Underwater Stories

5th September 2011 Monday

Late this afternoon we walk along the quay path following the river Exe with my husband’s family. We stop to watch a skein of swans flying into a low sun. I’m talking to his seven year old niece about the stories she writes. I ask her where she gets her ideas from. She says,

‘Well, I call them my underwater stories because that’s where I get my ideas - when I’m swimming.’

Her father walks with us and says he gets his ideas for tunes and songs when he’s in the shower. Something about the rhythm of the water, the white noise of it blocking out his normal thoughts. And when he walks alone.

I didn’t say it, but I get ideas when I’m washing up. Or ironing. But mostly my head is full of trivia at those times. I’ve been thinking that I’ve lost the art of daydreaming. Or walking alone. Or meditating. Or doing nothing. Actually I’ve never been good at any of those things. But I’m feeling the need now, the impulse - to find a way of clearing a channel in my relentlessly busy life to let some inspiration swim in.

Today I wanted to be one of those swans, hefting myself into the air, curving into the light, with grace in my wings. Leaving the endless white water of the weir behind me.