Last week, with a full moon at play, I felt a foreboding sense of sadness bubbling in the background. Unsure from where, whence it came.

 

With an almost numbing persistence, I felt an urge to cry yet it sat in that sticky place of stuckness. The urge but no tears falling. So all at sea emotionally still something holding my salt-water back.

 

Tiredness possibly.

 

Bone-deep exhaustion. Yes.

 

Overwhelm. Yes.

 

Disappointment from hopes in my heart. I think so.

 

So, with an ache for release, last night, before bed, I decided to take some Nat Mur.

 

Nat Mur. Natrum muriaticum. Table salt. Sodium Cchloride.

 

A homeopathic remedy that helps gently nudge the tears out.

 

And now 5 O’clock in the morning they come and my inner-howling begins to speak.

 

No pool.

 

No pool!

 

No pool to swim in for the next six months!

 

Boom. Now I see my sadness in it’s shape. My mourning. This seemingly unbearable knowing for the next six months, without driving for miles upon miles, without paying one hundred pounds a month, I am bereft of a place for my soul to go pray. Bereft of a place for my soul to be listened to unlike no other way. Bereft of a place for the depths of my being to be kissed whilst I play submerged 3 metres or so under.

 

This is where I feel human. This is where I come alive. THIS is my home.

 

It is where I speak my fullest and where, in silence, I am heard.

 

And whilst still finding our feet in our new surrounds, I yearn for this food, this nourishment.

 

With the outdoor facility closing yesterday, where I have found my medicine this last summer, I realised at 5am why I feel so cast adrift and imprisoned all at once.

 

I need, in this life, footsteps from my front door, to a pool.

 

I need to deposit myself within it, one, two, three times a week. To sink down and connect in.

 

In suspension, as I sink beneath the surface, I find weight to my form and all the rivers that meander within me. Here, sorrow and pain, wonder and joy flow freely, like land does not allow. Here, dialogues with forgotten buried stories can stir and be released with ease, acceptance and a greater power than I holding all the confusion. It’s a mirror in akin to no other and has me hooked to the connectivity it bestows.

 

My heart is longing. And dreaming. And fretting.

 

But a tiny pastille on my tongue helped the tears that have been longing to come tell me why I am feeling so all alone. A gift from the sea, at home.

 

May more gifts prevail over these winter months to meet my aching for this deepest and most beloved communion.

 

Image: Eight Months