Uniforms, twibes, vague meanderings

James phoned me from the school bus this morning.
‘It’s a non-uniform day,’ he said.
Oh shit.
‘I forgot,’ he said.
‘I didn’t even know.’

Damn. I really must get a grip. Start using a diary again. Maybe even get a battery for my watch. Did I mention that the batteries in both my watches packed up on the same day? I think I may be out of time.

Thankfully he didn’t sound too perturbed.

‘I suppose you could wear your tracksuit?’ I suggested, hopefully, uncertainly.  Knowing that, even if I drove in with some clothes, he wouldn't get them until lunchtime.
‘Yeah, I guess I could.’
Bless him.

Cheers!

But it worried me and it will bother me slightly all day long. I know how important it is when you’re his age to fit in, to be the same as the rest of the gang. Children desperately want to bond with the pack. Then, in the teenage years, comes the urge to differentiate (just a little); to identify with a ‘set’ – wearing another uniform (usually of the music you like), finding your tribe. All the time fighting vehemently for your right to be ‘different’; all the time yearning for people who feel the same as you do.  One of these days, if I ever get a scanner, I'll give you all a laugh and load up pics of some of my more, er, interesting, fashion incarnations (as a taster, I offer you the 'Haystack' phase - bleach blonde, backcombed to death, leather jackets and spiky heels).  I made those earrings, btw - hearts and demon baby faces.  Some things never change. :-)

And it doesn’t stop, when you grow up. Maybe we all – consciously or unconsciously – seek others like us: who won’t judge; who won’t call us crazy (or, if they do, at least do it lovingly, with a fond shake of the head). People who understand. And if you can't find them in everyday life, you can look for them online.  On Twitter people are joining ‘twibes’ – online tribes.

Not me. I’m not a joiner, never have been. Adrian's the one who does committees; joins societies; belongs to things. I made an exception just once to get an integrated health care centre up and running here on Exmoor. I've always believed that if our doctors focused on preventative healthcare, they would create health and save money. If they taught people how to eat properly; how to meditate or do autogenic training; how to relax and exercise... If they employed osteopaths, bodyworkers, taught Alexander Technique...and good (firm emphasis on good) psychotherapists (just for starters)...we might have a health service, rather than a sick service. But anyhow, it drove me crazy. Sitting going round in circles; endless meandering; talking, talking, talking: everybody thinking he or she were right.

It didn’t happen. Of course.

A backwater of Epidauros - my dream healing spot

You know (or maybe you don’t), the more I hear of words, the less I trust them. The more I read, the less I know. One of the most blissful weeks of my life was on silent retreat – painting into the night, music in my ears, sometimes dancing, sometimes crying. Another was in Greece on dream pilgrimage, visiting the ancient healing temples, stretching out on the warm sunkissed stones, being bitten by the snakes of Asklepios. Or just sitting in the bus, as it wound through the mountains up to the plains of Sparta, to magical Mystras, staring out, wondering... No words, just feelings. Sometimes nothing. And nothing is alluring, so alluring. Then it tips into everything and...

Sorry, I’m meandering, wandering off again...  Not to the woods today but to the gym – in my uniform of course. Chatting to my neighbour, our lovely vicar; to my instructor, just back from Austria, high on mountain air and cross-country skiing. Chit-chat. Chit-chat. Nice really. I guess it’s what we humans do.

But, then again, why? Are we so scared of what lies beyond silence? Ach, I can’t explain it. Words, see? Useless. If I could only show you...