The flow of my places of healing went a little bit like this:
In 2006 and then in 2012 again, Samui was my place of healing. A place that was disconnected enough from my world that I could connect to the Earth. To myself. I’d be visiting from grey Chengdu where the sun shone 32 days a year, and go into yoga retreats on the sunny island of coconuts and curries. Samui was my oasis.
I began to tap into moments of calm that flowed through my nerves. I went deeper into my yoga and breath work practices. I began to accept myself as a wanderer, with no need to belong anywhere.
When Samui, the place of retreat turned into the place of groceries, school runs, housekeeping, work, a miscarriage and friendships gone sour from 2012 to 2022, it was my week in Achiltibuie in the Scottish highlands in 2019 that proved to be my place healing.
Tones of yellows, greens and purples painted across the mountains, nicely brought out the depths of the grey skies and silky waters. I started to unravel, to free myself.
Next thing I knew, I was a tiny subject in the painting, dancing to the vibrations of the wind in the mountains. Walking through the cold fresh air, with no way to fit in, but more importantly with no need to, gave me the space to soften. There was no desire to achieve anything day in and out except to walk, breathe the freshest of fresh air, get lost in the vastness of the highlands and to just be.