Noticing that I am reluctant to leave and do house chores instead. The cats go out in the rain.
It is hard to find the car park amongst all of the car parks and the furtive signage.
Check-in was my work, bag drop is my work. They scan my boots at security.
The multi-faith prayer room is bustling and full. Shoes and matts are piled outside.
I eat a small, plain sandwich from Starbucks with a packet of too strong crisps. If they’d have asked my name I’d have given Balthasar.
Purposeless-ploughs – Gavin-Birchall
A regiment of redundant, yellow, snow ploughs line up near the runway in Manchester. There is no snow here.
Travellers to cold countries carry heavy coats. And bags full of wires.
She completes puzzle after puzzle with a pencil and loses her rubber under the seat.
Passengers restlessly move around the cabin. The atmosphere is alive.
Emotions swell as the oxygen drops and I recognise myself in the book I am reading. I carry my family with me.
Descending, the light dims to deep dive blue. The windows flash black and grey.
Landing a little late, my neighbour speaks. Making a connection while hoping to make a connection.
Spoke of falconry, caring professions, religion and risk while the passport systems were down.
Disoriented. Rushing across Stockholm airport feels good for my legs.
People start conversations with me in Swedish. Switching to German then English.
Gluten free cheese and salad sandwich with a sugared pretzel. A contrary meal but food is scary and I’ve been told to eat gluten.
In unfamiliar lands watch how others behave. People are wearing coats to get on the plane.
Fokker – Gavin-Birchall
A Fokker 50 full to its exoskeleton must be de-iced before take off. Snow on the ground.
Must get off at the right stop. Very important.
The main lighting goes dark and striated orange lights are ribs inside a giant wasp.
We taxi for an age and I record the astonishing sound of the propellers.
Alarm bells ring in my lizard mind. I accept and go inward towards calm.
An hour of oppressive volume. It goes dark again as the wasp lands in the blackness.
Down the steps, across the snow, into the shed. The airport is closed but for our narrow entry and exit.
Seven bags come out of the hold, onto a trolley and in the same door we did.
Minus six but it does not feel like it with no wind. That’s what people say.
Everyone, literally everyone, leaves while I wait for my ride. There is no movement anywhere.
Snow is banked high at the edges. Not needed or wanted for the task at hand.
Squeezing into the car with greetings and heatings and cases. I can’t find the belt buckle.
Stepping out into the Swedish night the stars form a line across the sky. Sound is very close in.
Hygge-candle-handle – Gavin-Birchall
Cosy, hygge, firelight, blankets. Wood built, close by, supper, sharing.
Sunrise seems partial yet I brush snow off forty five metres of solar panels. While my feet sink knee deep.
Breakfast after work feels nourishing. A call and a response.
We gather and make our approach to The Question. Speak into the benevolent void and listen to echoing gossip.
Experiencing, relating, participating. Cooking, cleaning, dying.
A-ball-of-light – Gavin-Birchall
I’ve been waiting to see if something emerges that has meaning for others. A ball of light that knows itself in the dark.
Walking a long loop, my cheeks freeze so I make silent shapes with my mouth. Back in the warmth they flood and tingle.
This far North is it soon dark again. It seems to be dark more often.
Pains in my stomach, present for months, are gone. Shocked by their absence.
Sleeping always comes easier on the second night in any bed. Waking feels rich.
I shovel a path to the abandoned old home but don’t reach the door. All day pace is fast enough.
Not-so-alone-in-the-forest – Gavin-Birchall
Walking alone into the forest I find intimate, empty space. Between the trees and between my cells.
Following on we all slalom into forest and go deeper into The Question. Hidden from each other, the trees speak for us.
You can’t buy alcohol just anywhere. Even the award winning whisky distillery.
We take a flight of the High Coast and talk of England and villages and fells. Tasting is so much better than talking.
The darkness returns having lost its terror. A blanket that stacks evenings on top of each other.
What is of value? Am I aligned?
So grand a cathedral of resisting change. Not believing it is up to me.
The world cannot accept what you do not reveal.
Out-of-focus-is-in-focus – Gavin-Birchall
Early rising and I am held between man and woman. Yoga massage and I understand the energy of this family.
Approaching The Question in our fullness we try and spell the energy of each other. Before thought becoming thought.
We give in to bibliomancy and scepticism falls to the floor like a lost bookmark. To live revealed, curious and laughing.
Bright sun turns everything into diamonds. We slide and spin and angel as the snow becomes play.
Snow-angel – Gavin-Birchall
Living in opposition to something brings it inside us. Aligning with truth brings us to ourselves.
Now, we walk and we walk and we ready ourselves for extremes. Stripping for sauna in minus twelve on the edge of a frozen lake.
Silent heat rises and burns us as we call out to stay in. Dry snow returns the balance when rubbed on naked skin.
The wrong direction can be the right direction as we make for the car. You can’t park just anywhere when snowploughs prowl the darkness.
How do we name our response to The Question? Priest, Shaman, Mystic Wizard?
Brief touches of home have kept my heart beating. Path dependent positive entanglement.
Ski – Gavin-Birchall
Herding we eat the local stew and talk of nothing altogether. There is healing in sharing food.
Shadows return to my frame and my innards. Anticipating climbing back into what felt like a box.
Then out to the hill and boundary and ritual and calling, burning, life, calling, burning, life. A summit is reached and a shattering of self.
Shattering-self – Gavin-Birchall
Little sleep this night. Waking often in readiness for moving and returning and the impossible chain of events that will take me home.
Winter tyres bring us, packed like Surströmming into the car, to an abrupt halt before departures. A bus station sized airport and there are moments to spare.
Dozing and waking in Stockholm, minus six feels balmy. I take my hat and gloves off.
The multi-faith room is empty and serene and I sit for half an hour. Breakfast and notes with existential Gantt Charts for desert.
It feels safe to list what each day entails. Still safe to loosen the bindings.
A Norse Goddess and friends, sitting two rows back, laugh and swear loudly. Not pausing for breath before landing.
Avoid-unless-unavoidable – Gavin-Birchall
Is The Question ‘What am I doing with my life?’ or is it ‘What’s for lunch?’ Maybe what we do doesn’t matter as long as we involve our whole selves.
The familiarity of baggage reclaim hits hard. But I’ll be lost finding the car park again.
Noticing that I am reluctant to leave I buy a sandwich. My girls are waiting.
From Zone B of the seventh floor of T2 Multi-storey West, Manchester looms out of the distant mist. I pause in my car seat and then I am away into the present.
Maybe my reluctance isn’t helping and I just need to tuck in.
Most of this was written in real time. During or shortly after each moment. Through the experience, as an improvisation, rather than after the experience, as a reflection. You’ll likely spot the bits that came after to make sense of it all. Coaching can help us find the sense in the sensation and make something of what we experience. I notice there were more moments recorded to begin with and that as I gradually sank deeper into this world recording felt less necessary.