Diminutive Dives

I can see why people take a shine to wild swimming.

As a child, I loved nothing more than spending hours in the sea.

As a teenager, I’m sad to say I predictably became too embarrassed to don a wetsuit for fear that groups of unknown peers would judge me.

Now, whilst the prospect of a bikini still fills me with ever so slight dread, the joy of warping my way through the waves far outweighs the fright.

It is perhaps only in the past year that I’ve come to rediscover this rather primal relationship with the most prolific element on earth.

Last August, when the final few days of a stonkingly steamy summer slowly slipped away, the lure of the ocean was simply too tempting to resist.

Last September, when those halcyon days appeared a distant dream, venturing into the icy depths took a little more convincing.

I’m so glad the case in favour was compelling.

There’s an almost certain hilarity to taking a dip in England, particularly in that first moment when you are faced with an impossible decision.

To run, or to flinch?

That is the question.

I possess the distinct memory of both occasions being filled with collective gasps and chokes of laughter, as myself and my sisters in August, later myself and my friends in September, slowly eased our way into the water.

With the arrival of every new goosebump came the disappearance of another.

The race against the chill began. The exhilaration was palpable.

It’s akin to taking your first step into a freezing dawn, or making a midnight flit.

For a split second, that gulp fills every fibre of your being. It’s the deepest breath you’ve ever taken, an exquisite reminder of being alive.

The sensation spreads, beginning at the lungs and ending at the extremities.

And then I look up.

Taking in the might of the horizon, or the twinkling of the stars, I think ‘somehow, in all of space and time, I ended up right here’.

‘Here’ might just be the non-descript street outside my house.

Nevertheless, there’s something quite spectacular about that when you consider the vastness of the world and the worlds beyond.

A lot of people don’t like feeling small.

Concurrently, many of us choose to forget that we’re part of something boundless.

But if you take the plunge, immerse yourself in this incontrovertible fact, you’ll find there’s nothing to be scared of.

Minisculity simply unlocks appreciation; nothing more, nothing less.

Just look up. You’ll see.

Curiosity Cabinets

Coincidence is a tricky matter.

I wrote words to that effect little over a week ago and true to form, it seems I tempted fate.

In this instance though, following in the winding wake of chance is no bad thing.

The seed of this humble piece began sprouting a while ago, when I started thinking about my renewed revere for The Great Pottery Throwdown.

I realise putting it that way makes me sound slightly (very) droll. But I’ve never professed to being ‘cool’ and certainly have no plans to embark on that hopeless quest now.

I wasn’t quite sure if the shoots would amount to anything until this week when I spoke to my Nan, only to discover that she too has become obsessed with the programme.

Words flowed at a rate of knots, with both of us sharing our deep appreciation for all the potters’ talents and the wish to give throwing a go ourselves.

It was then that I felt fortune had given me no other option but to share my budding seedling with the world.

Essentially, it’s blossomed into acknowledging the joy of the unexpected.

I’ve been making a habit of listening to Louis Theroux’s podcast, Grounded, where amongst many curiosities I learned that Frankie Boyle does yoga.

My housemates have been going through a phase of watching old series of The Great British Bake Off and the realisation struck me there too.

It was closely followed by the return of ‘the Throwdown’, which only served to reinforce all that I’d been gently considering.

I still remember the brief jarring I felt when I first watched Keith Brymer Jones cry, overcome by the elegance of a fellow potter’s work. In an instant, I came to ignore the inexplicable incongruity I’d experienced and my love for the show and all it encompassed reached new bounds.

Because ultimately, it doesn’t really matter if you’re interested in the craft or creations (although it helps). It’s simply life-affirming to see a group of unlikely friends being struck so intensely by a shared passion.

I realise that on the small screen we see a carefully curated assortment of individuals.

But that doesn’t change the fact that all these people, and many more besides, have been there all along, enjoying whatever it is that ignites their ardour. It’s just that for a few short weeks, someone’s momentarily turned a torch toward a handful of them.

Each time I encounter something like this it feels like a cotton soft reminder that we all have interior lives; that we should celebrate and remember all the bizarre quirks that unite us.

And it’s not that we all need to share identical quirks in order to relate to each other. It’s much more about appreciating that we are unanimously quirky.

In some respects, I think it would be quite something if we were all outlandishly proud of them.

But then again, it’s much more intriguing to maintain a little mystique.

Morris & Me

I’ve happily fallen prey to nostalgia this week.

Whilst lately we seldom seem able to discuss this peculiar quality without derision, I see very little wrong with occasionally allowing ourselves be warmed with wistful affection for the past.

I suppose I mean this more in reference to our own lives than in the grand terms of history, where nostalgia admittedly presents problems.

But for my modest story, I don’t think we need be too concerned.

It goes like this…

I love the patterns of William Morris. Knowing this, my friend Lola this week gifted me a cushion bearing the same print as the little purse she gave me for my birthday last year.

Ever the sentimentalist, I hugged it the second I opened it. It has since gained pride of place amongst the inordinate number of pillows on my bed. It is nestled in the small of my back as we speak.

I couldn’t really tell you why I admire Morris’ handiwork. I know very little about art, as this tale will reveal, but I suppose the feelings these particular prints evoke in me are the reason art continues to possess both power and prestige.

Put simply, these patterns remind me of a very specific moment in my childhood.

I was in my Year 2 Art Class. We were given the choice of little print outs of a section of artwork, with the task being to continue to sketch the work, replicating it as closely as we could.

As I understand it now, this isn’t exactly capturing the essence of ‘art’.

Nevertheless, it was my kind of creativity; one with clear parameters.

And unwittingly, I’d begun an affair that will likely last a lifetime.

I’m almost certain the pattern I selected was one by the very same William Morris, or at the very least was something so akin to it I can still remember what it looked like in my mind’s eye to this day.

Inevitably, this got me thinking about how much of who we are and what we admire stays with us from childhood.

In turn, I wonder how much you forget too?

People would probably say the tender souls are rich in recollections, but I’m unsure.

It feels too simple, too easy to reduce every existence and every accompanying thought, every accompanying memory, down to being the dominion of one type of person or another.

Alas I have yet to resolve this conflict.

In the meantime, consider it my contribution to the limitless nature-nurture debate.

Coincidence is an equally tricky matter. Incidentally, this too gets problematised to within an inch of its life.

I confess I find it hard to ignore the lingering question of whether something is fate or whether you simply care about something enough to notice it.

Nevertheless, I have an uncompromising fondness for fortuity.

William Morris has followed me for most of my life, in the way that those things do, materialising in the few places where algorithms remain unaccountable.

Long may our serendipitous meetings continue.