not asking for mercy, asking to retreat, asking to exit ice cold water.
Now. It happens. The cold is no longer felt as acutely. No lingering ice cold. Just cold. And numb. Numb and cold. I continue to swim across the bay. And give thanks. Now.
This piece was originally published on Medium with Binderful back in 2020. I’m sharing this piece here because I was reminded that it existed over there when I made some crackers and jam this morning. It was good to revisit it. I share it with you now.
During these quarantined times with Covid-19, I’m trying to find way to support my well-being. I’m making sure I take the time and space to tune into my needs and wants, beside those of my family. I’m finding joy and memories in my day when I make solitude. This happens, usually in the morning, when I make my breakfast. It’s nothing fancy either. Its crackers and jam and black decaf coffee. The plain taste of the hard crackers against the sweet soft stickiness of raspberry jam (no seeds) is divine. This is a little sweet treat and takes me back to two moments in time.
The first is childhood. Crackers and jam was weekend breakfast when I was a kid. Dad would bring it to our bedroom, my sister and me, and we were allowed to eat them in bed. Crackers and jam is a poor man’s breakfast. But when I ate them as a child, I felt rich. I felt like a princess. I felt loved. Especially because my dad made it. A harsh Trinidadian man who ruled us with beats but who I idolised and always wanted to love me more. These Saturday mornings, tucked up in bed, I felt cosy and safe. As children most of our days were spent inside, with our imaginations and Enid Blyton. And this felt good. Now with my daughter, there isn’t any Enid Blyton more like David Walliams, but there‘s a generous amount of storytelling as we stay safe indoors. Learning from my childhood, when I received anger and beats for questioning why, our kids have been brought up wonder out loud and to receive a reason or answer rather than that feeling of saying or doing something wrong.
The second memory around crackers and jam takes me back to my first artist residency in Iceland. This would be my second time back to the island but the first time remaining in place, the remote Westfjords, for two weeks. Surrounded by white upon white. With the cold biting at all exposed flesh, I searched for any familiar signs, in the landscape, because I felt lost and adrift. I didn’t know why or what I was doing miles away from home, alone, in residence pretending to be an artist. I remember making crackers and jam and coffee one morning, knee deep in my unhinged being and remembering who I was. Memories came back about being a little girl craving love and safety and comfort. And how even though, I’d a harsh upbringing, in some respects, I know discipline and perseverance and self-preservation were forged then.
I suppose this mirrors how I feel and be now, in these uncertain times, and how making crackers and jam satisfies these urges and needs and fuels my desire to survive and thrive.
This piece was published over in Binderful’s Medium page back in 2020. I’m republishing them here as I revisiting the writing, the wisdom as well as create my archives.
What are you reading that is bringing you comfort during this pandemic?
When Amy (Mama Scout) asked me about what I’m reading during these troubling times of the pandemic, my first thought was, what am I NOT reading? As the spaciousness within my life has opened up, I’m grateful to be able to slow down and lose myself in practices that feed my soul.
I read the news, maybe once every two days, to keep abreast of developments around the world. I’ve always read world news, as I might live in the UK, an island, but I believe we’re all connected, humans and non-humans. What’s happening to you, is happening to me also. We are one. I love lingering over longer articles and reports in The Guardian,The New Yorker and The Atlantic. AlsoOrion Magazine is releasing daily previously unreleased articles from it’s archives to read for free. These are a welcomed gift.
My guilty pleasure is crime fiction. After a lifetime of reading about crimes happening around the world, I love Nordic Noir, I’ve recently gotten into the mystery series with DCI Ryan set on my doorstep in the Northeast of England by L J Ross. Taking iconic buildings and monuments within the region, such as Cragside House, the Sycamore Gap tree, the bridges over the River Tyne, as the settings, a series of murders are carried out and a team of detectives, who the reader grows to love, try to solve them while trying to have normal loving relationships themselves. I love recognising places and streets and people even within the pages of these novels.
My weak spot is personal essays. Probably because I’m in the process of creating a mixed-genre memoir which includes personal essays, poetry, images, collage, quotes and photography, I gravitate to those writers I wish I could write like such as Roxane Gay, Audre Lorde and Terry Tempest Williams.
So at the moment, I’m reading Alexandra Chee, How To Write An Autobiographical Novel which is so illuminating about his time growing up, in the 80s, through identity politics and navigating his way while unbelonging. I’ve just started, Thick, a collection of essays by Tressie McMillan Cottom, which have the black woman’s body at the centre of the debate for a change. A mixture between the personal and the academic, I find myself reading sections and nodding my head or even shouting out loud, ‘Yes.’
And finally, to my shame, I’ve just restarted Becoming, by Michelle Obama, after watching the documentary on Netflix. When the memoir first came out a couple of years ago, I started it but I didn’t get far. They say you fall into a book when it’s the right time for you; when you’re ready. Well I’m ready now. I’m absorbing Michelle’s vulnerable words of wisdom, checking in and checking myself. Reasons for reading; to keep checking in with myself, how I’m feeling, what is what I’m reading bringing up in me. At the same time as checking myself, doing the work on myself, to make sure I’m moving through this world as the best version of me.
Go back and take care of yourself. Your body needs you, your feelings need you, your perceptions need you. Your suffering needs you to acknowledge it. Go home and be there for all these things.
Sunday morning, I’m up at 6am to catch the sunrise in the sea.
The bay is quiet only a few people jumping waves and using the sauna tents.
I keep to my side of the bay where the waves are coming in smaller. I get in and feel good. The water is balmy compared to Loch Morlich last week.
I’m swimming just keep swimming. And before I know it I’m further out as well as further across into the centre left bay.
Before I release it, a big wave is coming in and I know it’s coming over my head. I stop swimming and try to make haste back to the shore knowing I’m wasting my energy.
The wave hits me hard, over my head, drenching my woollie bobbled hat and penetrates all breathing holes.
The main task is to keep standing and not to get pulled under. And to breathe of course.
I’m still trying to wade out of the sea and get to safety. But before I can make even a few more steps another wave slams me.
This time I’m down on my knees in the sea, gasping for breath. I pull off my hat, stand and I’m spluttering and stumbling to the shore.
Of course I have to turn back to the sea with a smile and say, okay you got me! I hear you. I feel you. I got a bit complacent there. Lesson learnt.
And this is a good reminder for me to always respect the sea and to not get too big for my boots. Taking it all leisurely basking in the temperature rise in comparison and forgetting where I am now.
Now in the present moment, I’m in the North Sea which is notorious for taking lives.
Don’t take you own life so lightly Sheree and pay attention.
This was published on Medium back in 2020, and I recently rediscovered it. I’ll be sharing this piece along with some other pieces from that time because they just tickle my fancy.
Longsands, Tynemouth
Learning something new isn’t easy and doesn’t happen overnight either.
There’s no magic cure, no short cuts to learning a new behaviour or new skill. You just have to practice. Show up each and every day. And do your best.
There are certain steps to follow if you want to adopt a new habit or develop a new skill. Being a creative being, I’m open to being inspired by others. The following steps have been adapted from an Instagram post by Lisa Congdon in relation to building a skill, particularly in wanting to become an artist.
I think these steps apply just as much to learning to stay indoors during the Coronavirus lockdown as to developing any new skills and habits. Here I explore how I’ve been learning to stay inside.
Begin — One. Two. Three. Four. Five. The inflow and out flow of the breath. I’ll admit, I’ve been complacent about the Coronavirus. I thought it was far way from home. I felt sorry for the thousands of deaths I was witnessing in China but I felt secure in the U.K. I was ignorant and selfish. And I was wrong. Just as the buds begin to appear on the linden trees along my street, reports start to come in about individuals being infected in England. The virus is spreading. I begin to understand it spreads through person to person contact. Around about 12th March, I make the decision to cancel events which involve people gathering. I’ve been working on a number of projects which offer opportunities to black, Asian and ethnic minorities in my region to develop a relationship with nature. Disappointingly, I put a stop to these activities. I walk into the sea to heal.
Practice — As an individual, I start to self-isolate. I stop unnecessary trips out and keep my distance from friends and family, and people, in general. It’s difficult as it’s like swimming against the tide. No one else seems to be worried about closeness. I do the responsible thing. I look after myself by taking my medicine. I go back into the sea and breathe.
Keep showing up — With my world shrinking, I contact our funders, our partners and our groups in relation to our Black Nature projects and inform them we are canceling and/or postponing events and activities scheduled for Spring and Summer because of the Coronavirus. It kills me to pick apart projects which have been six to seven years in the making but I know it’s the right thing to do to keep everyone safe. I lean into my writing practice using this time at home to follow a strict regime of morning pages, journal prompts, poetry exercises, visual journalling and reading. I’m in control of the situation.
Practice some more– Crowds of daffodils bob along the roadside as I make the twice daily trips to drop off and pick up from school. I‘m worried about our children. Our 9 year old daughter at school. Our 21 year old son away from home teacher training. It doesn’t sit well with me that I‘m self-isolating but sending my babies out into the world daily. I worry they’re at risk. I go food shopping. Shelves begin to empty and I feel people’s panic. This escalates my panic. I stop going into the sea.
Stretching self — Tuesday 17 March, we pick our daughter up from school, and don’t send her back the next day. We feel the U.K. government doesn’t care about us. We feel they’re not doing enough to protect us and stop the spread of the virus. We make our own decision to lockdown as a family. We start out as if it’s a holiday. A chance to rest and relax and catch up on TV shows and films. We have no routine. We listen to the gulls outside our windows squawking their freedom.
Practice — I shop alone for what we need. And yes this includes extra toilet rolls and pasta. I’m privileged enough to be able to buy plenty of whatever we want. People still don’t keep their distance. Their anxiety rubs off on me. I take my annoyance and frustration back into the home. No amount of showering and clothes washing can rid the stench of fear. I meet people who matter to me through a screen. I don’t go into the sea.
Practice – 23rd March the British government puts the whole country on a three week lockdown. The Prime Minister announces the police will now have the power to fine people if they leave their homes for any reason other than the following: shopping for basic necessities, one form of exercise a day, medical need or to provide care for a vulnerable person and traveling to work but only for key workers.
Note your improvements – I haven’t been in the sea for two weeks. I‘m not coping well under quarantine. I‘m not using the time away from the outside world in any productive way. I‘m beating myself up for not doing more. For not finishing the book, for not cleaning the house. For not moving forward but instead treading water. As cherry blossom blooms pink and white and raspberry, are tossed about in the wind, I’m wrapped in grief. Grieving for the life I’d built from rock bottom, in the last 5 years, gone in an instant. I’m grieving for the projects I’d worked hard and persevered with to create with others for others gone in a click of a button. I’m grieving for not being able to go to my favourite coffee shop and order an extra hot, vanilla oat latte and savour the taste while writing my morning pages. And yes I know how thoughtless and trivial that sounds. I‘m missing the sea.
Practice — My days are different now. Time seems to move differently, faster and slower at the same time. Days morph into each other and weekends just don’t feel the same when you find yourself not going out into the world to work during the week, and coming home late craving some downtime. Now every day feels like down time. It’s easy to get lost in the nothingness if I don’t have something to do. My moods are up and down as I try to enforce some structure. And then try to just go with the flow. It’s difficult to keep things together for myself and my family. Especially when I’m denying myself my medicine, the sea. Because of fear. Fear of the patrolling police questioning me. The police not just fining me but imprisoning me. I’m a vulnerable Black body outside when I’m not supposed to be outside. Try to feel my fear. Fear of other people not keeping their distance. Fear of people in general. I can only control my actions and some people are still acting in irresponsible ways through ignorance or entitlement. I tell myself: I’m not the waves of life. I try to drop below the waves and find the calm and peace underneath.
Practice — Stay home. Protect the NHS. Save lives. A constant reminder whenever I go outside. Every Thursday at 8 pm, we go outside and clap to show our appreciation for all the hard work the key workers within the NHS are doing. Are enduring. I go out once a week to do a big shop wearing a face mask and gloves. I hope my eyes tell the story that I’m smiling at the shop workers. I make a point of telling them my appreciation. I wish them safety and wellness. I make sure our daughter gets out once a day for some fresh air otherwise she’d just stay glued to her screens. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. The inflow and outflow of the breath.
Repeat — One. Two. Three. Four. Five.The inflow and outflow of the breath. I practice self support. I support myself during these unprecedented times by being kind to myself. I try to have an intention regarding how I start my day. How I want to feel today. Most days, I want to be present. Most days are a present. I hold gratitude for the life I’m living, at the moment. Life is moment to moment. One moment, I’m on my mat feeling the morning chill caress my neck and shoulders. The next movement, I feel my body, it’s heaviness pulled towards the earth. I’m part of Earth. I’m trying to stay more in the now. And not worry about the future or mourn too much about the past. I’m human so it takes practice.
Beginagain— We’re still in lockdown. This isn’t a happy ending. This is me learning new habits, new ways of being. Tapping into moments of joy and peace being inside. And getting back into the sea
Morning routine done. Still completing my rituals before I greet the world.
Decided to add 2 more to the list so I can complete some stuff I want and don’t want to do this month.
One is to continue to add to my wall for my fugitivity essay. Two, tackle one task per day for completion of my counselling skills course.
Guess which task is the one I don’t want to do?
Completed reading the ebook, In the Cut by Susanna Moore. And I’m not going to spoil it for you but I just didn’t see the ending coming. I was reading this after reading an article with Susanna Moore speaking with Allison P. Davis and it was exploring writing about sex and murder. Somethings I’m considering writing about. So I thought I better read the novel. Let’s just say it’s an interesting read and I think I was expecting more sex! Call me greedy!
Went out for a walk and was remembering my drive home yesterday in the sunshine. Reminded of how being with Kiwi, and our on adventures is my happy place. More!
Returned home and forgot to post some stuff so had to go back out. And Tynemouth is heaving today because the sun is out and it’s the weekend and it’s station market day. I tend to avoid the crowds at the coast and head in the opposite direction but today I did not mind the people as I felt like I belonged.
I’ve taken quite a shine to Loch Morlich. It’s a place that keeps on giving. And a place I long to return. I leave it with a renewed commitment to my self-love journey. To devoting more time, care and attention to myself. Diverting the attentions I might have been giving out willy-nilly to other people, thoughtlessly, I redirect back to the source. Me.
7am, Loch Morlich
I entered the loch today as the sun was rising. I broke the surface of the loch, with its shards of ice and glided out. Slow expansive circles ripped upon the lochs surface as I took slow, cold strokes. It was freezing and it was painful, but I didn’t want to stop, to get out and leave the loch. But I did.
My finger tips were white for a long time after my swim. I used hot water to bring back some feeling into them. They were so painful. But this pain, along with my body submerged without the frozen loch, are all a reminder to feel again, to live my life to the fullest and give thanks in the process.
Living Wild Studios 