Migrations

and landscapes of want

When the geese come, it is always their sound that reaches me first. Now it has become a seasonal call—response; my body sent spinning in a slow, wide circle until my eyes catch the dark whorl of movement.

Today this torrent of wings was pitched against a daytime moon. The winter air so bright and empty that the whole world lagged, sound haunting bird in a connection pliant as water. The sight of them, a grey skein unravelling against blue, caused a tug beneath my ribs. The sense of togetherness they stamped against the sky, each winged member so obviously not alone in their pilgrimage, a twinge to my sternum. The very place a bony keel would anchor my flight muscles, if I had any.

When the geese come, my body wants enfolded into their feathery chevron, that much I know. No words for it, just skin tingling at the sound of their cackling gabble, heels that instinctively lift towards open air. I am like a newborn bird awaiting its growth of flight feathers, desperate to join but still ground bound. Yes. My body seems to strain. Yes, yes, yes. Me too.

This longing I have is a painful one, a tender desire. Yet, although I always thought to ‘want’ something meant to demand or wish for it, the word’s old Norse heritage originally places it as a lack of something, a deficiency. This interpretation holds a different emphasis. One that suggests paying attention to what is absent from my life, rather than putting a name to additions, may solve my original wants. My body is lacking something – bodily, viscerally, socially— and like a missing nutrient it has turned into a craving that cuts bone-deep.

Geese tend not to have this issue. When they sense diminishing sunlight, food and shelter, they take it as an indication to migrate somewhere that continues to fulfil these requirements. Geese do not want anything because they make changes to ensure they are never deficient; their needs remain satisfied. Now, as I recognise my own undernourishment in aspects of life, I wonder what it might be costing me to stay where I am? What am I foregoing in the name of familiarity?

The place I have called my home—the body, headspace and daily routines I have stubbornly held onto for years— is one of scarcity. Whilst consumed by mental illness my wellsprings of happiness have dried up, my friendships died off and my life become void of purpose. This place, despite calling it home, feels exposed and wearing; a barren landscape which only provides comfort through its familiarity. Formed from an interplay between my body, consciousness and habits, I have not escaped it by returning to my childhood house, moving flat, or changing country. Home has turned out to be, not a geographical area, but myself. For any cravings to be sated, and my life to feel fulfilled, it is my internal landscape that must shift. I don’t yet know how this will look, but like geese travelling south for food and warmth I think it begins by navigating life based upon my needs, and what must be done to fill them. I think it begins by identifying what makes me feel happier, nourished, more alive. I think it begins by taking that first step.

That is why I am here, that is why I am writing— this, now, is my first step. I have always loved words and stories, the thick musk which clings to old books. I even studied them at university, completing both an undergraduate and masters degree in English Literature. Yet for some time I have neglected to read or write, stalled by thoughts of wasting time or showcasing my ineptitude. This persistent avoidance has not lessened either fear, but it has made my life emptier. So now I am choosing to write, both for joy and to fill another void I didn’t recognise I had: the need for narrative.

The presence of books and words in our lives act as a reminder that how we view and experience the world is largely due to the stories we are told, and the stories we tell ourselves. Most importantly, they remind us that these stories are not irrevocable, that we can tell ourselves a different one. So far, my life has felt a story that has been written for me, not by me. As though I have arrived at a destination without getting to be the one who made the choices that led there. However, all that happens to me belongs to me, so I am making it mine. I am beginning to tell my own story, feeding it to myself, even the parts which catch in my throat. I am choosing to nourish myself with it and, in taking control of the narrative, to take control of my life.

Attaining this new prospect on my life involves a traverse of unfamiliar, foreign territory, and it is difficult not to let my headspace return to the recognised tracks of where I called home, even if that place no longer serves me. However, I’ve always found that putting things into writing seems to solidify it, and this is what I hope these letters will do. That, as words on a page, they will etch my new narrative in place long enough that it sticks and becomes a place to call home. A new position of mind, body and action that is different from what I’ve known, but infinitely richer.

For anyone still reading, I do not know what shape my following letters will take. I cannot promise anything except that I am writing to heal myself; whatever form or topics or time that may take. However writing is a strange act, one fundamentally personal yet designed to create communication and intimacy with others. So although I am writing to myself, I am, in a way, writing to you. With this in mind, I hope I can alchemize words and experiences and senses into something that is radically private whilst reaching far beyond myself. I hope my words offer you meaning without needing to say precisely what it is.

Overhead, somewhere in the world, wild geese plunge themselves into gelid skies. For the moment, anything seems possible. I could take myself anywhere. Around me, the whole world presents itself—close and immediate and mysterious. I feel it there in all its intimacy; so incredibly unknown, so incredibly vital, yet so incredibly open to me.

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