As I look out my window after arriving in London to a warm welcome, hot bone broth and ginger tea aimed to envelop me from this deep winter chill, a coldness which 10 years of California living will whip straight through, I’ve managed to rest long enough to “mostly” free myself of this delirium and jetlag.
‘Mostly’, because jetlag manages to wake me up just before dawn, not something I’m inclined to do and yet, has given a place for me to bow in gratitude to the in-between time of twilight, make an offering to these dawn-spirits, this land and its story.
Its strange to arrive to a place such as this, a small island in the larger scheme of things, whose managed to colonize the world for better or worse- holding a thick history within the lining of its old bones of architecture yet also manages to hold a very real ephemeral magic, beyond its politics and monarchy, living just out of sight, maybe an inch or two beyond history as we know it, this isle of fey, deep wells and cobbled streets to silently hold its secrets, beyond a time crafted by lawyers, judges and priests, beyond and into a place where the cunning folk still live in right relationship to the earth, by understanding its power and walking in humble respect with its rhythms.
Perhaps through this cloud of delirium, not completely worn off, I lay in bed as I watch this window shifting from night into day revealing a subtly, which a much denser reality hasn’t the ability to hold. Perhaps it’s the jetlag talking, however maybe the liminal space of this in-between is also talking, offering its reflection through the glint of fresh morning eyes, which at the beginning of this day is simply giving a little something to ponder as this jetlag begins to loosen its grip.