So I come down to the South. Bears live here, and snakes, and dangerous people with sculduggery on their minds 24/7. Even with my intelligent 60 year old head fixed atop my human frame; even mindful of the fact that my imagination is more at home in Mordor than it ever is in the sleepy wolds of Great Snoring, I still hold onto the idea that a few miles south of Carlisle, everything goes to pot.
When I was a little girl I was terrified of the dark; couldn’t sleep, couldn’t close my eyes in case the bad things came to collect. And, of course, they were all after me. Not her, over there, or him, the other way, but me. Because why?
In my adult thinking, with the culture, of in-depth psychology infiltrating my every sideways glance, I imagine it is something to do with an overactive ego. An elevated sense of my own importance.
Anyway, the point is that I came here into a strange place, with no natural leaning towards geography (was expelled from the class I seem to remember) or road maps, I have found my way all the way from the island to the recording studio and not one step of this journey was without help. Oh, I didn’t stand at a crossroads and burst into tears. Indeed not. But, at each point, where I faltered and wondered, some kind person asked if they could help. More than that, they walked the mile with me.
From car ride to guide, frome breakfast to supper, every single step. I was not pushed or pulled. Just lovingly helped, and it looks to me like all these people do it naturally.
It is a gift. And I never knew it was there, till I stepped out and opened my eyes.