Immersing in Saints Valley
Saints Bay has become my most favourite place on Guernsey. Since Em passed, I have been here virtually every day that I have been on Guernsey, and generally it is the first place I go when I return from a trip away.
In this earlier days, mid winter and as the sun cycled towards Imbolc I was deep in shock and grief, and the walk up and down the hill from my car, was spent mainly in my head, trying to make sense, understand, talk to Ewan if he happened to be with me, which he was more frequently then, concerned about my wellbeing. We were all in shock and water, the sea, which took Em that earlier morning, was a place now to be more mindful, especially in winter storms.
Up and down that hill every day, in wind and rain, sleet and hail. Initially I kept my grief deep inside, and then it began to appear in the tears which ran down my face, as I stepped into the sea, or sat huddled on the pebbles at high tide, or in the cove if the tide was lower, processing, letting go.
Then I noticed the birds, the sea gulls, cormorants, there was one who flew low over the water at a certain time each morning. And those rocks off to the left, almost opposite the fisherman’s landing on the right, which look like two fingers up to the world, or at least this is how one of my clients who died from cancer a long time ago now used to think. “I sit on that beach Emma, and I think, yes, two fingers up to the world, and to cancer”, she used to see.
This bay always holds memories of that client, of seeing her here in the sporadic times I visited, more drawn to petit Bot back then. She and her friend would sit around a fire, early morning, breakfast, warming themselves, hoping for life, and yet death came, and it shocked me to my core, as death always does, and I still think of her here, more so now Em is gone, as death again traded its way into my life and has consumed this year.
Later as Imbolc passed and the equinox came, the grief rose up within me, a homepathic remedy taken to encourage the emotions to the surface, which I had swallowed, to be strong, to be able to sit with Em’s girls as their mum was laid to rest, to help where I could, without them seeing my own pain, but it had to come up, it was heavy inside me, so heavy, and days I almost dragged myself up and down that hill, feeling like a towel, soaked through needing a spin, a cycle, to dry it out.
A trip to Shetland gave me the space to grieve, and on my return that’s when I really started noticing more of the valley. I watched the daffodils come and go, bluebells and primroses too, then there was the celandine as the valley turned purple, yellow. Then the pink campion grew in masses, the dandelions too, I was conscious of the navel wort, the English stone crop, bracken and another beautiful wort whose name I have forgotten now. I learned that wort is an old English term (from the Old English wyrt) for a plant, herb, or root—especially one used for medicinal purposes.
I started taking photos and asking my cousin, a botanist, to identify. I started to gain interest in the flora and fauna as it appeared and became obsessed about the lesser burdock growing at the top left of the first stretch of hill, just before joining the road which takes you all the way to St Martin’s village.
I watched the blackthorn blossom white clouds of tiny flowers, followed by the hawthorn, not that there is so much of this in the valley, white and pink. It was the elder which really got me this year. I was in love with the elder and its fragrance, the white tiny star flowers, studded in an umbel that caused me to literally stop and smell the air, touch the tree with thanks for this its gift. The sycamore’s burst into life and I spent one evening sat beside one, listening, the valley is full of them, such magical trees.
That same evening, I watched the almost full moon rising increasingly southerly at this time of year, the opposite of the sun, and flood the bay. The moon light travelled up the lane, and I sat in the middle of it, in true wonder at the sight; me, the moon, the sea and this glorious valley, and I felt lucky, blessed, as if Em had cast yet more magic into my life as she has been doing these last few months.
The birds too. The robins, a little sign, but it was more than that, the blackbirds and great tits, I recognised their sounds from the bird book I read to Em’s baby son, and I became attuned to the songs. I eventually downloaded the Merlin App to my phone and realised the valley is full of chaffinches, noisy chaffinches at that, and wrens, blackcaps too. Then there’s the pigeons and the crows, a symphony fills the valley, early morning chorus is the best.
The pink campions died back a little, poppies appeared, a random lilly, alexanders, water cress, and still the lesser burdock grew. I was resistant to the kiosk reopening at Easter, and the activity this brought into the valley, so I began getting there earlier, after sunrise, to have the place to myself, to witness the honey suckle, smell it in the early morning dampness, the trickling of the stream passing down through the valley and the trees, so many sycamores and elders, abundant in their leafy green.
On the beach, I noticed the shifting of the clouds and bought a cloud book to help me identify them, the sun moving on its trajectory increasingly rising to the north, so that it would only appear over the cliff after a certain time. The sea warmed and warmed some more. The seagulls still sat on the two fingers up to the world rock. The small fishing boats appeared on their moorings again. The pink sea thrift appeared, sea beet too, which I’d collect to steam later at home, leaving the sea samphire, far too bitter.
The grief came and went. I started writing a book after Shetland, it wasn’t intended. I stumbled across a second hand book store, just before we left and couldn’t find any books to read initially, but just as we were leaving I suddenly had an impulse to return into the shop, leaving Ewan and the boys bemused and patient in the car, and there by the counter I was drawn to two books, one by Amy Lipton called The Outreach and another by Raynor Winn called The Wild Silence. I didn’t know why, I just knew I had to have them.
Amy Lipton’s book essentially changed my life. I was inspired to write again, it was compulsive, I couldn’t stop, up Glastonbury Tor, on the plane, in Ireland, on the boat to Sark, every opportunity. I also know I have to return to Orkney one day. I started writing and finished my outpouring after our trip to Ireland. I’m currently editing it. The Wild Silence is all about publishing her first book, The Salt Path, I had no idea, but feels a little coincidental.
The grief journey I realised took me deeper to the land, deeper into nature and to Saints Valley especially. I feel immersed in it now, in the bird song, the burdock especially, I was so upset when they strimmed so much of it back, killed it off, when it was almost flowering last week, and I just thought, “why?!”, We have such little interest or respect for nature, for the unfolding and unfurling of the flora and fauna and the joy it brings, the lightness, the vibrational quality, the aliveness too.
I feel alive, this valley has gifted me aliveness, Em’s passing gifted that too. I miss her dearly, but know she is here, there, everywhere, and her death caused me to make choices to live better still, to realise again, the sanctity of life, that we are not here forever and how arrogant of us to forget this, to live as if there is always tomorrow, to assume we’ll live to old age.
None of us know when our time is up, death catches us unaware, young sometimes too, my friend Marie died aged 41 years almost four years ago now, I had two clients who died earlier this year 36 ad 50 and Rupert, my best friend’s brother, my age, at 51.
Saints Valley has helped me to recognise even more the cycles of life, the inbreathe becoming the outbreath becoming the inbreathe again until one day that never comes, and the plants in their own cycle of becoming, from seed to plant to fruit and back to seed again, as we will too, “ashes to ashes, dust to dust”, our physical bodies are made from earth and will eventually decompose and return to it, reminding us, life is temporary and all material things fleeting.
This is the teachings of yoga in many ways, we get confused between what is temporary and eternal. I felt Em’s eternal nature, we are that too, I can feel it in my heart, if I am present enough to it, and yet we get so distracted with what is fleeting and unreal. Distraction is our greatest threat on the soul path.
Always we are beginning again with each breath we take, in the body, here now. Krishnamacharya taught this, shared the yogic wisdom with those who brought yoga to the west; body, breath, eat simply, contain the mind, realise the Self. The ancient yogis learned this wisdom directly by immersing in nature, in their own nature, and it is this which they shared, which weaves its way into yoga studios today and yet such detachment from nature in favour of aesthetics and pose for the sake of pose, forgetting the journey that it takes to live and grow, the cycles, the letting go.
Always yoga reminds us of this. Practice and let go. Non-attachment. Easier said than done, but each cycle of breath gifts this opportunity and it is enough, absolutely enough to merely focus on this. The rest is fancy for the sake of fancy and if we are not careful our practice becomes a distraction too if we let it, if we externalise it and make it about the little self.
The glorious yellow evening primrose flowers are dying back now, the elderberries are appearing and the blackberries and sloes are ripening, earlier than usual, or so it feels. The valley is dry, not so much colour and the it does appear I relish it, yet recognise this dying back is part of life. The chaffinches are their usual vocal self, the seagulls are often standing on the shore when I arrive, the sunlight peaking at low tide over the cliff, the top of the beach still shrouded in shade.
The swimming has become secondary to the walk through the valley. In the winter, in all weathers, high tide, low tide, windy, calm, rough seas, big waves, still water, the glistening of sunlight like fairies dancing on the surface, all colours, metal blue, bright blue, glassy, yellow tinged at times too, oily, purple, pink, however the sunlight reflects, and creates it’s hue, in the rain, the hail, and now bright sunshine, warmer too.
I know the rocks, the places to change, to take shelter, to risk a skinny dip, the seaweed, I bought a book on that too and learned more about the many species we have on this island, and the lichen that clings to the rocks, the freshness of the air that causes it to grow abundantly here. Yet it wasn't about this, anymore than it is ever about yoga poses for the sake of them, it was about the journey to get in the sea, the up and down of the ever changing valley.
I have changed my route, sometimes walking back to my bike now, along the cliffs. There is this spot near the stream, where the honeysuckle smells still so fragrant in the early morning dew, and the bird song soothes my soul, causes my heart to open, and the grief is still there, it appears unexpectedly, momentarily and the tears run down my face and I long for something now gone in flesh, yet remind myself that she is still here, that life has been filled with all of this, nature, nature abhors a vacuum and will always rush to fill it. Life is full.
This rambling is not helping me edit my book though! But if you go to Saints, do stop and give the lesser burdock a moment of your time, and the sun, the moon, the clouds, the stars, all of this infuse our lives, and I am grateful to live on this beautiful island in a way I have never recognised before, it is truly magical.
In many ways this is what motivates me to start the Wellness walks in September. To bring some of you together to walk the cliffs with me, to notice the changing seasons and flare and fauna, to connect with nature, feel your heart beat, lungs strengthening, enjoying the aliveness that comes with being outside regardless of the weather and embracing this land we live upon. You can find out more here.
Love Emma x
